1 86 Wild Life in a Southern County 



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 morning than at night. Besting quietly on an 

 ash-stole, with the scent of Bowers, 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 be a little 

 careful while stepping across the narrow watercourse that 

 winds between the stoles. Rushes grow thickly by the 

 side, and the slender stream seems to ooze rather than 

 run, trickling slowly down to the brook in the meadow. 

 But the earth is treacherous on its banks — formed of 

 decayed branches, leaves, and vegetable matter, hidden 

 under a thin covering of aquatic grasses. Listen ! there 

 is a faint rustling and a slight movement of the grass : it 

 is a snake gliding away to its hole, with yellow-marked 

 head lifted above the ground over which his dull green 

 length is trailing. Stepping well over the moist earth, 

 and reaching the firmer ground, there the thistles grow 



