not easy to progress far along this road, because every bird
suggests so many reflections and recollections. Upon approaching the
rising ground at Ewell green plovers or peewits become plentiful in the
cornfields. In spring and early summer the flocks break up to some
extent, and the scattered parties conduct their nesting operations in
the pastures or on the downs. In autumn they collect together again, and
flocks of fifty or more are commonly seen. Now and then a much larger
flock comes down into the plain, wheeling to and fro, and presently
descending upon an arable field, where they cover the ground.

NIGHTINGALE ROAD

The wayside is open to all, and that which it affords may be enjoyed
without fee; therefore it is that I return to it so often. It is a fact
that common hedgerows often yield more of general interest than the
innermost recesses of carefully guarded preserves, which by day are
frequently still, silent, and denuded of everything, even of game; nor
can flowers flourish in such thick shade, nor where fir-needles cover
the ground.

By the same wayside of which I have already spoken there is a birch
copse, through which runs a road open to foot passengers, but not to
wheel traffic, and also a second footpath. From these a little
observation will show that almost all the life and interest of the copse
is at, or near, the edge, and can be readily seen without trespassing a
single yard. Sometimes, when it is quiet in the evening and the main
highway is comparatively deserted, a hare comes stealing down the track
through the copse, and after lingering there awhile crosses the highway
into the stubble on the other side.

In one of these fields, just opposite the copse, a covey of partridges
had their rendezvous, and I watched them from the road, evening after
evening, issue one by one, calling as they appeared from a breadth of
mangolds. Their sleeping-place seemed to be about a hundred yards from
the wayside. Another arable field just opposite is bounded by the road
with iron wire or railing, instead of a hedge, and the low mound in
which the stakes are fixed swarmed one summer with ant-hills full of
eggs, and a slight rustle in the corn as I approached told where the
parent bird had just led her chicks from the feast to shelter.

Passing into the copse by the road, which is metalled but weed-grown
from lack of use, the grasshoppers sing from the sward at the sides, but
the birds are silent as the