204 The Nightingale' s Morning Song. 



a streak of imperial purple pla3-s upon the azure. 

 Woodbine coils round the tall straight poles, and 

 wild hops, whose bloom emit a pleasant smell if 

 crushed in the fingers. On the upper and clearer 

 branches of the hawthorn the nightingale sings — 

 more sweetl,y, I think, in the freshness of the spring 

 morning than at night. Resting quietlj' on an ash- 

 stole, with the scent of flowers, and the odor of 

 green buds and leaves, a ray of sunlight yonder 

 lighting up the lichen and the moss on the oak 

 trunk, a gentle air stirring in the branches above, 

 giving glimpses of fleecy clouds sailing in the ether, 

 there comes into the mind a feeling of intense jo}' in 

 the simple fact of living. 



The nightingale shows no timidit}^ while all is still, 

 but sings on the bough in full sight, hardly three 

 ^■ards awa}', so that you can see the throat swell as 

 the notes are poured forth — now in intricate trills, 

 now a low sweet call, then a liquid 'jug-jug-jug!' 

 To me it sounds richer in the morning — sunlight, 

 flowers, and the rustle of green leaves seem the 

 natural accompaniment ; and the distant chorus of 

 other birds affords a contrast and relief — an orchestra 

 filling up the pauses and supporting the solo singer. 



Passing deeper into the wood, it is well to be a 

 little careful while stepping across the narrow water- 

 course that winds between the stoles. Rushes grow 

 thickly by the side, and the slender stream seems to 

 ooze rather than run, trickling slowl}' down to the 

 brook in the meadow. But the earth is treacherous 

 on its banks — formed of decayed branches, leaves, 

 and vegetable matter, hidden under a thin covering 

 of aquatic grasses. Listen ! there is a faint rustling 



