9 6



G. A. M.,



January to mid-May, we had no sooner reached Aix for a stay of

some weeks, than he allowed himself to be swept into enthusiastic

rivalry with a wild Nightingale in the hotel garden. Probably,

the latter was deep in domestic affairs, and Phil’s voice sounded

that of an interloper. Anyway, the two trilled at each other day

and night without stopping, until Phil drooped wings and eyelids

with fatigue. I drooped too. But, though out-classed, he refused

to be out-sung. One tio tio tio tix from the garden revived him

to torrents of melody. The hotel visitors also grew heavy with

watching, and complained of the loud songs before sunrise,

though they knew not the cause. I tried to evade my respon¬

sibilities by quartering him at night in bath rooms and unin¬

habited places. I tried smothering his cage with rugs, engulf¬

ing him in cupboards, and whacking it with a stick each time

he sought to utter. At length, after a night of strife, one dawn

I grew desperate and, taking him from his cage, I tied him

up in a handkerchief. That interrupted his song but not my

vigil, for the Furies took the place of Melpomene, and remorse

racked me worse than Phil. Finally, a padded cell, the telephone

box, brought relief to all. I have heard of captive Nightingales

in the same room singing each other, or themselves, to death.


Except for the nimiety of his fire in spring, Phil was one

of the pleasantest companions Fate has vouchsafed me. My

parlour stood open to his roaming, but he was always glad to

return to his cage, and roosted there—or in someone else’s. He

took interest in all that went on, and if left too long unnoticed,

came to see why. Unlike most feathered boarders, he enjoyed

visitors, and would hospitably hop on to them, even if they wore

big hats. And his friendliness did not wane as it so often does

with the tamest birds whilst the sap was rising in the trees,

(especially a Wryneck and a Chough, which knew not fear but

became distant and wilful in spring). If he was not always, as

M. Rostand describes “ un son qui berce,” I have forgiven him

his vibrating poems, and now strongly feel that “ 11 faut, dans la

foret, toujours un rossignol.”


Aristophanes, in the Birds, renders the voice of Hoopoe

and Nightingale in syllables which hold good to this day. We

hear no differently now than Aristophanes heard, twenty-four



