"Just before we reached Oljochi, an open space in the forest, cleared for the purpose, exhibited upon three wheels, the mangled carcase of a miscreant Finn, who, in a fit of intoxication, had cut off a woman's head with an axe. His head was placed upon one wheel, his right hand upon another, and his body, dressed in the habit of his nation, upon the third, between the other two. The punishment of criminals for capital offences, in Sweden, requires that the right hand be struck off before the culprit is beheaded. We halted for a few moments, to make a sketch of this fearful spectacle. Amidst the gloom and solitude of the forest, where the silence was that of death itself, it was indeed a sight that spoke terrible things. The body of a human creature, thus exposed to the birds of prey, by the side of a public road, cannot fail of affecting the mind of every passenger. The enormity of the crime itself is almost absorbed in a feeling of pity, called forth by the exemplary nature of the punishment. And this poor Finn, it is said, had a father and a mother, who watched, and toiled, and prayed' for him; whose good counsels were disregarded, until the awful moment arrived, when, faithful in its threatenings, the warning voice of Scripture was fulfilled: The eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his

6

6

mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it.""

Turning aside from this appalling scene of crime, and its punishment, we will call your attention once more to the peculiar habits of the bird, as exhibited in its determined adherence to the spot it has chosen for its abiding place. The naturalist of Selborne, to whose pages we always refer with pleasure, has furnished us with a story, which exhibits this propensity in the utmost perfection, and on which the following little poem is founded.

THE RAVEN TREE.

Wouldst thou the strong hold of the raven see?
Go, mark where she sits on her ancient tree;
There long she hath dwelt, the queen of the wood,
Where the lofty oaks for ages have stood.

There hath she sat, when the summer's bright beam,
To her glossy wings gave a purple gleam;

And there hath she dwelt, when the winter sky
Sent the blast of the tempest howling by.

"Tis her own beloved abiding place,

And a tower of strength to her infant race;

And a living rampart girds it around,

For nature hath cast up the swelling mound:
Nor man nor beast can the barrier clear,
And she nestles there safely from year to year.

There she sits, and the raven's croak,

Is nightly heard from the lofty oak.

'Tis the raven tree, and its leafy screen
Hath ever her covert and fortress been ;
But the woodman comes, and the ancient oak
Is trembling beneath his powerful stroke :
She deems it the gust of the stormy breeze,
As it bends the boughs of the forest-trees.
Again the strong column shakes to its base,
But the raven is still in her resting-place:
The tall tree trembles, and totters, and swings,
And still she is seen with her out-spread wings;
Till with thundering crash to the ground it falls,
And scatters in ruins her castle walls:

That thundering crash was her funeral knell,
To earth, with her nest, the poor raven fell,
And never more was her solemn croak
Heard from the boughs of the lofty oak.

THE RAVEN.

"Hide thyself by the brook Cherith, which is before Jordan, and it shall be that thou shalt drink of the brook, and I have commanded the ravens to feed thee there."1 KINGS, xvii. 3, 4.

Dark raven, when thy note I hear,
Why should it fill my heart with fear?
I'll look upon thy sable wing,

And think of Cherith's secret spring,
And of the prophet's wond'rous fare,
Who sought the hidden waters there.

Thy rushing wing, dark-mantled bird,
The holy seer with gladness heard,
When famine raged on ev'ry side,

And founts and flowing streams were dried;
But still, in Cherith's quiet vale,

The crystal waters did not fail.

From fields uncheered by rain or dew,
To Cherith's brook the ravens flew,
Morning and eve, on pinions fleet,
Hov'ring around the lone retreat;
By secret impulse thither led,
To bring the exile daily bread.

Dark-mantled bird, I'll welcome thee,
Thou hast no omens dire for me.
Recorded on the sacred page,
That tale descends from age to age,
And still the raven's sable plumes,
As with a glorious light illumes.

I turn with fond delight to trace
The story of thy ancient race,
And think, how in their hour of need,
God can his faithful children feed.
There may be want, there may be woe,
But still the hidden stream will flow.
There may be deep, heart-withering care,
But Cherith's brook forbids despair.

ORDER PASSERES.

The Rook.

Corvus frugilegus. — LINN.

OUR readers will not require from us any very elaborate description of this well-known bird; he is, in truth, an every-day acquaintance, crossing

our path, flying over our heads, feeding in our fields, and cawing round our dwellings. Who is there who is not familiar with the stately avenue, the tall group of trees, or the sheltered grove where these amusing birds take up their abode? Who has not watched them clamouring and quarrelling over every stick and straw in their nests, as if it were a gem of value, a diamond of the first water?

"Rooks," says Bewick," are often accused of feeding on the corn just after it has been sown; but, in our estimation, the advantages derived from the destruction which they make among grubs, larvæ, worms, and noxious insects, greatly overpay the injury done, by the small quantity of corn they may destroy in searching after their favourite food. They live together in large societies, and build close to each other in trees, frequently in the midst of large and populous towns. These rookeries are often the scenes

of bitter contests; the new comers are frequently driven away by the old inhabitants, their nests torn in pieces, and the unfortunate couple forced to begin their work anew in some more undisturbed situation."

It is singular, that birds living in such large communities, should be so quarrelsome; it seems as if such a propensity would peculiarly disqua

H