perfection of plumage and song, and here I had an opportunity of studying its habits, which I will now endeavour to describe.

"The shore-lark breeds on the high and desolate tracts of Labrador, in the vicinity of the sea. The face of the country appears as if formed of one undulated expanse of granite, covered with mosses and lichens, varying in size and colour, some green, others as white as snow, and others again of every tint, and disposed in large patches or tufts. It is on the latter that this lark places her nest, which is disposed with so much care, while the moss so resembles the bird in hue, that unless you almost tread upon her as she sits, she seems to feel secure, and remains Should you, however, approach so near, she flutters away, feigning lameness so cunningly, that none but one accustomed to the sight can refrain from pursuing her. The male immediately joins her in mimic wretchedness, uttering a note so soft and plaintive that it requires a strong stimulus to force the naturalist to rob the poor birds of their treasure.

"The nest around is imbedded in the moss to its edges, which is composed of fine grasses, circularly disposed, and forming a bed about two inches thick, with a lining of grouse feathers, and those of other birds. In the beginning of July the eggs are deposited. They are four or five in number, large, greyish, and covered with numerous pale blue and brown spots. The young leave the nest before they are able to fly. and follow their parents over the moss, where they are fed about a week. They run nimbly, emit a soft peep, and squat closely at the first appearance of danger. If observed and pursued, they open their wings to aid them in their escape, and separating, make off with great celerity. On such occasions it is difficult to secure more than one of them, unless several persons be present, when each can pursue a bird. The parents all this time are following the enemy overhead, lamenting the danger to which their young are exposed. In several instances the old bird followed us almost to our boat, alighting occasionally on a projecting crag before us, and entreating us, as it were, to restore its offspring."

The harder billed or seed-eating singing-birds which pay us visits, mostly come among us late in the autumn, or in winter, as might be expected.

Of the Emberizide, or buntings, we have the Lapland bunting, the snow bunting, and the ortolan bunting. The Lapland bunting (Plectrophanes Lapponica), which is most lark-like both in its plumage and in the length of the hind-claw, has rarely indeed-but we believe as many as four different times,-been taken in this country. There was one in the cabinet of the late Mr. Vigors, bought at a market in London, and now in the museum of the Zoological Society, where we hope it long will be. Mr. Yarrell has one which was caught near Brighton. Mr. Gould has recorded the capture of one a few miles north of London, and that in the Manchester Museum was taken near Preston, in Lancashire. The species is a native of the Arctic regions and the north of Europe, and Dr. Richardson notices it as breeding on the shores of the Arctic Sea. Though the instances above stated are the only occasions krown to us on which this hyperborean bird has been captured in these islands, it is far from improbable that many visit us, especially in severe winters, or that several are taken in the lark nets without being detected by the captors and consumers: they

have been occasionally caught with larks, in the neighbourhood of Geneva. Bechstein says, We should see them more frequently in Germany, if the birdcatchers who take them in their lark's net did not kill them both indifferently." The same author describes the song of the Lapland bunting in captivity as very similar to the linnet's; and remarks that the female also warbles, but only in the bullfinch's style.

The snow bunting, or snow flake (Plectrophanes glacialis), the mountain bunting, and the tawny bunting, are all identical, the variation of the plumage at different times and seasons having been the cause which led authors to describe the bird in its various dresses as belonging to a distinct species. It breeds in the northernmost of the American islands, and on all the shores of the continent, from Chesterfield Inlet to Behring's Straits, according to Dr. Richardson; and Captain Lyon found its nest of dry grass, carefully lined with a few feathers, and the hair of the deer, at Southampton Island, singularly placed.

"Near the large grave," says Captain Lyon, in his interesting description of an Esquimaux burying place, "was a third pile of stones, covering the body of a child, which was coiled up. A snow bunting had found its way through the loose stones which composed this little tomb, and its now forsaken, neatly built-nest was found placed on the neck of the child. As the snow-bunting has all the domestic virtues of our English redbreast, it has always been considered by us as the robin of these dreary wilds, and its lively chirp and fearless confidence have rendered it respected by the most hungry sportsnien. I could not on this occasion view its little nest, placed on the breast of infancy, without wishing that I possessed the power of poetically expressing the feelings it excited. Before going on board I placed boarding-pikes, men's and women's knives, and other articles which might be useful to the Esquimaux, on the huts and various piles of stones."

But if this familiar little bird was respected by the hungry mariners, luxury spares it not in the midst of plenty. In Austria they are caught and fattened with millet for the table of the epicure, according to Pennant. Mr. William Proctor, the curator of the Durham University Museum, informed Mr. Yarrell that he found the nests in Iceland with eggs from four to six in number. The male attended the female during incubation, and Mr. Proctor often saw him when he was coming from the nest rise up in the air and sing sweetly, with his wings and tail spread like the tree-pipit. Mr. Macgillivray thinks it very probable that this pretty and varying species breeds on the higher Grampians, and perhaps in considerable numbers, but we are not aware of any instance of the nest having been found in our islands.

The translator of Bechstein's book remarks that the ortolan (Emberiza hortulana) is not found in Britain; but Mr. Yarrell, in his excellent work now in the course of publication, has collected numerous evidences of its appearance here, some of the instances having occurred a considerable time since.

The bird is a regular summer visiter to the middle and north of Europe, nor is it scarce in some of the German provinces, where it ar

* See "Yarrell's British Birds."

rives towards the end of April or the beginning of May. Bechstein states that they are then met with in orchards, amongst brambles, or in groves, where they build, particularly if millet is cultivated in the neighbourhood. He adds, that during the harvest they frequent the fields in families, and leave after the oats are gathered in. It is therefore remarkable that we do not see more of them. The absence of its favourite millet may perhaps be the cause that the ortolan does not visit us in numbers; but we suspect that more come than are noticed, and that they are taken by inaccurate observers for some other species. For instance, the back of the ortolan is very similar to that of the cirl bunting, so like indeed, that Mr. Yarrell's admirably executed front view of the bird was given, as he says, "to avoid repetition." Mr. Hoy informed Mr. Yarrell that he found the nests placed in slight hollows on the ground in corn-fields; they were rather more compact than the sky-lark's nest, but something similar. The eggs, from four to six in number, were bluish white, speckled and spotted with black. This was on a part of the continent (Mr. Yarrell does not specify it) further north than that referred to by M. Vieillot, who states that it is most numerous in the southern parts of France, where its arrival is nearly contemporaneous with that of the swallow's, and rather before that of the quail's.

Neither the elegant form and colouring of the ortolan, nor its deep flu e-like warbling, plead with success against the cravings of that alldevouring organ which has neither eyes nor ears. The happy birds are decoyed into a snare, and hurried from the fresh air and the blessed sun into a room lighted by lanterns, so that the prisoners can no longer distinguish day from night. Here they are abundantly supplied with oats, millet, and the crumb of white bread spiced. The loss of liberty seems to be forgotten by the devoted little gluttons in the more substantial enjoyments with which they are surrounded, and they apply themselves so vigorously and unweariedly to the good things set before them, that they become delicious lumps of high-flavoured fat. When they weigh about three ounces, their time is come; but such is their voracity, that if left to themselves they would die of suffocation from mere obesity. The cuisinier des cuisiniers describes the victim, and pronounces its eulogy with a pregnant brevity.

"L'ortolan est un petit oiseau, à-peu-près de la grosseur d'une mauviette. Il est grisâtre, et a le cou jaunâtre, aussi bien que le ventre. Il n'est jamais si bon qu'en août et en septembre. Il est très délicat et se digère aisément."

But the voice of the cuckoo, heard from yon lofty tree, loud and clear above the flood of melody poured from the hanging copse below, warns us how much of our sketch remains untouched. The finches and true warblers are still unnoticed, and we hope to present them to such of our readers as may take an interest in the subject on the first of next month.

"British Birds."

THE NIGHT WIND'S MONODY.

SUGGESTED BY HEARING THE WIND WHISTLE MELODIOUSLY THROUGH LINCOLN CATHEDRAL.

WHEN Night her sable curtain draws

Around the drowsy earth,
Shrouding in that solemn pause,

West Ashby, May,

The whole creation's birth;
I love by yon cathedral pile,
To hear the low wind sigh,
And echo through the cloister'd aisle
Eolian harmony!

Round every pinnacle and tower,
Through every curve and line,
Glides on a gently breathing power,
That seems inspir'd-divine!
Sweet music from a brighter sphere,
On ebon wing to fly-
Bedewing the enchanted ear
With liquid melody!

Soft dulcet notes that whisper peace
To the soul's longing rest;
Where troubles of the weary cease,
And all who seek are blest.
Anon, those thrilling accents change
To the low mourn ful cry,

That through the vast and vaulted range,
Chants nature's lullaby!

List to the aerial song awhile-
Mark how each varied tone
Quivers through the fretted pile,
So musical and lone!

And sure 'tis good to wander now
Where sounds so sweet are nigh,
And deeply quaff the copious flow
Of heavenly psalmody!

Not long those plaintive dove-notes course
Their way with gentle wail;

A loftier strain-a wilder force

Soon swells the rushing gale;
And tuneful in its richness there,
The winged breeze sweeps by,
While silence lingers in despair-
Disputing sovereignty!

As beings of the world of light
Hover in celestial bliss,-

So in a flood of pure delight

May mortals joy in this ;

And while those sylph-strung lutes shall peal

O'er hill and tower and tree,

Sweetly will o'er remembrance steal
The Night Wind's Monody.

1841.

E. P.

"Many a man had been good that is not, if he had but kept good company. When the Achates of thy life shall be ill, who will not imagine thy life to be so too?" OWEN FELLTHAM,

CHAP. I.

"Was there ever so desolate a wretch!" cried Ephraim Rue, and he cast his melancholy eyes around his dismal chamber,-then gathered together a few straggling cinders in the grate,-snuffed the solitary candle, and with a deep sigh bent his meditative brows over a folio opened upon the table, and tried to cheat himself with the assurance that he was deep in philosophy. Ephraim's eyes wandered about the page, but his brain and heart were at Haunch Lodge. There, by invitation of its jovial, hospitable owner, Squire Foxlove, at least a hundred of the townsfolk of Platterthorpe were assembled; there they ate and drank, and danced, and played at blind-man's-buff, and huntthe-slipper but Ephraim Rue was not of the party. Up to the last moment, he had the liveliest hopes of an invitation. People scarcely acknowledged by the courtesy of Ephraim-really common folks--had been honoured by the hospitality of the Squire; and it was not to be thought of that a respectable bachelor, reposing on the competence of ninety pounds a-year-a native, too, of Platterthorpe,-would be forgotten. And yet, by some mischance, so it was; and so, indeed, to the astonishment and mortification of Ephraim Rue, it ever happened.

Ephraim it was his conviction, his amiable bigotry-was made for society. Nevertheless, like an unlit taper, he had never yet shone in it. What a world of social virtues, in the belief of Ephraim, was in him unknown to the world! He could make punch, aye, even better than the vicar-yet was he never called upon to squeeze a lemon. He could, he was convinced of it, carve a capon with the graceful dexterity of the parish-surgeon,-yet was his table practice confined to solitary chops. He could sing a song, whether hunting, bacchanal, or amatory, with the vigour and melody of the whole church-choir, nevertheless-hapless Ephraim !-he never had other audience, than his own spiders and his own mice; which, however numerous, were, it must be conceded, not too discriminating. Certes, many of his hearers had a finer taste for ripe cheese than for a rich falsetto. And then for a game at whist, Ephraim would have been the delight of dowagers. Unfortunate Rue! his only chance at cards was a solitary game-his only excitement, to cheat himself at cribbage !