----
You have heard so much about the Nightingale that I am sure you will be
glad to see my picture. I am not an American bird; I live in England, and
am considered the greatest of all bird vocalists.
At midnight, when the woods are still and everybody ought to be asleep, I
sing my best. Some people keep awake on purpose to hear me. One gentleman,
a poet, wept because my voice sounded so melancholy. He thought I leaned my
breast up against a thorn and poured forth my melody in anguish. Another
wondered what music must be provided for the angels in heaven, when such
music as mine was given to men on earth.
All that sounds very pretty, but between you and me, I'd sing another tune
if a thorn should pierce my breast.
Indeed, I am such a little bird that a big thorn would be the death of me.
No, indeed, I am always very happy when I sing. My mate wouldn't notice me
at all if I didn't pour out my feelings in song, both day and night. That
is the only way I have to tell her that I love her, and to ask her if she
loves me. When she says "yes," then we go to housekeeping, build a nest and
bring up a family of little Nightingales. As soon as the birdies come out
of their shell I literally change my tune.
In place of the lovely music which everybody admires, I utter only a croak,
expressive of my alarm and anxiety. Nobody knows the trouble of bringing up
a family better than I do. Sometimes my nest, which is placed on or near
the ground, is destroyed with all the little Nightingales in it; then I
recover my voice and go to singing again, the same old song: "I love you, I
love you. Do you love me?"
Toward the end of summer we leave England and return to our winter home,
way off in the interior of Africa. About the middle of April we get back to
England again, the gentlemen Nightingales arriving several days before the
lady-birds.
[Illustration: NIGHTINGALE.]