In olden times the Nightingale never sang at night—from spring through summer he rather sang from morning ‘til night, awakening noisily in the grey-blue dawn along with his friends, and frightening the cockchafers sleeping cozy under the lilac leaves.

He fell to sleep in the flowering vines at seven or half past and slept the whole night through.

But one summer night, the nightingale slept on an especially youthful branch and during his sleep the horns of the vine, tenacious tendrils grew so thick and so fast that he awoke tied up with entangled legs and helpless wings. Afraid for his life, he struggled in the trap, narrowly escaping by a thin stretch of strength.

Since then all through the spring and summer he swears to sleep no more as long as the tendrils grow. At night he sings keeping himself awake, altering themes in jeweled threads of variation, at times panting desperate, intoxicated. We hear him and ache to see him singing.