of trees, tufts of ivy or thick bushes, concealing it carefully from observation. They are sometimes known to cover it completely with leaves, leaving only an entrance in an oblique direction, and stopping it up with a leaf when they go out. They rear two or three broods in the year. The hen deposits from five to seven eggs in the nest, and her companion shares with her in the trouble of hatching them, sitting on them in the middle of the day, when she goes in search of food.

We are compelled to admit, that robin, with all his attractions, and all his amiable qualities, is not celebrated for exhibiting a spirit of love and forbearance towards his brethren of the ruby breast. He is, in fact, one of the most pugnacious and quarrelsome of birds. Few persons can have observed his habits, without discerning him many times engaged in desperate battles. We well remember seeing a most dexterous mouser and bird-catcher of the feline race, rush in at the open door of a dining-room, where a family party was assembled, and run under the table with two robins, which she had just pounced upon in the garden, while in the act of fighting. So earnestly were they engaged in the contest, that they did not perceive her approach; and she actually seized them both by their necks at one gripe, their heads sticking out at either side of her mouth. A lady

seized Grimalkin as she rushed under the table, and compelled her to relinquish her hold before the robins were materially injured, and they instantly flew off as if nothing had happened. Whether they had courage to renew the combat after an event so alarming to both parties, is not known.

The robin has some notes quite distinct from his cheerful song. One cry, which is often repeated in the evening and morning, can be heard at a considerable distance, and is loud and abrupt. He has another, which is a sort of chirp. It seems to be a note of call, and may imitated by sucking the finger, as to assemble all the redbreasts in the neighbourhood.

be so

well

THE ROBIN.

Pretty bird, with thy ruby breast,
Thou art not of a gentle race,

And yet, to all a welcome guest,

Thou hast a high and honour'd place.

There is a tale the peasants tell,

Which round thee casts a guardian spell.

Who does not love thee, pretty bird?
The story told in earliest years,
The legend in our childhood heard,
Unlocking all our infant tears :
That mournful story, lov'd so well,
Around thee casts a sacred spell.

Who does not love the birds that flew

Round the poor babes' cold forest bed,
With leaves their lifeless limbs to strew,
And sing a requiem o'er the dead?
Though but a tale the nurses tell,
It guards thee with a sacred spell.

Robin, thou art a welcome guest:
When winter comes with chilling gale,
Then in thy ruby corset drest,

Thee as a winter friend we hail.
Then fondly on the tale we dwell,
That round thee casts its guardian spell.

Now thou hast pour'd thy parting song
Amid the leafless forest bow'rs;
A dirge o'er summer's dying throng,
Of falling leaves and faded flow'rs.
And having sung thy sweet farewell,
Art come thy pleasant tale to tell;
And in the peasant's cottage dwell,
While winter reigns o'er flood and fell.

ORDER PASSERES.

The Nightingale.

Motacilla Luscinia.

THE nightingale, the most celebrated of all our birds, is about six inches in length. Cuvier observes: "Every body knows this songster of the night, and the melodious and varied sounds with which it charms the forest." Here, however, the naturalist errs. Many people do not

live within reach of its melody; and there are multitudes, even in this country, who have never heard the liquid notes of the nightingale, poured forth from woods and thickets in those calm, sweet evenings we sometimes enjoy in the latter part of April and May. Though well known to the inhabitants of the southern, eastern, and midland counties of England, it is rarely seen in the northern parts of the island, nor so far west as Devonshire and Cornwall. Neither is it met with in many parts of the Principality of Wales. Even the fertile and richly wooded Glamorganshire, which seems to abound in such retreats as the nightingale would select, is rarely visited by this most accomplished melodist of the groves.

The nightingale is a bird of passage. It comes to us about the middle of April, and remains till the autumn, when the coldness of the atmosphere, and deficiency of food, warn it to take its flight to other countries. It then passes over to Africa. Some nightingales retire into Barbary; others take up their winter abode in Lower Egypt. Sonnini has seen several during the winter, feeding in the fertile plains of the Delta; and has also been eye-witness of their passage through some of the Islands of the Archipelago. So powerfully is the impulse to

emigrate felt by these birds, that even such as are retained in captivity, and whose habits must be much changed, evince great uneasiness, and are evidently much agitated as the season for emigration approaches. Unlike the swallows, and many others, this bird does not wait to consult with his companions, or to hold council with the assembled families of his tribe, before he fixes the time for his departure on his long and perilous journey. Naturally shy and solitary, as soon as the changing season warns him that the time of scarcity approaches, the defenceless little creature sets forth alone on his travels, and steers his unerring course to the distant shores. By a wonderful instinct he is aware that a softer atmosphere and abundance of food, will repay the labour of his voyage. Arrived at the point at which he aimed, he rejoices in the provisions made for his simple wants, until another change of season reminds him that the period for his return to Europe is arrived. Again he sets forth alone, crosses deserts and oceans, and comes back a solitary visitant to his old retreats. At first, he shelters himself in hedges on the borders of gardens and cultivated lands, where he finds the most abundant supply of food: but as soon as the verdure of the woods and forests begins to thicken, he