80 MY LIFE AS A NATURALIST 



I consider too much fuss has been made of its song, to the detri- 

 ment of other British birds, I am fain to confess that when I 

 catch its strains anew, as I did this morning, I am at a loss to ex- 

 press my inward feelings. No written description can convey an 

 impression of one tithe of the inspiration that steals into one's 

 heart, when listening to Philomel in its embowered retreat, and 

 I must let Mrs Hungerford tell the story thus : 



" Beyond and above the music of the land comes the song of 

 the Nightingale, that, resting in yonder thicket, pours forth its 

 heart in tender, hurried melody, as though fearful the night will 

 be too short for him to utter forth his love chant, and disburthen 

 his full soul of all its music. The notes rise, and fall, and tremble, 

 on the air. No other sound comes from the breast of Nature to 

 mar the richness of its tones. No earthly thing seems living 

 but itself. For it the night appears, and draws its sable curtain 

 stained with gold over the sleepy world. This Nightingale, of 

 all the feathered tribes, is wakeful, and chants its hymn of praise 

 at midnight, whilst all its brethren rest in peaceful slumber. 

 The intense and solemn stillness of all around, renders more 

 enchanting the trills and tender trembles that shake its tiny 

 throat." 



The male Nightingales arrive a week or so before the females, 

 and each one takes up the position it occupied the previous year, 

 or, at all events, a great many of them do so. It is remarkable 

 to notice with what regularity the Nightingale and other Summer 

 migrants return to the same haunt year after year, and it is a 

 pleasant occupation to watch and listen for the sweet-tongued 

 orators when Springtime has come round again. 



When the pairing season is at its height, the song of 

 the Nightingale is something to be remembered, for the bird 

 pours out its rich, passionate notes all day long, and far into 

 the night. 



I have never experienced such remarkable tameness in such a 

 usually shy and recluse bird as I have done with the Nightingales 

 which are found on Norton Common opposite my house, and 

 many people who have accompanied me on an ornithological 

 pilgrimage have remarked upon this fact. The bird books will 

 tell you that the Nightingale is an extremely shy bird, that it 

 hides its body in the thick shade of a thorn bush, that it rarely, 

 if ever, comes out into the open, and that it is much more often 

 heard than seen. But on Norton Common, Letchworth, the 

 Nightingales may be seen singing without making any attempt 



