dead by some person who is prac- | word, but it certainly is a song of tising the art of shooting flying. The young ones now begin to suffer seriously from hunger: they open their little beaks, but no mother comes to put any thing into them. They see the old birds go backwards and forwards to another nest which is close by, but their own turn never comes. At night they get very cold. Their mother used to cover them with her wings, and with the soft feathers of her breast; but now they have nothing to warm them. In the morning, two or three of them are dead. The chirping becomes fainter and fainter: no little heads are seen stretching out and asking for food: they shake and quiver against each other at the bottom of the nest; and after a few hours they all die of hunger.-E. B. THE NIGHTINGALE. IT is an error to suppose that the Nightingale is a melancholy bird; an error that has arisen from the heathen writers, who have ascribed to it a character and invested it with a name foreign to its nature and habits. The story related by the Roman poet, Ovid, of the fabled fate of Philomela, (who, mourning the loss of her children, was changed into a Nightingale,) though it awakens our pity, ought not to lead us to adopt it. The modern poets, indeed, have aided this imaginative fraud, and their lines teem with allusions to the pensive and melancholy habits of the Nightingale. The little Philomela is highly poetical, but a very glaring breach of Nature's laws. Now to open the controversy (in which even the statesman Fox was a combatant), whether the song of the Nightingale be merry or sorrowful, we cannot adopt either alternative. It is not merry in the sense which usage has given to that joy. The outpouring of a gladdened heart, (full of melody and love, for the male bird is the songster,) and expressive of its gallantry and devotion. It certainly is not sorrowful, though it is occasionally interspersed with plaintive notes. There is something novel in its nightly song; a novelty which is heightened by the repose that reigns around, and by our own feelings at that season of rest. We are lingering listeners; for the shades of night rest on our eyelids, and our sense of loneliness imbues our spirits with melancholy: but that loneliness, that repose, and that season, awaken in the Nightingale all its melody, and render it lively and gay. Its song, during fine clear weather, is incessant from eleven at night until two in the morning. It sings also in the day, but not so loud or with such spirit as in the night. We do not deny to the Nightingale the faculty of expression, but cannot by any means subscribe to the opinion, that in its song there are expressions of grief: for, unless we suppose it the creature of the most unnatural sensibility, such an opinion is groundless. We must put, not only its nature, but all nature to the rack, to suppose that, within a half minute, expressions of grief and pleasure are uttered alternately with causeless indifference! How then shall we speak of this bird? Not as a phenomenon, but simply, that its physical powers and its constitution are, in the highest degree, adapted for the exercise and practice of song. It is a warbler, designed by Providence to fill the first place in that scale of excellence and order, which is to be traced in every species of animal life. Another error is, that the Nightingale is a shy bird. The writer has stood within three yards of one in full song. The effect was thrill ing! Variety, still varied, flexibility, expression, softness, and power combined? The choicest and most captivating melody! Again, they are easily caught. The trap being very simple, and the birds more so. Nightingales will sing in confinement, but their habits and temper are both unsuited to its trammels. In that state they require continued attention; and unless the course of feeding is well understood and practised, they die. They are, beyond all doubt, migratory; but in other respects similar to the Robin, of an ashen colour, and rather larger. In all ages and countries they have been a theme of praise; and poets have made them objects of peculiar admiration and regard, including Milton, Thomson, Byron, and Coleridge; a galaxy, which might raise the envy of heroes, and which kings would gladly share.-REQUHART. THE MOCKING-BIRD. THE Mocking-bird is a species of thrush, not uncommon in many parts both of North and South America and the West India Islands. In size, it does not exceed the European song-bird, and perhaps is not equal to it in the beauty of its plumage; it is, however, far from being an inelegant creature, but it is better known for the peculiarity and amazing power of its voice. Although not gifted with any powerful weapons of self-defence, these birds display extraordinary courage in defence of their eggs and young, and will fearlessly attack any animal which may approach their haunts, even their greatest enemy, a species of black snake. "To these qualities" (says Wilson, the American author), "we may add that of a voice full, strong, and musical, and capable of almost every modulation, from the clear mellow tones of the wood-thrush, to the savage scream of the baldeagle. In measure and accent, he faithfully follows his originals. In force and sweetness of expression, he greatly exceeds them. In his native groves, mounted on the top of a tall bush, or half-grown tree, in the dawn of dewy morning, while the woods are already vocal with a multitude of warblers, his admirable song rises pre-eminent over every competitor. The ear can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the other seems a mere accompaniment. Neither is this strain altogether imitative. His own native notes, which are easily distinguishable by such as are well acquainted with those of our various song-birds, are bold and full, and varied seemingly beyond all limits. His expanded wings and tail, glistening with white, and the buoyant gaity of his action, arresting the eye as his song most irresistibly does the ear, he sweeps round with enthusiastic ecstacy. He mounts or descends as his song swells or dies away. While thus exerting himself, a bystander, destitute of sight, would suppose that the whole feathered tribes, had assembled together on a trial of skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect; so perfect are his imitations. He many times deceives the sportsman, and sends him in search of birds that perhaps are not within miles of him, but whose notes he exactly imitates; even birds themselves are frequently imposed on by this admirable mimic, and are decoyed by the fancied calls of their mates, or dive with precipitation into the depths of thickets, at the scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow-hawk. THE GREAT BLACK WOOD PECKER. THIS species of Woodpecker is at present very rarely met with in this country, but is still common on the Continent of Europe. The Woodpeckers are, perhaps, as numerous a tribe of birds as any with which we are acquainted, and are to be met with in great variety in every part of the world, with the exception of New Holland and the South Sea Islands. The food of these birds consists principally of insects of different kinds, which are found in great abundance in the decayed trunks of old trees, and as these are frequently only to be obtained by great exertion and perseverance, it was necessary that the bird should be furnished with the means of penetrating the solid body of the tree in which its prey is concealed; for this purpose, its beak is made much after the form of a chisel, and on this account, one of the larger American species has received the name of "the Carpenter of the Woods." The Woodpecker, in seeking its prey, runs round the trunk of the tree with great celerity, and climbs rapidly with the assistance of its strong claws, and the short stiff feathers of which its tail is formed. The tongue, in this tribe of birds, is very peculiar in its construction, and in the curious arrangement of muscles by which it is moved. With the assistance of these muscles, the creature can thrust it out to a considerable distance, and withdraw it again with great rapidity: this useful instrument is curiously tipped with hairs, and is used by the bird after the manner of a camel-hair pencil, dipping it into a hollow in the front of the lower half of its beak, which forms a receptacle for a quantity of a glutinous fluid, so that when it is covered, the insects among which it is thrust, adhere to it, and are withdrawn into the creature's mouth. Speaking of an American species, the celebrated Audubon says, "The strength of this Woodpecker is such, that I have seen it detach pieces of bark, seven or eight inches in length, at a single blow of its powerful bill, and by beginning at the top branch of a dead tree, tear off the bark to the extent of twenty or thirty feet, in the course of a few hours, leaping downwards with its body in an upward position, tossing its head to the right and left, or leaning it against the bark, to ascertain the precise spot where the grubs were concealed, and immediately after, renewing its blows with fresh vigour, all the while sounding its loud notes, as if highly delighted." THE PASSENGER-PIGEON OF AMERICA. THE immense number, and the extended flights of the Passenger or Wild Pigeons of America, and their extraordinary appearance when in motion, and when at their places of roost, have been noticed by several travellers, but none have given a more vivid description of these birds than Audubon, the American ornithologist, from whose splendid work on the Birds of America we have extracted the following account. In passing over the Barrens, on the banks of the Ohio, a few miles beyond Hardensburgh, I observed the pigeons flying from north-east to south-west in greater numbers than I thought I had ever seen them before; and feeling an inclination to count the flocks that might pass within the reach of my eye in one hour, I dismounted, seated myself upon an eminence, and began to mark with my pencil, making_a dot for every flock that passed. In a short time, finding the task which I had undertaken impracticable, as the birds poured on in countless multitudes, I rose, and counting the dots then put down, found that 163 had been made in twenty-one minutes. I travelled on, and still met more the further I proceeded. The air was literally filled with Pigeons, the light of noon-day was obscured as by an eclipse, and the continued buzz of wings seemed to lull the senses. It is extremely interesting to see flock after flock performing exactly the same evolutions which had been traced in the air by the preceding flock; thus, should a hawk have charged on a group at a certain spot, the angles, curves, and undulations, that have been described by the birds, in their efforts to escape from their enemy, are undeviatingly followed by the next group that comes up. these birds absent from another for years. Let us now inspect their place of nightly rendezvous. At my first view of it I arrived on the spot nearly two hours before sunset. Few Pigeons were then to be seen; but a great number of persons, with horses and waggons, guns and ammunition, had already established encampments on the borders. Two farmers from the vicinity of Russelsville, distant more than a hundred miles, had driven upwards of three hundred hogs to be fattened on the Pigeons that were to be slaughtered. Here and there the people employed in plucking and salting what had already been procured, were seen sitting in the midst of large piles of these birds. Many trees, two feet in thickness, I observed, were broken off at no great distance from the ground; and the branches of many of the largest and tallest had given way, as if the forest had been swept by a tornado. Everything proved to me that the number of birds resorting to this part of the forest must be immense beyond conception. As the period of their arrival approached, their foes anxiously prepared to receive them. Some were furnish It may not, perhaps, be out of place to attempt an estimate of the number of Pigeons contained in one of these mighty flocks, and of the quantity of food daily consumed by its members. Let us take a column of one mile in breadth, which is far below the average size, and suppose it passing over us without interruption for three hours, and at the rate mentioned above, of one mile in a minute, this will give us an oblong square of 180 miles by one, covering 180 square miles. Allowing two Pigeons in the square yard, we have one billion, one hundred and fifteen millions, and thir-ed with iron pots containing brimty-six thousand in one flock: as every Pigeon daily consumes half a pint of food, the quantity necessary to supply this vast multitude, must be eight millions, seven hundred and twelve thousand bushels a day. The flights of the Wild Pigeons are entirely caused by the necessity of procuring food, and are not performed with the views of escaping the severity of a northern latitude, or of seeking a southern one for the purpose of breeding; they, consequently do not take place at any fixed period or season of the year; indeed, it sometimes happens that a continuance of a sufficient supply of food in one district will keep stone, others with torches of pineknots, many with poles, and the rest with guns. The sun was lost to our view, yet not a Pigeon had arrived: everything was ready, and all eyes were gazing on the clear sky, which appeared in glimpses amid the tall trees. Suddenly there burst forth a general cry of "Here they come!" The noise which they made, though yet distant, reminded me of a hard gale at sea passing through the rigging of a close-reefed vessel. As the birds arrived, and passed over me, I felt a current of air that surprised me. Thousands were soon knocked down by the pole-men. The birds continued to pour in. The fires were lighted, and a magnificent as well as wonderful, and almost terrifying sight presented itself. The Pigeons, arriving in thousands, alighted everywhere, one above another, until solid masses as large as hogsheads were formed on the branches all around. Here and there the perches gave way under their weight, with a crash, and falling to the ground, destroyed hundreds of the birds beneath, forcing down the dense groups with which every stick was loaded. It was a scene of uproar and confusion. I found it quite useless to speak, or even to shout to those persons who were nearest to me. Even the reports of the guns were seldom heard, and I was aware of the firing only by seeing the shooters reloading. No one dared venture within the line of devastation. The hogs had been penned up in good time; the picking up of the dead and wounded being left for the next morning's employment. The Pigeons were constantly coming, and it was past midnight before I perceived a decrease in the number of those that arrived. The uproar continued during the whole night. Towards the approach of day the noise in some measure subsided; and long before the objects were distinguishable, the Pigeons began to move off in a direction quite different from that in which they had arrived the evening before, and at sunrise all that were able to fly had disappeared. It was then that the authors of all this devastation began their entry among the dead, the dying, and the mangled. The Pigeons were picked up, and piled in heaps until each had as many as he could possibly dispose of; then the hogs were let loose to feed on the remainder. ABOUT three leagues from Nantes, in France, is a pretty village called Thouaré. In this village flourished, a few years ago, a Magpie, whose memory deserves to be cherished. Her master was a justice of peace, and Mag lived on excellent terms both with him and his maid-servant. The justice, who was a great epicure, had a brood of ducks, which were daily taken to the fields for food and exercise. The servant always conducted them, and Mag accompanied her. The maid remarked that, at the hour fixed for their walk, the magpie regularly placed herself in readiness at the henhouse door. One day, just as she had let them out, she was suddenly called away, when, to her great surprise, she saw the cavalcade on its way to the field, under the sole guidance of Mag, who, with her beak, was urging on those who lagged behind to mend their pace. Next day the servant purposely let her go alone, when she again took the command of the flock, and from that time the whole charge was left to her, of conducting them, and bringing them in at night. But the justice did not keep ducks for the mere pleasure of looking at them; his views were towards the spit: and, as they had now attained a proper fatness, Queen Mag saw the number of her subjects gradually diminish. She bore up with firmness against these trials, and when only a solitary duck remained, she led it to and from the field with her usual punctuality. At length the cruel order was issued; the last duck was to follow its companions, and appear at the justice's table. The maid caught the poor victim, and was about to execute her master's commands, when Mag giving way to her fury, flew upon her, tore her face with her talons and beak, till she left her streaming with blood, then took her flight, and never returned.-From the French. |