26 DOWN NIGHTINGALE VALLEY ; 
hopeful wing. Over sea and land, through 
fog and rain and wind, by river, field and 
flood, the little immigrants have flown, find- 
ing at last the very hedge, the bush, the 
twig whereon their troth was plighted the 
year past. 
And thus met and agreed, they start to 
build their nest. ‘Is it inside a bush or on 
the ground that we shall build our nest this 
year, sweet mate?’ is a question about 
which they cogitate with many hops and 
twitters, but soon make up their minds. 
She finds the first twig, and sidles with it 
up to her mate. They both agree that it 
fits well. It’s Ais turn now, and hers again, 
and so the sticks are fetched up one by one, 
as well as small roots and hairs. The pair 
meanwhile are busy with their beaks and 
claws, and deftly weave the structure to a 
neat round shape, hollowed within, and 
smooth inside with soft old leaves—those of 
the oak first favourites. A week or two of 
busy work, and all is ready for the eggs. 
Their labour is relieved by night when moon- 
