Black Bartlemy's Treasure by Jeffery Farnol

We followed a roundabout course, now across broad meadows, now treading green cart-tracks, now climbing some grassy upland, anon plunging into the shadow of lonely wood or coppice until the moon was down, until was a glimmer of dawn with low-lying mists brimming every grassy hollow and creeping phantom-like in leafy boskages; until in the east was a glory, warming the grey mist to pink and amber and gold, and the sun, uprising, darted his level beams athwart our way and it was day.

And now from coppice and hedgerow, near and far, was stir and flutter, a whistling and a piping that rose ever louder and swelled to a trilling ecstasy of gladness.