If we happen to be wandering forth on a warm still evening during the last week in this month, and passing near a roadside orchard, or skirting a little copse in returning from our twilight ramble, or sitting listlessly on a lawn near some thick plantation, waiting for bed time, we may chance to be startled from our meditations (of whatever kind they may be) by a sound issuing from among the distant leaves, that scares away the silence in a moment, and seems to put to flight even the darkness itself;—stirring the spirit, and quickening the blood, as no other mere sound can, unless it be that of a trumpet calling to battle. That is the nightingale’s voice. The cold spells of winter, that had kept him so long tongue-tied, and frozen the deep fountains of his heart, yield before the mild breath of spring, and he is voluble once more. It is as if the flood of song had been swelling within his breast ever since it last ceased to flow; and was now gushing forth uncontroullably, and as if he had no will to controul it: for when it does stop for a space, it is suddenly, as if for want of breath. In our climate the nightingale seldom sings above six weeks; beginning usually the last week in April. I mention this because many, who would be delighted to hear him, do not think of going to listen for his song till after it has ceased. I believe it is never to be heard after the young are hatched.—Now, too, the pretty, pert-looking blackcap first appears, and pours forth his tender and touching love-song, scarcely inferior, in a certain plaintive inwardness, to the autumn song of the robin. The mysterious little grasshopper lark also runs whispering within the hedgerows; the redstart pipes prettily upon the apple trees; the golden-crowned wren chirps in the kitchen-garden, as she watches for the new sown seeds; and lastly, the thrush, who has hitherto given out but a desultory note at intervals, to let us know that he was not away, now haunts the same tree, and frequently the same branch of it, day after day, and sings an “English Melody” that even Mr. Moore himself could not write appropriate words to.
NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 48·16.
April 16.
C. L., whose papers under these initials on “Captain Starkey,”[118] “The Ass, No. 2,[119]” and “Squirrels,”[120] besides other communications, are in the first volume, drops the following pleasant article “in an hour of need.”
The Months.
For the Every-Day Book.