At last however it was agreed and Captain Eckersley, Captain West and other engineers [from BBC] came down [to Beatrice Harrison’s house] with Mr Rex Palmer who was to announce. It was a great risk of course, as in those days no wild bird had been broadcast before in its natural state. It was a thing so new that they all, engineers included, seemed to think it impossible. Of course in those days it was ‘Cat’s Whiskers’ and ‘2LO calling’. / A sensitive microphone had been set up within a hundred yards of where the nightingale sang so that the notes could be picked up, amplified with a suitable amplifier and then transmitted by land lines to ‘2LO’. / At about nine o’clock I crept up with my cello to a ditch and placed my chair half in and half out of it, quite crooked, but I knew that the exquisite voice was there, under a thicket of oak leaves, ready to sing to his little wife. I played for what seemed hours, praying all the time. / Curious noises did take place, heard through the microphones: rabbits biting at the wires, strange little sounds from insects and squirrels and then – oh dear – Gerry the donkey, now a year old, had in some way got out of the shed in which he had been shut and was braying loudly. He saw one of the engineers crawling towards the nightingale’s nest with a microphone and skipped up to him, gave him a push, upsetting the microphone, and galloped off in high glee! The poor man had to pick himself up and begin again but still the nightingale did not sing. / Suddenly, at about quarter to eleven on the night of 19th May 1924, the nightingale burst into song as I continued to play. His voice seemed to come from the Heavens. I think he liked the 'Chant hindou' best for he blended with it so perfectly. I shall never forget his voice that night, or his trills, nor the way he followed the cello so blissfully. It was a miracle to have caught his song and to know that it was going, with the cello, to the ends of the earth. My excitement was intense. My greatest wish was accomplished! << less