A HUNT FOE THE NIGHTINGALE 89 



lage squire, just as, in company with, his wife, he 

 was about to leave his door for church. He turned 

 back, and, hearing my quest, volunteered to take 

 me on a long walk through the wet grass and 

 bushes of his fields and copses, where he knew the 

 birds were wont to sing. "Too late," he said, and 

 so it did appear. He showed me a fine old edition 

 of White's "Selborne," with notes by some editor 

 whose name I have forgotten. This editor had 

 extended White's date of June 16 to July 1, as 

 the time to which the nightingale continues in song, 

 and I felt like thanking him for it, as it gave me 

 renewed hope. The squire thought there was a 

 chance yet; and in case my man with the spear 

 of grass behind his teeth failed me, he gave me a 

 card to an old naturalist and taxidermist at Godal- 

 ming, a town nine miles above, who, he felt sure, 

 could put me on the right track if anybody could. 



At eight o'clock, the sun yet some distance above 

 the horizon, I was at the door of the barber in 

 Hazlemere. He led the way along one of those 

 delightful footpaths with which this country is 

 threaded, extending to a neighboring village several 

 miles distant. It left the street at Hazlemere, cut- 

 ting through the houses diagonally, as if the brick 

 walls had made way for it, passed between gardens, 

 through wickets, over stiles, across the highway and 

 railroad, through cultivated fields and a gentleman's 

 park, and on toward its destination, — a broad, 

 well-kept path, that seemed to have the same 

 inevitable right of way as a brook. I was told that 



