BIRDS IN A VILLAGE. 
9 
pick up the crumbs was the nightingale, not the 
robin. When by chance he met a sparrow there, 
he attacked and chased it away. It was a feast 
of nightingales. An elderly woman of the village 
explained to me that the nightingales and other 
small birds were common and tame in the village 
because no person disturbed them. I smile now 
when recording the good old dame's words. 
On my second day at the village it happened to 
be raining — a warm mizzling rain without wind — 
and the nightingales were as vocal as in fine bright 
weather. I heard one in a narrow lane, and went 
towards it, treading softly in order not to scare 
it away, until I got within eight or ten yards 
of it, as it sat on a dead projecting twig. This 
was a twig of a low thorn tree growing up from 
the hedge, projecting through the foliage, and the 
bird, perched near its end, sat only about five 
feet above the bare ground of the lane. Now, I 
owe my best thanks to this individual nightingale 
for sharply calling to my mind a common pestilent 
delusion, which I have always hated, but had 
never yet raised my voice against — namely, that 
all wild creatures exist in constant fear of an 
attack from the numberless subtle or powerful 
enemies that are always waiting and watching for 
an opportunity to spring upon and destroy them. 
The truth is, that although their enemies be 
