fuss directly. After some considerable scolding and twitting on facts, the martins take possession of a certain portion of the pigeon cote, and keep it too, for not a pigeon dare go near them, — while the smaller wrens content themselves with some spare corner of the portico, where they forthwith proceed to build their houses, with all the architectural skill derived from their great namesake, the builder of St. Paul's.* There is a spice of waggish mischief about the wren somewhat amusing. Often when the bluebird has left his house, and gone to market or down town, the wren peeps in, and finding no one there, proceeds to amuse himself by pulling out the straws and feathers in the nest; but should perchance the bluebird come in sight, the wren remembers there is something very interesting going on around the corner of the barn, that demands his instant and immediate attention. These birds the bluebird, martin, and the wren, together with the swallows, (barn and chimney,) and "honest robin," who, as quaint old Walton has it, "loves mankind, both alive and dead". are half domesticated. They love to live near man. The bluebird and the robin are the only two among them who appear to have paid much attention to the cultivation of their vocal powers. They salute the morning with sweet songs. The wren and other small birds are in the garden, breakfasting on worms, or, as we sometimes express it, "getting their grub." The martin, meanwhile, listens to the concert, as a critic, or as one of the audience; for he sits up in his private box, now and then uttering an approving note, as if of applause. Indeed, the martin is not very musical. Sometimes, in the bosom of his family, when he feels very social, he takes up his pipe, and then essays a song. But he never gets beyond the first few notes of "Hi Betty Martin," and then goes off on tiptoe. But here we have a jolly little fellow, who makes up in sociability what he lacks in song. The small house sparrow or, as he is generally known, the "chippin' bird," comes to our * The architect of St. Paul's, in London, was Sir Christopher Wren. very doors. He hops along the piazza, gathering "crumbs of comfort" and of bread, and knows that not a soul within the house, not even that "unfeeling schoolboy," would harm a feather of his tail. He keeps a careful eye, however, on the cat; for he is perfectly aware that she would consider him only a swallow, and he does not like to lose his identity. There is in history a single instance where this bird seems to have forgotten his character, and been a destroyer, rather than, as he is called by boys, a "sparer." Every juvenile of five years, who is at all read in the literature of his age, knows the tragic story of the death and burial of cock robin. That interesting individual was found one morning lying on the ground, with a murderous weapon through his heart. The horror-stricken birds assembled. A coroner's inquest was holden. The first inquiry was, of course, "Who killed cock robin?" There was a momentary silence; and then the sparrow, the last one in the crowd, perhaps, to be suspected, confessed the deed. He then proceeds to state how it was done, and owns he "did it with bow and arrow." "Caw! caw! caw!" The watchword and the signal of alarm or caution among crows; or else it is the "dreadful note of preparation" summoning the lawless legions from the depths of the pine woods, from yonder hill, from far-off forests, to come and help pull up a field of corn, just beginning to put forth its tender blades. "All these and more come flocking," for there's no one around; the scarecrow was blown down last night; the gun is lent; the boys have gone to school; the farmer tumbled off the haymow yesterday and broke his leg; and so the crows proceed with the destruction "unmoved, With dread of death, to flight, or foul retreat." The crow and blackbird both are arrant rogues. The last, indeed, renders somewhat of service in the early part of spring; for, following the furrows of the field, devouring countless worms and grubs, which would be most destructive to the com Ing crop of corn, all day long he gleans behind the plough, a perfect little Ruth. But when the corn comes, he devotes himself to its destruction with a perfect ruthlessness, and fills his own crop with the farmer's in less than no time. Perchance, should any one appear on the premises, he gets upon the fence, and whistles very unconcernedly, just as if he hadn't been doing any thing. As for that bean pole, standing in the centre of the field, dressed in old clothes, and bearing some faint resemblance to a returned Californian, — ha! ha! ha! What fools men are То to think that they can cheat the blackbird! Why, there are five of them at this moment pulling corn for dear life, to see who shall get through his row the first, who were born, bred, and educated in the very hat of that identical old scarecrow. be sure, when it was first set up, the birds eyed it with curiosity, perhaps mistrust, but it never entered their heads that it was intended to resemble a man; or if it did, it soon became a standing joke with them. Every farmer hates the crow, and we must acknowledge he is not a very lovable bird. He has neither beauty nor song; for his eternal caw! caw! is a note renewed so often as to be at a decided discount. Nor has he civility of manners; and his ideas concerning private property are extremely vague. Yet, of all the bird tribe, he is far the most intelligent. Nor is he a hypocrite. He robs our fields, and he "acknowledges the corn." There he is, on that old tree by the road side, clothed in a sable suit, and, as you go by, looks demure, interesting, and melancholy. But should there be a gun in the bottom of the wagon, though it is covered carefully with a bundle of straw, a blanket over that, and a large fat boy sitting on top of all, he knows it is there, and, trusty sentinel, alarms the whole community of crows in the region round about; and away they wing, "over the hills and far away." Caw! caw! caw! You didn't catch him that time. He is very well aware that you intend to kill him-if you can. He just wants to see you try it- that's all. VI. HIAWATHA'S HUNTING. LONGFELLOW. [The following passage is from "The Song of Hiawatha,” a narrative poem, founded upon traditions current among some tribes of North American Indians, respecting an imaginary being of more than mortal powers and gifts, named Hiawatha. The author of this poem is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, an American poet of the finest genius and widest popularity, now (1856) residing in Cambridge, Massachusetts.] THEN the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them where'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's brothers." Then Iagoo, the great boaster, He, the marvellous story teller, From a branch of ash he made it, From an oak bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, And the cord he made of deer skin. Then he said to Hiawatha, "Go, my son, into the forest, Where the red deer herd together, Kill for us a famous roebuck, Forth into the forest straightway Proudly with his bow and arrows. And the birds sang round him, o'er him, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha." Sang the robin, sang the bluebird, For his thoughts were with the red deers On their tracks his eyes were fastened, * Flecked, spotted. |