oh DOWN NIGHTINGALE VALLEY: 
turmoil of the trains, the trams, the bicycles, 
and the motor-cars, the sense of freedom, for 
a time at least, from all his cares and work, 
combined with the change of clothing from 
the city suit to rough and tumble clothes, 
are joys that gold cannot buy. 
Such were the feelings that animated my 
companion and me as we started on our 
walk to find and photograph a nest of the 
sweet songsters that inhabit Nightingale 
Valley: an hour or so of country road, 
and then the quiet lane, sloping gently 
downwards till it meets the level of the little 
brook which it spans. 
It had a shady side, and this we followed 
by the hedge beneath the trees, until we 
reached a gap, a sudden opening guarded by a 
rustic stile. Beyond lay the valley. Already 
we had caught the sounds we knew so well. 
Nightingales are sociable, and love to live in 
happy groups, but brook no trespass on 
each other’s rights when nesting operations 
begin. So Nightingale Valley is a happy 
spot. Each spring, as April ripens out the 
