Then it's off with your load, and get rid of it as fast as you can; for its heavy carrying miles after miles through the long streets; and it's a-many faces you look into before there's one to buy. And last of all, when I get back I can sit and think about 'Arry, and how pleased he'll be to find as the nets, and cages, and calls, ain't none of 'em sold. Yes, you can't help thinking about him, for outside the window there's the pigeon trap as he was a-making with laths and nails; inside there's his birds, and the one he was trying to stuff; for he says that's a good living for a chap, if he's at all clever; and he used to think that after seeing so many birds alive he could do it right off. So at odd times he used to practise; and there was his scissors and wires, and tow, and files and nippers, and two or three little finches he'd done, perched up on sprigs of wood, with their feathers wound over and over with cotton, and pins stuck in 'em to keep the wings in their places. But he allus was clever, was 'Arry; and if he'd had a chance, would have got on. When the sun's a-going down I gets to the open window, if I'm home time enough; and while the birds are all twittering about me, I get looking right out far away over roofs and chimneys--right out towards where there's the beautiful country, and then I even seem to see it all bright and clear: trees waving, and grass golden green; and through the noise and roar of the streets I seem to hear the cows lowing as they go slowly through the meadows, and the tinkle of the sheep-bell; while all the clouds are golden, orange, and red. Then, too, the bright stars seem to come peeping out one at a time; and the sky pales, while there's a soft mist over the brook, and a sweet, cool, freshness after the hot, close, burning day; now, from where I seem to be on a hill-side, there can be seen a bright light here and there from the cottages, and then about me the bats go darting and fluttering silently along; there's the beautiful white ghost-moths flitting about the bushes, and flapping along, high up, a great owl; and, again, round and round, and hawking about along the wood-side, there's a large night-jar after the moths; for 'Arry taught me all their names. And at last, in the deep silence, tears seem to come up in my eyes, as I hear the beautiful gushing song of the nightingales, answering one another from grove to grove--pure, bright, and sparkling song that goes through one, and sends one's thoughts far away from the present.