THE NIGHTINGALE IN OCTOBER.
[TO THE EDITOR. OF THE "IREOTATOR."1 SIR,—May I ask if any of your readers heard what I fully believe I beard last night (October 6th) between the hours of two and three o'clock,—the song of the nightingale ? I was making myself a cup of tea at the time, and first I suddenly heard a clucking—the unmistakable sound of the blackbird over its nest—followed by the chirping of what I believe to be the third brood this year. • Birds around began to rouse and sing sleepily, and the song spread until there was the soft sweet singing we hear in the woods sometimes at night in the early summer, and then afar off I heard distinctly the nightingale singing as in June. I thought at first I must be mistaken; but he continued to sing for about half-an-hour, when the song gradually died away, and all was silent once more. Of course the season is a most exceptional one, but I should like to know whether the nightingale has ever been known to tarry so late or to revisit the country so soon. The blackbirds build every year in our garden; whether the nest is in a deodar, or in a big bush of laurustinus, or in thick ivy, we have not yet found out, but they live close to us, and are quite old friends. There are always three together. Is this unusual ? They appear to be father, mother, and brother, the latter taking as much interest in the young birds as the parents, and continually acting as sentinel on the wall while the parents are giving their first lesson in flying, and the nervous little birds are perched on the top of an ivy arch. On one occasion there was great excitement going on, the mother bird flapping her wings angrily on the path, scolding and thrusting her beak almost under the laurustinus, where yellow eyes and whiskers and licking lips lay concealed. The father bird bad flapped his wings against the drawing-room window (the appeal to the human); then, taking his station upon the path again, looked up at the little birds, telling them as plainly as possible in his language not to come down yet. The sentinel was making a great scolding on the wall meanwhile. As soon as possible a friend armed with a garden-syringe full of water appeared, and an undulating black and furry body lashed down the path, followed by the flying and indignant birds. Their song of thanksgiving to us afterwards was quite a revelation of bird gratitude, for I believe it was such.—I am, Sir, &o., AN OBSERVANT INVALID.
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