I was in a dale in springtime; in a greatly hidden nook, I heard an owl and a nightingale holding a great mooting. Their rake was reethed, tended and wholehearted, sometimes swey, sometimes loud; and each of them swelled with wrath against the other and let out all her nithe, and said the full worst she could think of the other's kind, and namely they raked against each other's song. The nightingale began the rake in a garthnook, and cleft on a wlitty bough---there was mickle blossom umb it---in an unthuringly thick hedge, with reeds and green sedge growing through it. Forof the bough, she was all the eadier, and sang in many other ways; the swin lithed as if it came from a harp or a rowel rather than from a living throat. Nearby there stood an old stump where the owl sang her longlogs and