To the fair Friend, whatever might be the moral qualities of “Bonnie Doon” was all unknown; but the discussion was cut short by the whole youthful troop issuing from the tent, and going briskly across the field, and disappearing in a wood that ran down towards the river. Nothing more was heard of them till tea-time, except an occasional call of a clear, female voice, or a note of laughter, for awhile, and then all was still. About five o’clock, the workmen having their “four-o’-clock,” as it is termed, amid the haycocks, were seen bringing up the apparatus and materials for tea, which was not set out in the tent, but this time amongst the hay in front, abundance of cushions being brought for the company to sit upon. Once more the horn was lustily winded, this time by Mr. Woodburn, George having gone off with the rest of the young people: and, anon, like Robin Hood and his men, they were seen coming gaily over the hill. They all came in glowing with heat and evident pleasure. Letty Woodburn looked like a sylph, but a very rosy one, all light and gladness, as if ready to fly away: even the gentle Millicent’s clear blue eyes flashed a radiant enjoyment. According to their account they had been taking botanic lessons from Dr. Leroy, and had suddenly come upon Mr. Thomas Clavering, the rector of Cotmanhaye, fishing in the river, who had amused them with a world of anecdotes about birds and animals. He had assured them that he had seen a jay with an audience of wondering birds all around him on a tree, whom he was astonishing by the cleverest imitations of different singing birds. Thereupon Sylvanus Crook said he quite believed that. He was “quite satisfied that birds sing songs of praise to their Creator quite intelligible to birds.” “But,” said Harry Thorsby, “they always sing the same airs.” “Yes, Henry Thorsby, it may seem so to thee; but in my opinion, if we could understand them, we should find them poets far beyond many of our own kind. They do not, indeed, sing about men’s actions, but of the goodness of God to birds, and of the beauties and pleasures of creation. Hast thou not heard, friend Henry, of the Eastern Sultan’s minister who knew the language of birds?” “Oh! that’s a fable, friend Crook,” said Thorsby, “an Eastern apologue.” “Maybe,” said Sylvanus; “but I think that is a very beautiful observation of Izaak Walton, the great angler; who on hearing the nightingale sing, said:—‘If God gave such music here to the wicked and ungrateful, what will He give to his saints in heaven?’” “So you do like music after all, friend Crook?” asked Thorsby, sarcastically. “Yes, natural music,” said Sylvanus, and Harry Thorsby was girding him up for a regular dispute on the Friend’s objection to music, but he was prevented by all seconding Sylvanus’s quotation of Izaak Walton as extremely beautiful, and by Mr. Woodburn asking Tom Boddily what he had been doing lately, intending to draw out some of his country humour.