A HUNT FOE THE NIGHTINGALE 83 



at this season lasts till after ten o'clock, dragged 

 its slow length, along. Nine o'clock came, and, 

 though my ear was attuned, the songster was tardy. 

 I hovered about the copses and hedge-rows like one 

 meditating some dark deed; I lingered in a grove 

 and ahout an overgrown garden and a neglected 

 orchard; I sat on stiles and leaned on wickets, 

 mentally speeding the darkness that should bring 

 my singer out. The weather was damp and chilly, 

 and the tryst grew tiresome. I had brought a rub- 

 ber water-proof, but not an overcoat. Lining the 

 back of the rubber with a newspaper, I wrapped it 

 about me and sat down, determined to lay siege to 

 my bird. A footpath that ran along the fields and 

 bushes on the other side of the little valley showed 

 every few minutes a woman or girl, or boy or 

 laborer, passing along it. A path near me also had 

 its frequent figures moving along in the dusk. In 

 this country people travel in footpaths as much as 

 in highways. The paths give a private, human 

 touch to the landscape that the roads do not. They 

 are sacred to the human foot. They have the sen- 

 timent of domesticity, and suggest the way to cot- 

 tage doors and to simple, primitive times. 



Presently a man with a fishing-rod, and capped, 

 coated, and booted for the work, came through the 

 meadow, and began casting for trout in the stream 

 below me. How he gave himself to the work! 

 how oblivious he was of everything but the one 

 matter in hand! I doubt if he was conscious of 

 the train that paased within a few rods of him. 



