The nest is made of dry grass stalks, dead leaves, moss, bits of bark, and fibrous roots, and is lined with fine grass and horsehair. It is built on or near the ground, on a little bank at the foot of a tree, at the bottom of a hedgerow, or on the stump of a felled tree; in woods, plantations, copses, quiet gardens, and on commons where clumps of hazels, brambles, and briars grow.
The eggs number from four to six, of a uniform olive-brown or olive-green colour. Occasionally greenish-blue specimens are found.
It would be difficult to overpraise the almost perfect song of this bird, the king of all British feathered melodists; for although I greatly admire the vocal powers of the Song Thrush, Skylark, and Blackcap, I do not think that any one of them can come near the Nightingale for perfection of phrasing, rich mellowness, or the loud, clear, silvery sound of its notes. I agree with Mr. Witchell, who has studied the songs of birds more closely, perhaps, than any other living man, when he says:
“This tempestuous song, this wild melody, the triumphal song of Nature herself, pierces beyond the ear right to the heart of the listener.”
The Nightingale is the only bird I ever remember to have heard singing in a fog, and this occurred in Surrey a little before midnight during the third week in May.
NIGHTINGALE’S NEST AND EGGS
The male members of this species arrive upon our shores from ten days to a fortnight earlier than the females, and sing by night in order to attract the latter, which travel during the hours of darkness. As soon as the young ones are hatched the superb song ceases, and both parent birds confine their energies to the wants of the chicks.
Poets of all ages have given the song of the Nightingale a great deal of attention, but how strangely they have gone astray in regard to the bird’s habits! It appears to have appealed to most of them on account of its practice of singing by night, and the touch of melancholy in the three or four lengthened notes that commence softly and gradually rise until they are so loud and strong that they may be heard at a great distance. Curiously enough, they made the mistake of thinking that their Philomel only sang by night, and was the solitary bird that did so.
Even our immortal William of Avon says: