The Nightingale’s Morning Song. 229 
chaste flower. Then the wild hyacinths hang their 
blue bells so thickly that, glancing between the poles, 
it is hazy with colour; and in the evening, if the level 
beams of the red sun can reach them, here and there 
a streak of imperial purple plays 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 
sweetly, I think, in the freshness of the spring morn- 
ing than at night. Resting quietly on an ash-stole, 
with the scent of flowers, and the odour 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 joy in the simple fact of 
living. 
The nightingale shows no timidity while all is 
still, but sings on the bough in full sight, hardly three 
yards away, 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 bea 
