A HUNT FOE THE NIGHTINGALE 107 



a drop of water in them (and there generally are 

 several drops), out it comes. The prettiest little 

 showers march across the country in summer, 

 scarcely bigger than a street watering-cart; some- 

 times by getting over the fence one can avoid them, 

 but they keep the haymakers in a perpetual flurry. 

 There is no cloud scenery, as with us, no mass and 

 solidity, no height nor depth. The clouds seem 

 low, vague, and vapory, — immature, indefinite, in- 

 consequential, like youth. 



The walk to Selborne was through mist and light 

 rain. Few bird voices, save the cries of the lapwing 

 and the curlew, were heard. Shortly after leaving 

 Liphook the road takes a straight cut for three or 

 four miles through a level, black, barren, peaty 

 stretch of country, with Wobner Forest a short 

 distance on the right. Under the low-hanging 

 clouds the scene was a dismal one, — a black earth 

 beneath and a gloomy sky above. For miles the 

 only sign of life was a baker's cart rattling along 

 the smooth, white road. At the end of this soli- 

 tude I came to cultivated fields, and a little hamlet 

 and an inn. At this inn (for a wonder!) I got 

 some breakfast. The family had not yet had 

 theirs, and I sat with them at the table, and had 

 substantial fare. From this point I followed a 

 footpath a couple of miles through fields and parks. 

 The highways for the most part seemed so narrow 

 and exclusive, or inclusive, such penalties seemed 

 to attach to a view over the high walls and hedges 

 that shut me in, that a footpath was always a wel- 



