"What a fuss about nothing!" I thought to myself, as we went on, down a
beautiful lane, with tempting-looking woods on either side, and
fox-gloves on the banks, and other wild-flowers full of attractions to
me as a town boy. There was a delicious scent, too, in the air, which I
had yet to learn was from the young shoots of the fir-trees, growing
warm in the sunshine.
I had made no boy friendships up to then, and, as I glanced sideways at
the pleasant, frank face of the lad walking quickly by me, just at a
time when I had been oppressed by the loneliness of my position, fresh
from home and among strangers, a strong feeling of liking for him began
to spring up, and with it forgetfulness of the misery I had suffered.
"Hi! look! there he goes," cried Mercer just then, and he pointed up
into an oak tree.
"What is it?" I said excitedly.
"He's gone now; wait a minute, and you'll soon see another. There he
is--listen."
He held up his hand, and I stood all attention, but there was no sound
for a few minutes. Then from out of the woods came plainly.
_Chop chop, chop chop_.
"I can't see him," I said. "Some one's cutting down a tree."
Mercer burst into a roar of laughter.
"Oh, I say, you are a Cockney!" he cried. "Cutting down a tree! Why,
you don't seem to know anything about the country."
"Well," I rejoined rather warmly, "that isn't my fault. I've always
lived in London."
"Among the fogs and blacks. Never mind, you'll soon learn it all. I
did. Wish I could learn my Latin and mathicks half as fast. That isn't
anybody cutting wood; it's a squirrel."
"A squirrel?"
"Yes; there he goes. He's coming this way. You watch him. He's cross,
because he sees us. There, what did I say?"
I looked in the direction he pointed out, and saw the leaves moving.
Then there was a rustle, and the little brown and white animal leaped
from bough to bough, till I saw it plainly on a great grey and green
mossy bough of a beech tree, not thirty feet away, where it stood
twisting and jerking its beautiful feathery tail from side to side, and
then, as if scolding us, it began to make the sounds I had before
heard--_Chop, chop, chop, chop_, wonderfully like the blows of an axe
falling on wood.
"Wonder whether I could hit him," cried Mercer, picking up a stone.
"No, no, don't! I want to look at him."
"There's lots about here, and they get no end of the nuts in the autumn.
But come along."
We soon left the squirrel behind, and Mercer stopped again, in a shady
part of the lane.
"Hear that," he said, as a loud _chizz chizz chizz_ came from a dry
sandy spot, where the sun shone strongly.
"Yes, and I know what it is," I cried triumphantly. "That's a cricket
escaped from the kitchen fireplace."
Mercer laughed.
"It's a cricket," he said, "but it's a field one. You don't know what
that is, though," he continued, as a queer sound saluted my ears,--a
low, dull whirring, rising and falling, sometimes nearer, sometimes
distant, till it died right away.
"Now then, what is it?" he cried.
"Knife-grinder," I said; "you'll hear the blade screech on the stone
directly."
"Wrong. That's Dame Durden with her spinning-wheel."
"Ah, well, I knew it was a wheel sound. Is there a cottage in there?"
"No," he said, laughing again; "it's a bird."
"Nonsense!"
"It is. It is a night-jar. They make that noise in their throats, and
you can see them of a night, flying round and round the trees, like
great swallows, catching the moths."