This thrice-welcome migrant arrives upon our shores in April, and leaves again in August. It is peculiarly limited in its breeding area, which extends no farther west than the Valley of the Exe and only to York in a northerly direction. Of course, odd specimens have been heard by trustworthy observers beyond these limits, but they are exceptional, and the species is unknown both in Scotland and Ireland. Attempts have been made from time to time to induce the bird to extend its range, but they have one and all proved futile. The late Sir John Sinclair had numbers of eggs sent from the South of England and placed in Robins’ nests in Caithness, but although the closely allied foster-mothers successfully hatched and reared the young Nightingales they went off and never returned. The experiment of turning adult birds down in certain parts of Wales beyond the localities reached by free members of the species also proved a failure. It is said to “be met with only where the cowslip grows kindly,” but this extraordinary assertion is difficult to understand, because it is hard to remember where that common and hardy plant does not “grow kindly.” 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. [Illustration: 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.