The song generally ceases before the end of the first week in June. Occasionally, however, I have heard a Nightingale sing on throughout June, but accounted for this by supposing that the nest had been robbed, and that the cock was singing while the hen hatched a second brood. Naturalists who live in London need not travel more than five miles from Charing Cross to hear the Nightingale in full song. Nay, a friend who is well acquainted with the note, has heard the bird frequently in Victoria Park, which is only two miles distant from the Bank of England, and on several occasions attentive observers have recognized the unmistakable notes of the Nightingale in the Botanical Gardens, Regent’s Park, and in Kensington Gardens. It is curious how wide-spread is the belief that the Nightingale warbles only at eve. The reason, no doubt, is that amidst the general chorus by day its song is less noticed or attended to. But that it sings constantly by day is a fact, of which we have satisfied ourselves repeatedly. Moreover, it is by no means the only bird to sing at night. The Sedge Warbler, Grasshopper Warbler, Woodlark, Skylark, and Thrush, may often be heard long after sunset; while the Cuckoo is frequently to be heard at midnight, and the Landrail constantly. It would appear that of the large number of persons who profess a love for song birds very few, comparatively, have the ear to distinguish a song unless they can see the author of it. Hence it frequently happens that they listen to a Thrush or Blackcap in the early spring, and immediately inform their friends that they have heard the Nightingale weeks before it has reached this country. Many poets have perpetuated the odd belief that the mournful notes of the Nightingale are caused by the bird’s leaning against a thorn to sing! Shakespeare, for example, in his “Passionate Pilgrim,” says: “Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn; And there sung the dolefull’st ditty, That to hear it was great pity.” These lines, by the way, although generally attributed to Shakespeare, and included in most editions of his poems, were written, it is said, by Richard Barnefield in 1598, and published by him in a work entitled “Poems in divers humors.”[12] Shakespeare’s Lucrece, however, invoking Philomel, says: “And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy part To keep thy sharp woes waking.” Fletcher speaks of “The bird forlorn, That singeth with her breast against a thorn.” And Pomfret, writing towards the close of the seventeenth century, says: “The first music of the grove we owe To mourning Philomel’s harmonious woe; And while her grief in charming notes express’d, A thorny bramble pricks her tender breast.”