A HUNT FOE THE NIGHTINGALE 95 



an enemy moving across the open plain would very 

 often find himself plunging headlong into these 

 hidden pitfalls. Indeed, between the subterranean 

 character of the roads in some places and the high- 

 walled or high-hedged character of it in others, the 

 pedestrian about England is shut out from much he 

 would like to see. I used to envy the bicyclists, 

 perched high upon their rolling stilts. But the 

 footpaths escape the barriers, and one need walk 

 nowhere else if he choose. 



Around Shackerford church are copses, and large 

 pine and fir woods. The place was full of birds. 

 My guide threw a stone at a small bird which he 

 declared was a nightingale; and though the missile 

 did not come within three yards of it, yet he said 

 he had hit it, and pretended to search for it on the 

 ground. He must needs invent an opportunity for 

 lying. I told him here I had no further use for 

 him, and he turned cheerfully back, with my shil- 

 ling in his pocket. I spent the afternoon about the 

 woods and copses near Shackerford. The day was 

 bright and the air balmy. I heard the cuckoo call, 

 and the chaffinch sing, both of which I considered 

 good omens. The little chiffchaff was chiffchaffing 

 in the pine woods. The whitethroat, with his 

 quick, emphatic Chew-che-rick or Che-riok-a-rew, 

 flitted and ducked and hid among the low bushes 

 by the roadside. A girl told me she had heard the 

 nightingale yesterday on her way to Sunday-school, 

 and pointed out the spot. It was in some bushes 

 near a house. I hovered about this place till I 



