THIS bird is so called from its cry, resembling the word kildeer, and is well known in all parts of the United States. It builds its nest in level pastures which afford pools of water, or on sandy downs near the sea. Its nest is a mere hollow, lined with straw or weeds; the eggs are four, cream-colored, and spotted with black. The bird is about ten inches long, is of an olive-gray color, and has long legs, which enable it to wade in the water, of which it is very fond.

While rearing its young, the kildeer makes an incessant noise, and if any one approaches its nest, it flies around and over him, calling kildeer, kildeer, te dit, te dit, te dit, seeming to evince the utmost anxiety. If this clamor does not frighten away the intruder, it will run along the ground, with hanging wings, pretending to be lame, in order to draw off attention from the nest. It seems to be a sleepless bird, for it may be heard very late at night, in the spring and fall.

The kildeer feeds on grasshoppers and insects which it finds in fields and in pools of water, wading in search of them. It is very erect, runs with great swiftness, and flies very high in the air. Toward autumn, large flocks descend to the seashore, where they are more silent and circumspect.

FORCE OF TRUTH.-Some years ago, a motion was made in the house of commons, in England, for raising and embodying the militia, and for the purpose of saving time, to exercise them on the Sabbath. When the resolution was about to pass, an old gentleman stood up and said, "Mr. Speaker, I have one objection to make to this, which you will find in an old book called the Bible." The members looked at one another, and the motion was dropped.

Early Impressions.

A STORY FOR PARENTS.

FOR MERRY'S MUSEUM.

A GENTLEMAN and lady, the parents of an only daughter about three years old, residing in one of our southern cities, proposed, a few months since, a visit to the lady's friends at the north. She was particularly anxious once more to see an aged mother, who, during her absence, had experienced a long and distressing sickness, and whom, considering the distance which separated their residences, she could not hope to see many times more. One day, she told Augusta, her little daughter, of the journey, and inquired how she should like it. Of course, the child was delighted with the project, and from that time it occupied many of her thoughts and much of her conversation. She should see her friends, of whom her mother had made frequent mention, and especially her grandmother, who, of all the rest, was of course an object of the greatest interest. Augusta's inquiries, about her in particular, were often repeated, and almost daily the question was renewed when her father would be ready to start.

After her usual round of inquiries about the journey and her mother's friends, Augusta, one day, concluded by saying, My grandmother will be glad to see me- -don't you think she will, mother?" "Certainly," replied the mother. "Don't you think she will be very glad to see me?" "Yes," said the mother, “she will almost eat you up."

The reply was inconsiderate, but who has not heard it a hundred times? Nothing more common-but it sunk deep into the heart of the child, and from that time, though she continued daily to talk of the contemplated journey, it was with diminished joy, and sometimes with positive reluctance. The idea of being de

voured, and by one with whom she had associated so many ideas of tenderness and love, preyed, as it was afterwards discovered, upon her imagination, and nearly annihilated her hitherto happy anticipations. She frequently spoke of her grandmother's devouring her, and on one occasion gave her father a pretty serious practical idea of the manner in which she expected her aged relative would proceed. She began by telling him what her mother had said—that her grandmother loved her so well that she would eat her up. "When she sees me, she will do so," said Augusta-applying her sharp little teeth to his cheek, and which brought the blood to the surface, and at the same time sent a pang to the extremities of his frame-"she will do so!"

The time set for their departure at length arrived, and Augusta and her parents, in a few weeks, reached the place of their destination. From motives of convenience, the grandmother had, some months before, left her own residence, and was at lodgings in the village of W- -. Consequently, the parents of Augusta sought quarters at a friend's in the immediate neighborhood.

After a few hours' rest, a call upon the grandmother was proposed, and Augusta was to accompany her parents. But she did not wish to go. "Why, my daughter," inquired the mother-"do you not wish to see your dear grandmother?" Augusta was silent. "You were delighted," continued the mother, "with the idea before you left home-what has changed your mind?" Augusta made no reply-but she did not wish to go. Thinking that her reluctance was the offspring of a childish whim, or at most the effect of timidity at meeting one who, notwithstanding her relationship, was indeed a stranger, but which would be removed in a single half hour's acquaintance, she insisted upon her going.

presence.

A walk of a few minutes brought them to the residence of this object of love and tenderness to the mother, but of distrust and terror to the daughter. They were ushered into her The meeting of the younger and of her more aged mother was tender and mutually affecting. They embraced each other after the lapse of years, and each imparted and each received a kiss of friendship and affection. Tears flowed in copious streams, if not along the cheeks of her aged mother, down those of her daugh

ter.

Augusta, young as she was, was an intent and interested spectator of the scene. She watched every look-marked every action-weighed every word. Her own time of being welcomed soon came, when the caresses of the grandmother were transferred from the daughter to the grand-daughter. She shuddered in the embrace-and her eyes, generally large and brilliant, rolled more widely and wildly; but she escaped the anticipated mastication, and at length breathed more at her ease!

Augusta was delighted, as she bounded forth from the gate into the path that led back to her lodgings, and was as much inclined to expedite her return, as she had been slow and reluctant in going.

Up to this time the intensity of her feelings was unknown, and even the nature of them was scarcely if at all suspected. But the secret was gradually developed, and at length the parents were able to explain many a circumstance and many a declaration in regard to Augusta's change of feelings towards her grandmother, which, perhaps, with more consideration, they might have explained before, but which had been set down rather to the whim of the child than the unguarded expression of the mother.

On reaching her quarters, a young lady, to whom the casual mention had been made that Augusta expected her

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No, she didn't eat me," said she, "but she tried to eat mother."

Some circumstance at the moment intervening, the conversation was interrupted, but on the following day, it was renewed by Augusta herself, who, approaching her mother, said:

"Mother, what did grandma' do to you. yesterday?"

"She kissed me, my dear." "She did n't kiss you mother-she bit you."

No, my daughter, you mistake, she did not bite me, but she kissed me affectionately."

"She did bite you, mother-I'm sure, I saw her, and she made you cry." "My daughter-why!'

"You said, mother, one day when we were at home, that grandmother would. eat me up, but she tried to eat you."

The grandmother, as already intimated, had kissed her daughter fondlywith a mother's ardor. Augusta saw her lips impressed on the mother's cheek, and the tears starting fast, and rolling down; and she mistook the kiss for a bite, and thought those tears of joy were tears of pain. The whole mystery now vanished. "She will love you so much as to eat you up," misconstrued, had been for weeks and months a sort of death-note sounding in the child's imagination. This story, however improbable it may seem, is literally true, and may show how careful of early impres sions, a parent should be. C. G.

About the Chicadees,

FOR MERRY'S MUSEUM,

A GOOD many years ago, a man named Alexander Wilson, a Scotchman by birth, wrote a large book, called "American

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Ornithology," in which he described almost all the birds belonging to this country, and gave an account of their nests and eggs, their food and habits, and migrations, or removing from one part of the country to another, &c. He also made pictures of all the birds described in his book, which were beautifully colored with the natural colors of the birds themselves. Since then, another celebrated naturalist, (as those men are called, who study the works of nature,) Mr. John J. Audubon, has made a still larger book, with pictures, of the size of life, of all the birds described by Mr. Wilson and many others, and colored also in the same beautiful manner, and sometimes having several pictures of the same bird, in different attitudes, and showing its different habits, such as procuring its food, building or sitting on its nest, defending its young, &c. One copy of these books, (which consists of five very large volumes, as large as a small table, besides the volumes which contain the descriptions and accounts of the habits or biography of the birds,) costs the very great sum of one thousand dollars. It is very beautiful indeed, and I hope all Robert Merry's black and blueeyed friends will one day have an opportunity to look at either this or Mr. Wilson's book, and see such beautiful pictures as they contain.

As almost all good boys and girls are fond of seeing birds, and hearing about them, I think they will like to read something more about them in Merry's Museum; and this is the reason why I propose to write about some of them. I hope, too, that none of those children who read the Museum, will be guilty of wantonly killing the little birds, or robbing their nests of the eggs and young, as some cruel boys do, but will learn to love them and treat them kindly. I will here copy a short story from Mr. Audubon's book, that I have been telling about.

"On the 4th of January, we stopped at Bonnet Carré, where I entered a house to ask some questions about birds. I was received by a venerable French gentleman, whom I found in charge of about a dozen children of both sexes, and who was delighted to hear that I was a student of nature. He was well acquainted with my old friend Charles Carré, and must, I thought, be a good man, for he said he never suffered any of his pupils to rob a bird of her eggs or young, although, said he with a smile, they are welcome to peep at them and love them.' The boys at once surrounded me, and from them I received satisfactory answers to most of my inquiries respecting birds.”

This shows what feelings good children should have towards birds.

I will now say something about the Chicadee, or Black-capped Titmouse, as the naturalists name him. He is a beautiful bird, although his colors are very plain and simple. His head is covered with a black spot, that looks like a cap; from which he takes the designation of Black-capped. Why he is called Titmouse, I cannot tell. The sides of his head and neck are of a very pure white, but he has another black spot on his throat, which ends in a point on each side of his neck. The contrast of the deep black spots on his head and neck with the pure white around them, gives him a beautiful appearance. His back and wings are brownish ash-color, or bluish-brown, the wings rather darker, and underneath he is a brownish white. I presume almost all my little readers, in the country especially, know him and call him the Chicadee; for he is so called from his note or song, which sounds very much like Chicadee-dee-dee, Chicadeedee-dee-dee, and which you may hear almost continually while he is hopping about from tree to tree, and from limb to limb, and exhibiting himself in almost