THE CUCKOO.-Sir, your correspondent, Mr. Henry Doubleday, has, it appears, read some remarks in the Naturalist (reviewed in your paper of the 12th inst.,) about the cuckoo. I too, in consequence of Mr. Doubleday's observations, have had the curiosity to read the article he refers to, and give full credence to its truth. Indeed, I have perused it with much interest. I must confess my surprise-a surprise which will be shared in common with most of your other readers why your correspondent should, in a paper bearing so high a character as the Gardeners' Chronicle-and in such unmeasured terms too!-fall foul of a writer who, whilst giving his name and address, very modestly relates of this and another bird, no more than he is prepared to verify. Mr. Doubleday asserts, or to use his own strange language, "positively states," that the cuckoo never feeds its own young!' In making this positive, but rash and erroneous assertion, he has greatly exceeded the bounds both of prudence and of courtesy; for it is a fact, patent to most ornithologists, that the cuckoo has been seen in the act of assisting in feeding her off spring-I say assisting, because, where there is no necessity for her aid in this matter, she never interferes. The hedge sparrow and the robin* are the two principal birds delegated to officiate on these occasions. They are wisely selected by the cuckoo to be the custodians of her eggs, inasmuch as they are best adapted, from the nature of the food they eat, for the task of feeding her young, when hatched. A few years since the sight of a redbreast feeding a young cuckoo, assisted by the old cuckoo, was witnessed by a most truthful and worthy ornithologist, a friend of mine, now no more. His animated countenance is even now before me, whilst relating minutely, and with intense interest, the singular and ridiculous disparity observable between the natural and the putative parent. The description he gave me of their joint occupation in cramming the lubberly, ill-favored young cuckoo, was too vivid for me easily to forget it. The manner of the relation, too, apart from my friend's known veracity, carried with it the most perfect conviction of its truth. Nor is this by any means a solitary instance of the (latent) natural affection of the cuckoo, implanted by nature, and called forth under peculiar circumstances; for, let me add, the physical strength of small birds is, oc casionally, totally inadequate to the heavy duties of filling the maw of so voracious a gourmand as a young cuckoo. Like "Oliver Twist," of workhouse notoriety, his constant cry is, "More! more!!" and greedily impatient is he till he gets it. I would remark, in conclusion, that it is as unfair as it is unwise for your correspondent to try to put down so brusquely, by empty assertion,

* The nest of the robin, I would observe, is sometimes built in situations quite as accessible as tempting to the cuckoo. It has been so in my own garden; and two years since, early in the morning, I observed a cuckoo very busily watching the movements of a robin, then about to sit. My avocations, however, at that time-for I was constantly away from home-prevented my witnessing what I have since imagined might have taken place.

what is advanced upon the most respectable authority. It is the direct way of preventing those useful additions to our knowledge, which it should be our endeavor as much as it is our interest, always to encourage. In so saying, I speak but the sentiments of all true lovers of nature.WILLIAM KIDD, Hammersmith.

This letter gave rise to many others on the same side; and the habits of the cuckoo are now much better known than they were. It would be ungenerous in us to dwell on poor Mr. Doubleday's defeat, especially after the rough treatment he received from all quarters. Dr. Morris' final letter, containing the grand summing up, finished him entirely. He had two aiders and abettors, at starting; but they skulked off the moment they smelt powder, and saw the flash in the pan. The last shot was fired in the Gardeners' Journal, Nov. 29, 1851. The Editor wrote as follows:

"We are incidentally reminded of the recent discussions on the habits of the cuckoo, which have elicited so much public attention. The natural history of the bird appears now to be tolerably well understood. Indeed, those who have hitherto been so vociferous in their abuse of it, do seem ashamed, and are now completely silenced. Their fond and ridiculous theories are for ever demolished. It will be remembered that the FIRST attempt to clear up all mystery in connexion with the cuckoo, originated with Mr. Kidd, the naturalist, who has been unceasing in his endeavors to bring the truth to light. In these he has been ably seconded by a host of practical and experimental philosophers; nor have the columns of the Gardeners' Journal been found wanting in the discussion; much new and very valuable matter having therein appeared, quite àpropos to the inquiry. In his popular and interesting Essays on Instinct and Reason' (see Gardeners' Chronicle, Nov. 15,) Mr. Kidd remarks, in connexion with this subject :

I have not failed to vindicate the ways of Nature on every occasion where her aid is required; and it is pleasing to know that I have been the means, indirectly, of most satisfactorily establishing the fact of the cuckoo on certain occasions feeding her own young. This was, until lately, with some few persons a vexed question. I have elicited, also, most abundant and satisfactory proofs, from men of reputation, observation, and undoubted veracity, that the female does utter the well-known cry-Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! that the parent birds do linger with us until after July, to give safe conduct to such of their offspring as may have been hatched so late, or even later in the season. And why not?

and

We must not wonder, but rejoice, that dame Nature takes such singular care of her children, and protects them from their earliest infancy in all times of peril and danger. If they offend against her admonitions, as we reasonable" folk do too often, against our better knowledge-then they,

(Continued from page 70, Vol. II.)

What various wonders may observers see
In a small insect-the sagacious bee!
Mark how the little untaught builders square
Their rooms, and in the dark their lodgings rear.
Nature's mechanics, they unwearied strive,
And fill with curious labyrinths the hive.
See what bright strokes of architecture shine

Through the whole frame-what beauty, what design!

Each odoriferous cell and waxen tower-
The yellow pillage of the rifled flower-
Has twice three sides, the only figure fit
To which the laborers may their stores commit,
Without the loss of matter or of room,
In all the wondrous structures of the comb.

We are living in an age of discovery- an age in which new principles are fast taking the place of the old. Improvements in science and art are daily bursting in upon us from all quarters of the habitable globe; and we can see no good reason why the destructive and cruel system of bee-murder should not be superseded by one of humanity, when we can advance so much in £. s. d. in its favor, to say nothing of the increased interest which must of necessity follow in preserving the lives of those

Who've spent their summer hours,
Whate'er their heat,
That man might eat

The honey from their flowers,

The management of bees in the bee-hive we now recommend, is so simple and safe, as well as pleasing to the eye of the observer, that it is almost superfluous to offer any remarks respecting the treatment of bees in them; but whatever kind of hive is selected, it should be stocked with an early swarm, which can be procured of any cottage beeParticular keeper for about ten shillings. care must be taken that the hive is clean and dry; let no sticks be put in the inside of the hive for the bees to build their combs on, they are very troublesome to them

Who at the roof begin their golden work,
And build without foundation.

We will now suppose a fine swarm to be safely lodged within the hive, which we will call the "Pavilion of Nature," and in which the queen deposits her eggs; the

young are brought forth in about twentyone days from the time of swarming, but the development proceeds more slowly in unfavorable, cold seasons. This Pavilion of Nature must never be disturbed, except to clean the floor-board in the autumn and spring. As soon as the thermometer stands at 80 degrees (for all hives should be provided with a thermometer), a glass or other surplus hive may be given them on the top of the pavilion, which should be prepared with a piece of clean comb, melted by the fire or over a candle, just sufficient to make small particles adhere to the glass when pressed against it-thus laying the foundation for a structure of new combs; this will be found of great assistance to the bees, and will prevent any irregularity in their construction. A woollen case should be made for the glass hive, and put over to exclude the light and keep them warm until the bees have commenced building combs; when, if the thermometer in the pavilion reaches 90 deg., a cover of a thinner texture will better answer the purpose. The glass hives manu factured by Apsley Pellatt and Co., of London, are admirably adapted for the purpose, they being made with a hole in the top for ventilation, over which must be fixed a piece

of gauze-thus the hot air will escape, and bees will not work well while they are kept keep the hive at a proper temperature; for too hot.

Should summer signs auspicious ride, And tubes unfailing pour the balmy tide, A full rich harvest, bee-herds, may ye claim From the blythe tenants of your crystalled frame. But long ere Virgo weaves the robe of sleet, Or binds the hoar-frost sandals round her feet, Close sealed and sacred leave your toil-worn hosts, The last kind dole their waning season boasts; Lest, cooped within their walls, the tenants prey On hoards reserved to cheer stern winter's day.

Glass surplus hives should be worked on the top of the Pavilion of Nature, after being prepared as above; for if they are given without preparation, the bees will commence building their combs upwards, which being unnatural to them, is a great waste of time, and must be carefully avoided in the working season, which in this country is of short duration. It is to the interest of the apiarian to assist his bees as much as he can have everything in readiness-never have to look for anything just at the time it is wanted. All surplus hives should be kept in order; and when the bees are in full work, particular care must be taken to keep every part of glass covered, so as effectually to exclude every particle of light, which is very annoying to the bees, and checks their progress; and, in order to prevent the necessity of swarming, let ventilation receive due share of attention, for it is

Th' excessive rise of temperature alone, That drives the royal insect from her throne, To some more genial region of the state, Where snow-white cells accommodate.

But, as the heat declines, there may be seen Vast numbers congregated round their queen, And clinging round the combs as if half dead; Hence we infer-how honey bees are bred.

66

Encourage your bees," says Thomas Nutt, "accomodate them, support them, and, by all means, preserve them; and, when seasons are favorable, they will richly reward you for your attention to them." The hive should never be fixed to the floor-board with mortar or anything of the kind; the bees have a much better way of doing it themselves; but watch and destroy the wax moth, which may be seen hovering about the entrance on a fine summer's evening. Whatever kind of hive is used, it should be well protected from the weather, but not painted-paint stops the pores in the hives and renders them unfit for the purpose.

The expense of the Temple Bee hives being a bar to their coming into general use amongst cottagers, we would advise those of this class who make their own straw hives, to make the top of the pavilion with wood. Bore two or three holes in it, with a "centrebit," one inch in diameter, for the purpose of working glass or other surplus hives, which can be protected by another straw hive being used as a cover to the surplus hives thus placed upon the top. There is no doubt of the preference to be given to wooden boxes, both in point of durability and in affording greater convenience for the bees; for a square shape is much better adapted for the economical placing of the combs than any other.

Our own experience teaches us, that a first swarm build their combs in a right line from front to back; so that when all is completed, the apiarian, on looking in at the window at the back of the pavilion, may see through, between the combs, to the entrance. Second swarms, which are called "casts," work their combs irregular, and should never be purchased to stock a hive; but two casts united will often make a good stock. We have often been asked how we manage to preserve such a large family of bees in one hive, when we do not allow them to swarm, and never destroy them? To this we reply, that their numbers are reduced so much in the autumn by the destruction of the drones, and the unavoidable deaths they meet with by the thousands of accidents while in search of honey, that a much less space is required for

them in winter than in summer.

A colony of bees may be compered to a town which is always well peopled, though during the life of man many changes take place; some are removed by old age, others from other natural causes, whose places are

filled by the young progeny who are daily coming forth. If we examine the wings of the working bee, we find them of a very delicate nature, and not calculated to weather the storm through a long life of years; for the bee (unlike the bird) never has new wings; and when the wings of the bee are worn out, it is cast from the hive by the other bees as a useless "member of

society." When a stock is destroyed, it invariably contains some young brood in the combs; and though the life of the working bee has been considered by some to be from seven to ten years, I fully concur with Dr. Bevan, when he says, "it is more than probable that the life of the working bee does not exceed six or seven months."

It is important that the front of the hive should be shaded from the sun during winter; the entrance so contracted as to allow only one or two bees to come out at one time; and when snow is on the ground, the entrance must be entirely closed with a piece of wiregauze or perforated zinc, so that no bees can escape, but fresh air freely admitted into the hive.-W. J. PETTITT, East Cliff, Dover.

JOY ALL THE YEAR ROUND.
THE LEAF.

I saw one leaf upon a tree remaining,

Which by a feeble trembling tenure hung;
The cold chill winds of winter were complaining,
And heaps of dead leaves, wet with constantraining,
Were here and there in fitful eddies flung.

Still, in the piercing blast, this lone leaf quivered,
As though each gust would force it from its hold;
Or, as it dying were, and feebly shivered
Ere to the dull cold grasp of Earth delivered,

And with its dead and rotting brethren rolled.

From the bleak North a fiercer blast came sweeping, Down to the ground; the bitter rain seemed And from its tottering hold the leaf was hurled weeping

In its sad icy tears the dead leaves steeping

While in the rushing wind they madly whirled.

And then it seemed the only hope had parted,

While desolation did supremely reign; "Twas like the last trust of the broken-hearted; Yet was a consolation then imparted

Which eased my spirit of a weight of pain :— For, as my heart was thus so sadly viewing

The dying leaf, and seeing but its tomb,

I thought upon the coming spring, renewing All that seemed desolate, and for dead leaves strewing

The laughing Earth with flowers of gayest bloom.
Tis thus we should for ever look at sorrow-
But as a casting our dead leaves away
To give place to a brighter bloom to-morrow:
And from the fresh ning face of Nature borrow,
All joyous emblems-a perpetual May.

From Household Words.

AUTO-BIOGRAPHY OF A DOG-NO. XI.

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

(Continued from Page 103.)

HERE I AM AGAIN, MR. EDITOR, well and jolly! The frost, whilst I write, is finally departing; and all nature is preparing to don the new livery of spring. I tell you this, because I know you rejoice in everything of the kind. I see, by your last, that we are closely watched by Mr. John Gray, of Glasgow. He calls us 66 strolling dabblers"-because we record the "curious facts' we have met with in our rambles! Well; as I'm a dog! I nev-er! Do not heed Mr. Gray, sir. WE are of another school, and love all the world to share in our pleasures and delights. Mais revenons à nos moutons; as BOMBYX ATLAS my master, says when he sits down to a fine haunch of mutton. I told you in my last, all about that fearful storm. I shall never forget it. And now, knowing you will sympathise with the horrible feelings of an honest old Dog, within an inch of being swallowed up-and congratulate him, even now, on his lucky escape from the jaw of the fiend, I cannot resist the temptation to give you an account of what occurred to myself some years ago. Nobody can do it half so feelingly, Mr. Editor; and if you had been in my situation, you would think so, too.

I must first say, the house my old master then occupied was the same as that alluded to in Number V. of my Memoirs,-on the road to Chailly. It was a large old-fashioned house, with (fortunately for me) an outside staircase behind the house, which led into a covered balcony. At one end of it, was the dormitory of the German servant; and at the other, a door communicating with the extreme part of the house. This balcony was closed every night by glass windows, opening à la Française; and a door at the top of the staircase, which the German never failed to lock when he passed to his room. The cellar was in front of the house; and, as in most old-fashioned Swiss houses, the door was outside, and opened into Bombyx's garden. With these preliminaries I now proceed.

It was the latter end of January-a bitter cold night, the thermometer Fah. twenty-two degrees below the freezing point; with a sharp bise, and about six inches snow on the plain (capital weather for sledging, of which I shall speak by and by). As usual, about eight o'clock, Bombyx went out to draw his jug of ale for supper. His youngest son held the lantern; and of course I must go to help. The first thing, on getting out of the front-door and looking down the avenue, Bombyx started, exclaiming "What can those two remarkable green shining spots be? I never observed that before." However, down we went into the cellar. I did not at all like the appearance, I even fancied I smelt something peculiar. The moment the cellar door was opened, I sprang in. Luckily, it was a new tap; and so Bombyx was detained rather longer than usual. Upon coming out, the mysterious light (which the old master said was just like the fiery eyes of some large beast,) had disappeared. Still, nobody had any particular fancy, at this time of night, to go and reconnoitre. A rather unusual hallooing was heard, out on the road, about half-an-hour after; but nothing more.

The very next morning early, Frère Jean, accompanied by half-a-dozen others-each with his gun in his hand, were slowly coming up the avenue to the house, pointing on the ground as they approached. "What's the matter?" says Bombyx. "Oh!" replies Jean-"Ce n'est rien C'est seulement que le loup a passé par ici." "Is it possible?" said Bombyx. "Then I saw the brute last night about eight o'clock." "Just so,' says Jean; "a little before eight, he was seen on Mont benon,' and afterwards on the New Road; and we have traced him up to here. Look at these foot-prints as straight as a ruler, one after the other-that's him! Onward!"

We came close up to the house. " Well, this is a pretty start!" cries Jean. "I suppose he wanted to view Monsieur's 'cava.' Here he has been, down the steps, and across the garden." Only think, Mr. Editor, the brute must actually have passed right down, while myself and Bombyx and the young master were in the cellar. Fancy how stealthily the animal went by! We heard nothing at all. Well; having passed through the garden, he went up across a large field behind the house and into a cross road, by "Bethusy." Here, owing to a drift of snow, there was no further positive trace of him. He had evidently been shifting about a good deal, in this quarter. However, after a great search, we came to the conclusion that he must be concealed at no great distance from this spot-more especially, as there were several thick hedges, and very bushy copses in this neighborhood, which, though denuded of their summer foliage, afforded excellent hiding-places.

"He's certainly not far from here," said Jean, "and he'll not come out till dark, unless he's disturbed; we'll just go and have a bit of 'dèjeunè,' and return; alors nous lui ferons son affaire." "I say, Jean, don't go through the high road,' said Bombyx. "Come in here, we'll find some coffee and toast. If any one should see you, they'll be on the scent as soon as yourself, and perhaps get the beast first, and claim the reward."

"Monsieur est trop bon, pourtant c'est bien vrai," said Jean.

Let me just tell you, Mr. Editor, there is a reward of sixty Swiss francs (£3 158.) for every female wolf, and forty (£2 10s.) for every male, given by the government; also permission to carry the beast about from town to town and from house to house; and you would hardly credit the sum thus obtained. Should the animal also be remarkably fine, it is sometimes purchased for some museum. All I know is, that to catch a female wolf is a capital thing indeed.

Well! it was agreed that, after breakfast, all but Jean should quietly go home by different routes, to avoid suspicion; and that he and the German should every now and then go about slily and reconnoitre if any other party had got the scent. In about a quarter of an hour after they had all gone, Jean went up to look about; and after remaining some time, returned. "Well, Jean, what news ?" "There are others after him," said Jean. "I saw that great 'Grobety' among them, et parbleu c'est un fin Renard. I warrant you he'll not miss him if he gets a sight of him."

"Well; it's fair for all. The beast will not move yet, unless he be disturbed." Presently, up goes the German servant and myself; and looking quietly