Save some congeners in our own sweet race,
Made of such matter, common, cocket, base,
As are these Sparrows! Would that some magician,
Philosopher or chemist would but show us
What 'tis that constitues the composition

Of certain men in town, who drive, or row us,
Cads, jarvies, porters of a low degree,
Haunters, of theatres, taverns, and coach-doors,
Men all alert in dust and misery;

Men made to elbow, bustle, cheat or steal,
Careless of scorn, incapable to feel
Indignity or shame-vulgar and vain,
Hunger and cold their only sense of pain.

Just of this class, amongst all feathered things, Is this Jack Sparrow. He's no bird that sings, He makes no grand pretences; has no fine Airs of high breeding-he but wants to dine. His dress is brown, his body stiff and stout, Coarse in his nature, made to prog about. What are his delicate fancies? Who e'er sees The Sparrow in his sensibilities? There are the nightingales, all soul and song, Moaning and warbling the green boughs among. There are the larks that on etherial wing, Sing to high Heaven as heavenly spirits sing; There are the merle, the mavis, birds whose lays Inspired the minstrel songs of other days; There are the wandering tribes, the cuckoo sweet; Swallows that singing on your chimneys meet, Through spring and summer, and anon are flown To lands and climes, to sages yet unknown. Those are your poets;-birds of genius - those That have their nerves and feel refined woes. But these Jack Sparrows; why they love far more Than all this singing nonsense, your barn-door! They love your cherry-tree- - your rows of peas, Your ripening corn crop, and to live at ease! You find no Sparrow in the far-off-woodsNo-he's not fond of hungry solitudes. He better loves the meanest hamlet-where Aught's to be had, the Sparrow will be there, Sturdy and bold, and wrangling for his share. The tender linnet bathes her sides and wings In running brooks and purest forest-springs. The Sparrow rolls and scuffles in the dustThat is his washing or his proper rust.

Before your carriage as you drive to town To his base meal the Sparrow settles down; He knows the safety-distance to an inch, Up to that point he will not move or flinch ;

At home, abroad, wherever seen or heard,
Still is the Sparrow just the self-same bird;
Thievish and clamorous, hardy, bold, and base,
Unlike all others of the feathered race.
The bully of his tribe-to all beyond
The gipsey, beggar, knave, and vagabond!

IT may be thought that I have here dealt hard measure to the Sparrow, but the character I have given of him will be recognised by those who know him, as true. Cowper calls them, a thievish race, that scared as often as you please,

As oft return, a pert, voracious kind;

and that every farmer knows them to be. What multitudes do you see dropping down upon, or rising from the wheat as it is ripening in the fields. Formerly a price was set upon their heads and eggs, by country parishes. In many places a penny was given for a Sparrow's head, and the same for three or four eggs; but this is now done away with, and the farmer must destroy them himself, or pay dearly for it in his corn.

Nothing can exceed the self-complacence of this bird. You see him build his nest amongst the richest tracery of a church roof or window; within the very coronet or escutcheon set up over the gate of hall or palace. We saw this summer, the hay and litter of his nest hanging out from the richly-cut initial-letters of William and Mary over one of the principal windows of Hampton Court. Nay he would build in a span-new V. R. set up only yesterday, or in the queen's very crown itself though it were worth a kingdom, if it were only conveniently placed for his purpose. He thinks nothing too good for him.

But the most provoking part of his character is, the pleasure which he takes in teasing, molesting and hectoring over birds of the most quiet and inoffensive nature. He builds about your houses, and thinks no other bird has any business to do the same. The martin, which loves to build under the eaves of our dwellings, after crossing the seas from some far country, has especially to bear his insolence and aggressions. There is a pretty story in the "Evenings at Home," of two of these interesting birds, who had their nest usurped by a Sparrow, getting together their fellows, and building him up in the nest, where he was left a prisoner amid his plunder. But the gentleness of the martin is so great, that such an intance of poetical justice is more curious, than likely to occur a second time. But every summer the

That coachman's whip might clip his fluttering wing,
Or take his head off in a twink- but he
Knows better still and liveth blithe and free.

At home he plagues the martins with his noise They build, he takes possession and enjoys; Or if he want it not, he takes it still, Just because teasing others is his will. From hour to hour, from tedious day to day He sits to drive the rightful one away.

drives it away by its impertinence. We watched his behaviour this year with a good deal of attention. Two pairs of martins came and built their nests be neath the eaves of the stable, near each other Scarcely were the nests half finished, when several sparrows were seen watching on the tiles close to them, chirping loudly, and conceitedly, and every now and then flying at the martins. The nests. however, were completed; but no sooner was this this done, than the sparrows took possession of them.

and lined them with coarse hay, which is an abomination to the martin, which lines its nest with the softest feathers. Having witnessed this, we waited for about ten days, by which time we supposed the sparrows would have laid their full number of eggs; and a ladder was set up, in order to inflict just retribution on them, by taking the whole. But to our surprise there were none. The hay was therefore carefully removed, that the martins, if they pleased, might retake possession; but the very next day, the nests were again filled with hay, and long bents of it hung dangling from the entrance-hole. The sparrows had, with wonderful assiduity, and as it were, with a feeling of vindictive spite, relined the nests with as much hay as they ordinarily carry to their own nests in several days. Now it was supposed they would really lay in these nests, but no such thing, they never did. Their only object had been to dislodge the martins, for it was found that these very sparrows had nests of their own in the waterspouts of the house, with young ones in them, at the very time, and their purpose of ousting the martins from their own nests being accomplished, the hay remained in the nests quietly all summer.

But this was not all. The poor martins, driven from the stable, came now to the house; and, as if for special protection, began to build their nests under the roof, nearly over the front door. No sooner was this intention discovered by the sparrows, than they were all in arms again. They were seen watching for hours on the tiles just above, chirping, strutting to and fro, flying down upon the martins when they came to their nests with materials, and loudly calling upon their fellow sparrows to help them to be as offensive as possible. The martins, however, rendered now more determined, persisted in their building, and so far succeeded as to prevent the sparrows getting more than a few bents of hay into their nests when complete. The martins laid their eggs; but for several times successively, the sparrows entered in their absence, and hoisted out all the eggs, which of course fell to the ground and were dashed to pieces. Provoked at this mischievous propensity of the sparrows, we had them now shot at, which had the desired effect. One or two of them were killed, and the rest took the hint, and permitted the martins to hatch and rear their young in peace.

CHILDHOOD.

Oн, when I was a little child,

My life was full of pleasure;

I had four-and-twenty living things, And many another treasure. But chiefest was my sister dear,

Oh, how I loved my sister!

I never played at all with joy,

If from my side I missed her.

I can remember many a time,

Up in the morning early,Up in the morn by break of day,

When summer dews hung pearly; Out in the fields what joy it was,

While the cowslip yet was bending, To see the large round moon grow dim, And the early lark ascending!

I can remember too, we rose

When the winter stars shone brightly;
"Twas an easy thing to shake off sleep,
From spirits strong and sprightly.
How beautiful were those winter skies,

All frosty-bright and unclouded,
And the garden-trees, like cypresses,

Looked black, in the darkness shrouded!

Then the deep, deep snows were beautiful,
That fell through the long night stilly,
When behold, at morn, like a silent plain,
Lay the country wild and hilly!
And the fir-trees down by the garden side,

In their blackness towered more stately,
And the lower trees were feathered with snow
That were bare and brown so lately.
And then, when the rare hoar-frost would come,
"Twas all like a dream of wonder,
Where over us grew the crystal trees,

And the crystal plants grew under!
The garden all was enchanted land;

All silent and without motion,
Like a sudden growth of the stalactite,
Or the corallines of ocean!
"Twas all like a fairy forest then,

Where the diamond trees were growing And within each branch the emerald green And the ruby red were glowing.

I remember many a day we spent

In the bright hay-harvest meadow; The glimmering heat of the noonday ground, And the hazy depth of shadow.

I can remember, as to-day,

The corn-field and the reaping,
The rustling of the harvest-sheaves,
And the harvest-wain's upheaping.

I can feel this hour as if I lay
Adown 'neath the hazel bushes,
And as if we wove, for pastime wild,
Our grenadier-caps of rushes.

And every flower within that field

To my memory's eye comes flitting, The chiccory-flower, like a blue cockade, For a fairy-knight befitting.

The willow-herb by the water side,

With its fruit-like scent so mellow; The gentian blue on the marly hill,

And the snap-dragon white and yellow

I know where the hawthorn groweth red;

Where pink grows the way-side yarrow; I remember the wastes of woad and broom, And the shrubs of the red rest-harrow.

I know where the blue geranium grows,

And the stork's-bill small and musky; Where the rich osmunda groweth brown,

And the wormwood white and dusky. There was a forest a-nigh our home,A forest so old and hoary, How we loved in its ancient glooms to be, And remember its bygone story!

We sate in the shade of its mighty trees,

When the summer noon was glowing,
And heard in the depths of its undergrowth
The pebbly waters flowing.

We quenched our thirst at the forest-well;
We ate of the forest berry;

And the time we spent in the good green-wood,
Like the times of song, were merry.

We had no crosses then, no cares;

We were children like yourselves then ; And we danced and sang, and made us mirth, Like the dancing moonlight elves then!

Soon as is the dawning,

Wakes the mavis and the merle; Wakes the cuckoo on the bough; Wakes the jay with ruddy breast; Wakes the mother ring-dove

Brooding on her nest!

Oh, the sunny summer time!
Oh, the leafy summer time!
Merry is the bird's life

When the year is in its prime!
Some are strong and some are weak;

Some love day and some love night:But whate'er a bird is,

Whate'er loves it has delight, In the joyous song it sings;

In the liquid air it cleaves;
In the sunshine; in the shower,
In the nest it weaves!
Do we wake; or do we sleep;
Go our fancies in a crowd
After many a dull care,-

Birds are singing loud!
Sing then linnet; sing then wren;
Merle and mavis sing your fill;
And thou, rapturous skylark,

Sing and soar up from the hill! Sing, oh, nightingale, and pour

Out for us sweet fancies new! Singing thus for us, birds,

We will sing of you!

BIRDS.

Он, the sunny summer time!

Oh, the leafy summer time!

Merry is the bird's life,

When the year is in its prime! Birds are by the water-falls

Dashing in the rain-bow spray ; Everywhere, everywhere

Light and lovely there are they! Birds are in the forest old,

Building in each hoary tree; Birds are on the green hills; Birds are by the sea!

On the moor, and in the fen,

'Mong the whortle-berries green; In the yellow-furze-bush

There the joyous bird is seen; In the heather on the hill;

All among the mountain thyme; By the little brook-sides,

Where the sparkling waters chime; In the crag; and on the peak,

Splintered, savage, wild, and bare, There the bird with wild wing

Wheeleth through the air. Wheeleth through the breezy air, Singing, screaming in his flight,

Calling to his bird-mate,

In a troubleless delight!

In the green and leafy wood,

Where the branching ferns up-curl,

THE WOODPECKER.

THE Woodpecker green he has not his abiding Where the owls and the bats from the daylight are hiding;

Where the bright mountain-streams glide on rockbeds away,

The dark water-ousel may warble and play;
In the sedge of the river the reed-sparrow build;
And the peewit among the brown clods of the field;
The sea-gull may scream on the breast of the tide;
On the foam-crested billows the peterel may ride;
But the woodpecker asketh nor river nor sea;
Give him but the old forest, and old forest-tree,
And he'll leave to the proud lonely eagle the height
Of the mist-shrouded precipice splintered and white;
And he 'll leave to the gorcock the heather and fern,
And the lake of the valley to woodcock and hern;
To the sky-lark he 'll leave the wild fields of the air,
The sunshine and rainbow ne'er tempted him there
The greenwood for him is the place of his rest,
And the broad-branching tree is the home he loves
best.

Let us go to the haunt of the woodpecker green,
In those depths of the wood there is much to be seen.
There the wild-rose and woodbine weave fairy
land bowers,

And the moth-mullein grow with its pale yellow flowers;

There the hum of the bees through the noonday is heard,

And the chirp, and the cry, and the song of the bird;
There up the tree-trunk, like a fly on the wall,
To pick the grey moss, runs the tree-creeper small;
There the wren golden-crested, so lovely to see,
Hangs its delicate nest from the twigs of the tree;
And there coos the ring-dove-oh, who would not go,
That voice of the wood to hear, dreamy and low!
Yes, come to the wood-to the woodpecker's tree,
There is joy 'mong the green leaves for thee and for
me!

Hark! heard ye that laughter so loud and so long?-
Again now! - it drowneth the wood-linnet's song!
"T is the woodpecker laughing! -the comical elf!
His soul must be merry to laugh to himself!—
And now we are nearer-speak low-be not heard!
Though he's merry at heart, he's a shy, timid bird.
Hark! -now he is tapping the old, hollow tree :-
One step farther on-now look upward-that's he!
Oh, the exquisite bird! - with his downward-hung
head,

With his richly-dyed greens-his pale yellow and red!
On the gnarled tree-trunk with its sober-toned grey,
What a beautiful mingling of colours are they!
Ah, the words you have spoken have frightened the

bird

For by him the lowest of whispers was heard;
Or a footfall as light as the breezes, that pass
Scarcely bending the flowers, he perceives on the
grass.

The squirrel above him might chatter and chide; And the purple-winged jay scream on every side; The great winds might blow, and the thunder might roll,

Yet the fearless woodpecker still cling to the bole;
But soon as a footstep that's human is heard,
A quick terror springs to the heart of the bird!
For man, the oppressor and tyrant, has made
The free harmless dwellers of nature afraid!

'Neath the fork of the branch, in the tree's hollow bole,

Has the timid woodpecker crept into his hole;
For there is his home in deep privacy hid,
Like a chamber scooped into a far pyramid;
And there is his mate, as secure as can be,
And his little young woodpeckers deep in the tree.
And not till he thinks there is no one about,
Will he come to his portal and slyly peep out;
And then, when we're up at the end of the lane,
We shall hear the old woodpecker laughing again.

THE HAREBELL.
(CAMPANULA ROTUNDIFOLIA.)

Ir springeth on the heath,
The forest-tree beneath,

like to some elfin dweller of the wild;

Light as a breeze astir,
Stemmed with the gossamer;
Soft as the blue eyes of a poet's child.

The very flower to take

Into the heart, and make

The cherished memory of all pleasant places; Name but the light harebell,

And straight is pictured well Where'er of fallen state lie lonely traces.

We vision wild sea-rocks,

Where hang its clustering locks, Waving at dizzy height o'er ocean's brink; The hermit's scoopèd cell;

The forest's sylvan well,

Where the poor wounded hart came down to drink We vision moors far-spread,

Where blooms the heather red,

And hunters with their dogs lie down at noon;
Lone shepherd-boys, who keep
On mountain-sides their sheep,
Cheating the time with flowers and fancies boon

Old slopes of pasture-ground;
Old fosse, and moat, and mound,

Where the mailed warrior and crusader came;
Old walls of crumbling stone,
Where trails the snap-dragon;
Rise at the speaking of the Harcbell's name.

We see the sere turf brown,
And the dry yarrow's crown

Scarce raising from the stem its thick-set flowers;
The pale hawkweed we see,

The blue-flowered chiccory,

And the strong ivy-growth o'er crumbling towers.

Light Harebell, there thou art,
Making a lovely part

Of the old splendour of the days gone by,
Waving, if but a breeze

Pant through the chestnut trees,
That on the hill-top grow broad-branched and high

Oh, when I look on thee.

In thy fair symmetry,

And look on other flowers as fair beside,
My sense is gratitude,

That God has been thus good,

To scatter flowers, like common blessings, wide.

THE SCREECH OWL. PRAY thee, Owl, what art thou doing, With that dolefulest tu-whoo-ing? Dark the night is, dark and dreary, Never a little star shines cheery ; Wild north winds come up the hollow, And the pelting rain doth follow; And the trees the tempest braving, To and fro are wildly waving!

Every living thing is creeping

Tc its den, and silence keeping,
Saving thou, the night hallooing
With thy dismalest tu-whoo-ing!

Nought I see, so black the night is,
Black the storm, too, in its might is;
But I know there lies the forest,
Peril ever there the sorest,
Where the wild deer-stealers wander;
And the ruin lieth yonder,
Splintered tower and crumbling column,
All among the yew-trees solemn,
Where the toad and lizard clamber
Into many an ancient chamber,
And below, the black rocks under,
Like the muttering coming thunder
Lowly muttering, rolling ever,
Passes on the fordless river:-
Yet I see the black night only
Covering all, so deep and lonely!
Pr'ythee, Owl, what is 't thou 'rt saying
So terrific and dismaying?
Dost thou speak of loss and ruin,
In that ominous tu-whoo-ing?
While the tempest yet was stiller,
Homeward rode the kindly miller,
With his drenched meal-sacks o'er him,
And his little son before him;
Dripping wet, yet loud in laughter,
Rode the jolly hunters after;

And sore wet, and blown and wildern,
Went a huddling group of children;
But each, through the tempest's pother,
Got home safely to its mother;
And ere afternoon was far on,
Up the mountain spurred the Baron.
How can evil then betide 'em!
In their houses warm they hide 'em.
In his chimney-corner smoking,
Sits the miller, spite thy croaking;
And the children, snug and cozy,
In their beds sleep warm and rosy;
And the Baron with his lady,
Plays at chess sedate and steady.

Hoot away, then, an' it cheer thee,
Only I and darkness hear thee.
Trusting Heaven, we 'll fear no ruin,
Spite thy ominous tu-whoo-ing!

FLOWER.PAINTINGS.

I LOVE those pictures that we see
At times in some old gallery,
Hung amid armed men of old,
And antique ladies, quaint and cold;
'Mong furious battle-pieces, dire
With agony, and blood, and fire ;-
Flower-pictures, painted long ago,

Though worn, and old, and dimmed of glow,
I love them, although art may deem
Such pictures of but light esteem.

There are the red rose and the white;
And stems of lilies, strong and bright;
The leaf and tendril of the vine;
The iris and the columbine;
The streaky tulip, gold and jet;
The amaranth and violet;
There is the bright jonquil; the trail
Of bind-weed, chalice-like and pale;
The crumpled poppy, brave and bold;
The pea; the pink; the marigold.

There are they grouped, in form and hue,
Flower, bud, and leaf to nature true!
Yes, although slighted and forlorn,
And oft the mark of modern scorn,

I love such pictures, and mine eye
With cold regard ne'er passed them by.
I love them most, that they present
Ever some goodly sentiment;
The virgin-mother, young and mild;
The cradle of the holy child;

Or, 'mid a visioned glory faint,

The meek brow of some martyred saint; And with their painters I can find

A kindred sympathy of mind.