The following are the notes of a bantam,

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which essentially differ from those of the game-cock; probably the same species would be found to have the same notes. The gallant chanticleer has, at his command, his amorous phrases, and his terms of defiance, as well as his song. By his crowing 'he has been distinguished in every age as the countryman's clock and 'larum; as the watchman 'that proclaims the divisions of the night.'

When Buonaparte returned from Elba, the crowing of the cocks was taken as a certain omen of his regaining the throne; and such was the enthusiasm of the French people, that they confidently believed, and declared they heard every cock distinctly shout

would stop, and Orpheus would drop his lute to listen-so sweet, so novel, and romantic, is the toll of the pretty snow-white campanero.

That great observer, the Rev. Mr. White of Selborne, informs us, that a chicken of four or five days' old, if held up to a window, where there are flies, will immediately seize its prey, with little twitterings of complacency; but if you tender it a wasp, at once its note becomes harsh, and expressive of disapprobation, and a sense of danger.

which exclamation had the effect of rousing the nation from one end to the other.

Who has not noticed the gallantry of this noble bird in the midst of his mates? With what a soft and courteous tone he invites his party to the feast, presenting to each a favorite grain, with a politeness that would do honor to man! Animals so gifted are not only endowed with mind, but probably enjoy all the pleasures of conversation and society. If we turn to the Minuetto in the Second Quartett of Mozart, we find he has transferred the language of this chatty brood, with great skill, into that beautiful composition.

'No sooner has a hen laid, than she rushes forth 'with a clamorous joy, which the whole brood 'adopt

'The tumult is not confined to the family concerned, 'but catches, from yard to yard, and spreads to every home-stead within hearing, till at last the 'whole village is in an uproar.'

Haydn has adopted this riotous passage as the Finale to his Twentieth Quartetto.

The cluck, cluck of the hen, which she repeats, at distant intervals, to her chickens,* serves to keep

* Dr. Clarke, in describing the Egyptian mode of hatching eggs in ovens, mentions, that on the eighteenth day, an Arab enters the ovens, stooping, and treading upon stones, so placed that he may walk among

her straggling brood about her, and within hearing; but the moment she changes this into a sort of chattering cry, it is understood by her young ones as a call to partake of what she has found. Rossini has adopted many of these cackling passages in his operas, and to keep the resemblance as close as possible, he has given them to the oboes and clarionets. Beethoven has also listened to these exclamations, as the subject of the following scherzo,

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in his Third Sinfonia, is obviously derived from these barn-door conversations.

The next vocalist that claims our attention is the cuckoo, without whose song we scarce can call it spring. The plough-boy bids him welcome in the early morn. Borne by fragrant gales, he leaves his distant home, for our sunny spots-the coppice and the mead. Children mark his well-known song, crying

the eggs, clucking like a hen, and continues this curious mimickry till

the whole are hatched.

O how sweet 'tis, in the spring,

To hear the welcome cuckoo sing.*

This noted bird is a foreign musician, and, like many others, remarkable for his cunning, as well as his song. They lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, which are no sooner hatched and fed, than the young cuckoo, with lawless strength, bundles out his brother nestlings, and takes complete possession. Thus obtaining bed and board at others' cost, he stays and sings; and having passed the summer with us, bids John Bull adieu, and goes abroad.

Parrots, like cuckoos, form their notes deep in the throat, and show great aptitude in imitating the human voice. A most remarkable instance I met with at Mr. Braham's villa in Brompton. A lady, who had great admiration for his talents, presented

The song of the cuckoo I have invariably found in Leicestershire to be in the key of D. If the cuckoos in other countries should be found to accord with this curious fact, as nature is pretty much the same, we may take these notes as a standard of pitch. White of Selborne observes, I have tried all the owls in this neighborhood with a 'pitch-pipe, and found them to hoot in B flat, and the cuckoos to sing "in the key of D.' Although we have a standard of weights and measures, we are yet without a standard of pitch, in consequence of which we seldom find two instruments alike. The pitch has long been known to be rising through the two last centuries, which is alluded to in the Chapter upon Bells. It is obviously higher in England than most other countries. The organs abroad are nearly a note below our Opera pitch, and some of the modern wind instruments half a note above concert pitch. When determined, the standard of the notes C and A might properly be lodged in the Royal Academy of Music, from which all key-forks should only be allowed to proceed.

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him with a parrot, on which she had bestowed pains in teaching it to talk. After dinner, during a pause in the conversation, I was startled by a voice from one corner of the room calling out, in a strong hearty manner, 'Come, Braham, give us a song!' Nothing could exceed the surprise and admiration of the company. The request being repeated, and not answered, the parrot struck up the first verse of God save the King,' in a clear, warbling tone, aiming at the style of the singer, and sang it through. The ease with which this bird was taught, was equally surprising with the performance. The same lady prepared him to accost Catalani, when dining with Mr. Braham, which so alarmed Madame, that she nearly fell from her chair. Upon his commencing Rule Britannia,' in a loud and intrepid tone, the chantress fell on her knees before the bird, exclaiming, in terms of delight, her admiration of its talents.

This parrot has only been exceeded by Lord Kelley's, who, upon being asked to sing, replied-'I never sing on a Sunday.' 'Never mind that, Poll, 'come give us a song.' 'No, excuse me, I've got a 'cold-don't you hear how hoarse I am?' This extraordinary creature performed the three verses entire of God save the King,' words and music, without hesitation, from the beginning to the end.

The call of the owl is simply the reiteration of one note; Dr. Arne has copied it in Shakspeare's song in the Tempest :