NIGHTINGALE 68 



was anciently selected as the highest example of a perfect singer ; 

 and, on the principle that to him that hath shall be given, it was 

 credited with all the best qualities of all the other singers. It was 

 the maker of ravishing music, and a type, just as the pelican was a 

 type of parental affection and self-sacrifice, and the turtle-dove of 

 conjugal fidelity. 1 Only, when he actually hears it for the first 

 time, the hearer makes the sad discovery that the bird he has for 

 long years been listening to in fancy the nightingale heard by 

 the poet with an aching heart, and the wish that he, too, could 

 fade with it into the forest dim was a nightingale of the brain, a 

 mythical bird, like the footless bird of paradise and the swan with 

 a dying melody. Beautiful, nay, perfect, the song may be, but he 

 misses from it that something of human feeling which makes the 

 imperfect songs so enchanting the overflowing gladness of the 

 lark ; the spirit of wildness of the blackcap ; the airy, delicate 

 tenderness of the willow- wren ; and the serene happiness of the 

 blackbird. 



The nightingale arrives in this country about the middle of 

 April, returning to the same localities year after year, apparently in 

 the same numbers. It is scarcely to be doubted that the young 

 birds that survive the perils of migration come back to the spot 

 where they were hatched, since the species does not extend its range 

 nor establish new colonies. It is most common in the southern 

 counties of England, above all in Surrey, but rare in the western 

 and northern counties, and in Scotland and Ireland it is unknown. 



The nightingale so nearly resembles the robin in size, form, and 

 manner that he might be taken for that bird but for his clear, brown 

 colour. Like the robin, he feeds on the ground, seeking grubs and 

 insects under the dead leaves, hopping rapidly by fits and starts, 

 standing erect and motionless at intervals as if to listen, and 

 occasionally throwing up his tail and lowering his head and wings, 

 just as the robin does. He inhabits woods, coppices, rough bramble- 

 grown commons, and unkept hedges, and loves best of all a thicket 

 growing by the side of running water. 



Two or three days after arriving he begins to sing, and continues 

 in song until the middle, or a little past the middle, of June, when 

 the young are hatched. In fine weather he sings at intervals 

 throughout the day, but his music is more continuous and has a 

 more beautiful effect in the evening. For an hour or two after 

 sunset it is perhaps most perfect. In the dark he is silent, but if 

 the moon shines he will continue singing for hours. That is to say, 



