I.-THE PAIRING.

A LITTLE bird's nest, half decked with snow, and lying unsheltered in a naked, leafless bush, tells not by a long way the whole story of its origin. It is a legend of the spring, not of the winter. When the red beech has covered itself with a thin green mantle, when the root-leaves of the flote grass (Glyceria fluitans) have broken through the soil, and peep longingly upwards as if eager for the greater freedom, when the meadows and hedgebanks are dotted here and there with the crisp, curly leaves of the common primrose (Primula vulgaris), and the fantastic colt's-foot begins to push forth its reddish blossom - bulbs, around which no leaves are as yet visible,-it has long been spring with the birds, although the swallow -the glad prophet of the year, the harbinger of the best season-has not yet arrived. They have long felt that their best, dearest friend was near, just as one gifted nature feels as by instinct the approach of another.

And when the heart is full the lips will overflow. Many a little bird has already, from the fulness of its heart, begun to pour out its song of gratitude. The tomtit (Parus major) and common sparrow commence first; they are about the earliest to pair, and begin their lively, chirping notes even in the beginning of February. Drearily the yellow-hammer sits upon the house-roof, with drooping tail and feathers blown out; it is almost too early for him to seek his mate, but he already feels that a better time is come, and sings, softly as yet, but so thoroughly heart-felt, its short touching song.

It is not hard to guess the burden of that strain. Many a heart has felt it when, in the first warm rays of the earliest spring, it has looked back upon the struggles of a long dreary winter.

The little fellow, as he sits chirping there, remembers them all; how he used to hop about, and beg from door to door, or perch upon the railing in front of a barn, wishing and longing from his heart that the cat would go away, so that he might hop down, and pick up the few grains that had flown over the thrashing boards.

Meanwhile the bird-concert grows more powerful every day. A magician has struck with his wand, and the waves of sound spread farther and farther through wood and field, like the swelling waves around a stone cast into the water. The magician who has wrought this wonder is called Spring, and every song he evokes is a song of love. But, ere long, the arrival of a prince is announced, and the report spreads in the murmur of soft music throughout all the feathered tribes that dwell in wood and meadow. His official herald, the lark (Alauda arvensis), comes first

"With a soul as strong as a mountain river, Pouring out praise to the Almighty giver." Joyfully he rises on quivering wing, singing as be flies, and ascending to such a height that one grows almost dizzy at the thought; yet so powerful is his song, that its glad, gushing notes may be

heard distinctly when the pained eye can trace his course no longer.

His sharp eye keeps a jealous watch over the field beneath. As far as his song can reach he will claim for his territory, inverting the old Roman legal maxim, and maintaining, "Cujus cœlum, ejus solum."

And now commences a battle for territory; all other occupants of the field have to be driven out, and, for some time, a perfect contest of buffeting, biting, and spurring is kept up, accompanied by all the clamour of infuriated rage, until the several migratory tribes have found homes in their new land, and settle down with their mates to the performance of the more important duties of the season. Then peace reigns over all.

Larks pair in April, and what a merry wooing they carry on among them! In what sweet strains does the wooer tell his tale of love? and, when the mate is found, how he labours with his cheerful song to beguile her hours whilst she builds the nest in some well-selected spot on the ground, under the shelter of a tuft of herbage or a clod of earth. Then, when the first little egg, with its greyish-white ground, tinged with green and mottled with dark brown, is laid in the nest, there is no end of rejoicing. In his proud delight, the male soars aloft, and remains there, still floating in the rosy evening gleam, when the field below is already reposing under the first thin veil of night.

But it must descend to its humble dwelling again, for what goes out of the soil must return to it. The inspired bird, however, cannot yet reconcile its eyes to earthly sleep. Everywhere upon the fallow ground hundreds are still singing, in a more subdued and somewhat dreamy tone, it is true, but of a more wonderful sweetness than when up in the heavens. At length their voices become gradually hushed, like the lights in the village that go out one after the other as midnight approaches.

Like the lark, every other migratory tribe has, if not to conquer, at least to contend for and protect the spot upon which it builds its nest, and very hot warfare is carried on at the beginning of the pairing season, when both migratory and constantly-resident tribes meet upon common ground. Every song, whether it sound from the pinnacle of a slender fir-tree, or from the dense reed forest on the bank of a stream, from the summit of a rock meagrely clad with a thin, dry, unfruitful grass, or from the blossom-covered boughs of an apple-tree,-every song was a warsong before it became a hymn of triumph.

But how happy they are in this! Every burst of braggadocio hurled from the little warbler's throat, which seems to say to the enemy, "Take care, a lord dwells already here," allures, at the same time, the female to come and build her nest; and when the males in their flight together drop down towards night, and strike up their love-song in warm emulation, she comes as it were overnight and in a dream, as in the old Hebrew legend.

In the solemn stillness of the evening the fairest and most feminine of the females nestles to the side of the best and manliest of the singers, and the next morning they fly away together to where the grove with the ruined dwellings of the past year, some distant bank of a river, or a quiet solitary spot in the wood, becomes again to two fresh hearts the theatre of their life and love.

Here, whilst the male keeps watch and sings without, his partner, quiet and modest like the colour of her simpler plumage, toils within, making a soft cradle for the young. Every bird now grows bolder and more familiar. Upon the woodland path or the road side, the tomtit and the gay chaffinch (Fringilla cælebs), commonly called the Pink, from its short nervous call-note, may be seen pulling out with their beaks pieces of stubble and feathers that stick fast in the wheel-tracks, or hopping about upon the cattle-tracks in search of loose hairs and wool. It is a complete curiosity to see the strange accumulation of materials that some birds collect during this occupation.

The earth is covered with the green mantle of May. All the sufferings of the past winter are now forgotten, and the only snow that falls is the white blossom-flower from the apple-tree and elder-bush. And in the midst of this budding and blossoming magnificence, in this kingdom of light, colour, and fragrance, the bird, with its everfresh song, reigns king and herald at the same time.

In the most secluded spots there is working and singing. In the field, the lark is busy widening and smoothing with its breast a small hollow, ready to be lined with a humble texture of coarse stubble upon which to deposit the four eggs, all with their pointed ends downwards. Upon the high bank of a river the Bank-Martin (Hirundo riparia) is digging with beak and feet, boring in the soft substance, sometimes to a depth of two feet, with an amount of labour rarely exceeded among the feathered tribes, whilst, when on the wing in search of food, it skims noiselessly over the clear mirror of a river, drinking, sipping, and sometimes washing as it flies. In the branches, too, that overhang our windows, bits of straw, feathers, and moss have been carried unobserved and in secrecy, without our having the least conception of what is going on, till winter, with its malicious hand, lays the secret bare. Another curious architect, the shy wood-pecker (Picus) is hard at work upon the branches of the forest trees, scooping out with its beak a receptacle for its eggs, and carrying away to a distance the chips of wood, so as to prevent the discovery of its retreat; and the nut-hatch (Sitta Europea) called in some countries the plasterer, from its peculiar habit of plastering up its nest, is toiling away in the hollow of a tree, or under the eaves of an old secluded gable, closing up the door of its last year's dwelling, although there is still room enough left for its enemies.

And with what exquisite delicacy all this workmanship is executed! How skilfully the beds of feathers, stubble, moss, and hair are woven! What a neat round smooth little hollow is made in the earth or the tree-branches! Their house and their plumage, their song and their life, everything breathes of grace and beauty in the bird-world.

Then when the little warbler has wooed and won his mate, how tenderly he nestles around and caresses her, singing as sweetly as his little throat will let him. How he flies towards her as she comes laden with the material for building, and following her playfully to the nest, hops about upon the fresh green twig above, whilst a loud warbling of delight gushes from his full heart. Woe to the hand that can wantonly stretch forward to despoil a bird's nest!

The earth is decked with the green mantle of May. All the birds are singing, and the rosy beams of the evening sun dance to their song in the tree-tops. Darkness is gathering slowly around, and the voices grow fewer and fainter; one by one they become hushed, till at length, in the elder bushes and upon garden railings, the voice of the nightingale (Philomela luscinia) alone is heard. Warm, dark, and moist the night draws closer around; the elder blossom breathes out a warmer and stronger perfume, and the song of the solitary bird grows louder and richer. There is such a mysterious cadence in that song that one almost fancies he is listening to the outgushing of a heart bursting with rapture and melancholy.

In the village yonder all the doors have long been closed. Perhaps one window, behind which pale sickness is hovering over a humble couch, still casts a flickering gleam through the darkness. Now and then a dog gives a short, gruff bark. The village street is deserted; not a sound is heard save perhaps the rustling of a few dry straws swept along by the wind. Again the nightingale is heard. He who has never listened to it can have no conception of the beauty of that song, which vibrates so powerfully around a heart almost stifled by the darkness and perfume of the night, and with such tremor and sweetness, like that of nature itself, in which life and death lie so close to

each other.

But soon the cock begins to crow, the woodlark takes its flight high aloft to greet the new morn, which comes again with its bright sun to beam upon all nature, and to gladden the hearts and voices of the birds till the next evening.

II.-REARING THE YOUNG.

The reader will, doubtless, some time in his life, have seen a little bird that had fallen from its nest, and will have noticed the difference between such a little one and the newly-hatched chicken or duck running about in the poultry yard.

The first of these young birds, as the reader probably knows, has to be fed and reared in the nest for some length of time before it is able to fly away in pursuit of its own food, whilst the young chicken, often with a portion of its shell still sticking to its back, goes at once into the world and looks about busily in search of its daily food.

The reader will further have observed that the young sparrow, or chaffinch, or whatever the bird may have been that had fallen from its nest, was still almost naked when he took it into his hand, whilst the little duck or chicken is provided with a thick, warm, yellow, or greenish down, which, combined with the shelter it obtains from the parent's wing, protects it thoroughly from rain

and cold.

pares, from the contents of its crop, consisting of grain and seed, a sort of semifluid substance resembling milk, which is easily digested, and this becomes stronger and more solid as the young grow up, till at length it cannot be distinguished from the seeds of leguminosa, crucifera, and euphorbia, which constitute the chief nourishment of our wild pigeons.

The insects mostly relished by birds are the

gregarious-caterpillar (Geometra), the leaf-rolling caterpillar (Tortrix), and the soft smooth grub of the saw-fly (Tenthredo).

The insessores are principally tenants of the woods and hedges, whilst the autophagi spend their lives in the field, the meadow, or upon the banks of a river. Every creature that sings and chirps under the green roof of the forest, has-in the soft moss among the roots of a tree, in the hollow

stem, or upon its branches, up to its very summit -its nest carefully concealed, and these nests are built for the most part in spots selected with the greatest regard for the convenience and seclusion of the young. In every nook in the wood one of these little robbers' dens is to be found, with at least four insatiable throats to which insects, caught by the parents, are carried, and there disappear for ever.

One little beak cannot do much in the war of destruction, but when their number is multiplied to an almost endless extent, and the battle is carried on incessantly through a long period of time, the slaughter among the insects becomes considerable. It would, indeed, be dangerous, if, by enfeebling the party friendly to man, the antagonistic party were allowed to preponderate.

But the feathered warriors of the air are only adapted to sharp-shooting practice, and a battle in closed ranks does not suit their nature. Whenever, therefore, from a deficiency of exterminating beaks, or from any other unseen cause, there arises a superabundance of living matter, as Buffon calls it, whenever the increase of the May-chafer, | the eared caterpillar (Liparis dispars), or the evolutionary caterpillar (Gastro pacha processionea and G. pinivora), outstrips the destroying capacity of the bird, and the foliage around becomes thoroughly eaten up by them, the birds quit the barren spot, and leave to other powers a struggle which they can no longer maintain. The voracity of the hairy caterpillar and larger chafers is so considerable, that, where they exist in large masses, they devour the surrounding foliage, and render the spot no longer capable of concealing the bird's

nest.

But let us return to our birds and their nests. There exists among these creatures a peculiar domestic economy, which is characterized by the strictest regard for cleanliness. However deep the tit or the woodpecker may have made its nest, and these birds generally build in deep excavations made in the branches of trees, or in otherwise concealed hollows, the young and their beds are always kept most delicately clean, for every speck of dirt is carefully carried away in the beak of the parent bird. Amongst birds that do not build in hollows, the carrying away of the refuse is no longer necessary, as the young themselves guard against its accumulation. But even among those birds that build upon the ground, there will never be observed any great accumulation of dirt, as the most part of it is taken away to a distance by the hygienic prudence of the mother, whose instinct tells her that no young can grow up healthy and cheerful in a contaminated atmosphere. Would that every mother possessed the same instinct !

As soon as the feathers have grown a little, as soon as the wings are slightly developed, and the tail has attained a few lines in length, one of the little nest-tenants will elevate itself above its neighbours and brothers, and, gaping slowly, stretch its little bits of wings, as if it already began to feel weary of its confinement. At length the brood is able to fly, and some fine morning the strongest of them raises itself to the edge of the nest, stretches its wings once more, makes a spring,

and flutters over to the next twig. Oh, what a different appearance the world presents from this point of sight! The neighbouring twig had hitherto seemed to form such a large portion of it. The mother returns with her beak full of food, and is not a little surprised to find one of its claimants, for the first time, outside of the dwelling. But those within have, in the meantime, taken it all from her, and the young "keek in the world" has got nothing.

This treatment appears to the outsider rather questionable, so he hops back to the edge of the nest, and attempts to squeeze himself again into the society of his brothers. But they, in the meantime, have found it not so bad to be able to stretch their little well-fed bodies a little further than usual. The bold adventurer discovers that he is not welcome, but, being naturally of a happy temperament, he puts a good face on the matter, and awaits, as near the edge of the nest as possible, the return of the parent's refreshing beak. expectation is soon gratified, and, having received his portion now, he swallows it with evident satisfaction.

This

Evil examples, however, corrupt good manners, and ere long another little one follows, hopping cautiously over the nest's edge. The old ones begin to perceive the progress of their young, and the adventurers outside are also cared for. These, too, soon learn the advantage of their new position, and as soon as they perceive the parent in the distance, fly to meet her, begging in the most graceful and coaxing manner for the desired dainty. And now the tables are turned. The youngest, who have not yet ventured abroad, see that they too must be up and active, or suffer from their disadvantageous position.

In this manner the whole brood disperse into the nearest bush or tree-top, departing at every move farther from their birthplace. If the parents do not proceed to build a second time, they depart with this family. In the contrary case, the family ties are soon broken, and whilst the next nest is being built, the fledged brood become just as great strangers and intruders as any other bird.

With the autophagi it is somewhat different. The young run in pursuit of food the moment they are hatched, and the mother's protecting wing is only needed to guard them from cold or wet, and to defend them from the enemy. Thus, on the approach of a kite, or any four-footed foe, they all nestle together under the thick grass or weed, which resembles their plumage in colour, and, keeping close to the ground, remain there motionless and noiseless, whilst the quick, bright eyes of the mother keep watch till the danger is over, when she gives the signal, and they all disperse about her once more, not one of them being missed.

The importance of colour as a means of defence may be seen in the Charadiidae or plover tribes. One of these, the Egialites minor, has its breeding hunt chiefly on the sand of the sea-shore, where not a bit of grass is to be seen, or protection of any kind. Here the young birds, scarcely thres fingers high, and distinguished by the white underbody, may be seen running about. In case of