pours out his admirable song, which, amid the mul- THIS noble songster, the pride of the American | topmost branch of a tall bush or tree in the forest, forest, is peculiar to the New World. So greatly superior are its powers of melody to those of any European bird, that long after the discovery of the western continent, reports of its existence were treated as a mere fable, akin to the other unnatural marvels with which an excited imagination peopled our vast forests. And this skepticism will appear the more excusable when we remember that few persons, who have never heard the mocking-bird, have any sufficient conception of his powers of imitation, the sweetness of his melody, or the wildness of his native tones. When these are in full display, the forest resounds with a succession of notes, as though from every warbler of the grove, so that the listener, instead of believing that he hears only one bird, seems to be surrounded with myriads. Nor is this power confined to imitations of song. With the strains of the Thrush and Warbler, chime in the wail of the Whippoor-will, the crowing of the cock, and the loud scream of the eagle. The mewing of cats, the whistling of man, and the grating sounds of brute matter, form variations to this singular chorus, blended and linked together in so artful a manner as to surpass immeasurably every performance of the kind in the whole range of animated creation. "With the dawn of morning," says Nuttall, "while yet the sun lingers below the blushing horizon, our sublime songster in his native wilds, mounted on the Writers on Ornithology have sometimes amused themselves by comparing the powers of the Mockingbird with those of the Nightingale. Barrington, a distinguished British naturalist, who had heard the American bird, declares him to be equal to the Nightingale in every respect, but thinks the song spoiled by frequent mixture of disagreeable sounds. On this opinion Wilson has the following remarks: "If the Mocking-bird be fully equal to the song of the Nightingale, and, as I can with confidence add, not only to that, but to the song of almost every WILD BIRDS OF AMERICA. other bird, beside being capable of exactly imitating various other sounds and voices of animals, his vocal powers are unquestionably superior to those of the Nightingale, which possesses its own native notes alone. Further, if we consider, as is asserted by Mr. Barrington, that one reason of the Nightingale's being more attended to than others is, that it sings in the night; and if we believe, with Shakspeare, that The Nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than a Wren, what must we think of that bird who, in the glare of day, when a multitude of songsters are straining their throats in melody, overpowers all competition, and by the superiority of his voice, expression and action, not only attracts every ear, but frequently strikes dumb his mortified rivals, when the silence of night, as well as the bustle of the day, bear witness to his melody; and whenever in captivity, in a foreign country, he is declared, by the best judges in that country, to be fully equal to the song of their sweetest bird in its whole compass? The supposed degradation of his song by the introduction of extraneous sounds and unexpected imitations, is in fact one of the chief excellencies of this bird, as these changes give a perpetual novelty to the strain, keep attention constantly awake, and impress every hearer with a deeper interest in what is to follow. In short, if we believe in the truth of that mathematical axiom, that the whole is greater than a part, all that is excellent or delightful, amusing or striking, in the music of birds, must belong to that admirable songster, whose vocal powers are equal to the whole compass of their whole strains." Confinement does not seem to have much effect upon the Mocking-bird's song. In the cage it is a most agreeable pet, seeming to exert itself to give pleasure. Even at night, when all else is hushed to rest, it pours forth its magical notes, which ring along the solitary haunts of man with strange cadence, and as echoes of a more beautiful sphere. Its chief pleasure consists in deceiving the animals of the household. "He whistles for the dog," says the author quoted above, “Cæsar starts up, wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt chicken, and the hen hurries about with hanging wings and bristled feathers, clucking to protect her injured brood. The barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a passing wheelbarrow, follow with great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by his master, fully and faithfully." Those taken when wild are the best singers; when raised by hand they should be kept perfectly clean, 143 and at first fed regularly every half hour, on milk thickened with Indian meal. This should occasionally be mingled with cherries, strawberries, cedarberries, insects, especially spiders, and fine gravel. Meat, cut very fine, is also given. Attempts, partially successful, have been made to breed them in confinement. From The Mocking-bird is found in all our forests from the Great Lakes to Mexico. It was once abundant in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, but has been driven thence by the amateur sportsman. It delights, however, in a warm climate, and especially one like that of Carolina, low, and near the sea. the middle of April to the middle of May embraces the time of building, the season varying with the climate and nature of the spring. The nest is mostly placed upon a solitary thorn or cedar-bush, often close to the habitation of man, whose society this bird seems to court. The eggs are four or five in number, blue, with large brown spots. The female rears two broods in a season, during which time she is closely guarded, fed and enlivened by the male. The courage of these birds in defending their young is astonishing. During the period of incubation, neither cat, dog, animal nor man can approach the nest without being attacked. Their great enemy is the black-snake. When the male perceives this wily foe, he darts rapidly upon it, and to avoid its bite, strikes rapidly about the head and eyes, until the enemy, blinded and baffled, hastens to retreat. But his little antagonist pursues, redoubling his efforts until the snake is killed. Then joining his mate, the victor pours forth his loudest strains, seemingly in celebration of his good fortune. The Mocking-bird is nine and a half inches long, and thirteen broad. The upper parts of the head, neck and back are a brownish ash color. The wings and tail nearly black, tipped with white. The male is distinguished by having the whole nine primaries of the wings of a clear white, while but seven are of that color in the female, with whom also the color inclines to dun. The tail is cuneiform; the legs and feet strong and black; bill of the same color; the eye yellowish, inclining to golden. His plumage, like that of the nightingale, is sober and pleasing, and his figure neat, active and inspiriting. A bird, called by Nuttall, the Mountain Mockingbird, possesses considerable powers of imitation. It is found on the vast table-lands of Oregon and Mexico. It is smaller than its valuable relative, somewhat different in shape and color, and possesses much power and sweetness of tone. The eggs are emerald green. Little, however, is known of this bird. THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. BY CLARA. HERE, on the threshold of the year, we feel As ends the year, to us all time must end As time's knell soundeth, so our knell must tollOh may our lives so pass, that we may mend The BODY'S sorrows in the RISEN SOUL. THE LOST NOTES. BY MRS. HUGHS. "You could not have made your application at a more apropos time, my good fellow," said a pale, emaciated invalid, who was seated on an easy chair in his own chamber, addressing a fine, intelligentlooking young man near him; "I had exactly the sum you want paid to me very unexpectedly yesterday. I had the good fortune some years ago to assist a friend with a few hundred dollars, but though the money was serviceable at the time, he eventually became a bankrupt, and as I had only his note for the loan, I never expected to receive any thing from him. Yesterday, however, he came and put into my hand two bank notes of a thousand dollars each, which was the amount of my own money and the legal interest upon it. I am very happy to be able to accommodate you, though I am sorry at the same time to find you are under the necessity of borrowing." "It is a painful circumstance," replied the other, but happily it does not arise from any fault of my own." "I never imagined it did," returned the master of the house, "and consequently had no hesitation in promising to assist you. But pray, may I ask what has occasioned so painful a necessity?" "I came with the full intention of explaining it to you," said the young man, whom we will here introduce to our readers by the name of Norman Horton. "Do not leave the room, Lucy, I beg," he continued, addressing a lovely girl, who had hitherto sat sewing at a distant window, but who at this moment rose to quit the apartment. "I have nothing to say that I would not wish you to hear." "I am sure you have not," said Mr. Woodford, so sit still, Lucy dear." Then turning, as his daughter resumed her seat and her work, to Horton, he added, "My lease of life is so nearly expired that I am afraid to let my nurse leave me even for a few minutes, lest my warning to quit should come when she is away from me. The spasms to which I have for some time been subject have of late increased so much in violence, that I believe my physicians have little hope of my surviving another. But I am interfering with your explanation, which I am anxious to hear; for, though so nearly done with this world myself, I still retain my interest in the welfare of those I esteem. So go on, Norman, and let me hear what you were going to say." "You are aware," returned Horton, with an expression of countenance that proved the subject to be a painful one to him, "that my poor father frequently involved himself in difficulties. At one time he became so embarrassed that his farm was condemned by the court, and would have been sold by the sheriff, had not his friends, for my mother's sake, made great efforts in his favor. It is unnecessary for me to trouble you with all the particulars; suffice it to say, that the person who had intended to sell took a mortgage on the place, for two thousand dollars, still retaining the right which the court had given, of making a sale at any moment that he chose. This mortgage and privilege he last year transferred to old Hinkley, and he, though his interest has been regularly paid, and though he has never even asked for the principal, is, I find, about to seize upon and sell the property." "Is it possible? Are you sure of it? Have you heard it from himself?" "Yes; I went to him as soon as I had an intimation on the subject, and found him determined; nor could I prevail upon him to promise to give me any time to look about me, except on a condition, which he had before proposed to me, but which I cannot possibly comply with." "And what may that be?" asked the master of the house. "That I would consent to become his son-in-law," replied Norman, whilst his cheeks became tinged with a color not unworthy of a young girl. "Truly, I should suppose that would be no very unacceptable proposal," returned Mr. Woodford, with a smile. "Maria Hinckley is a very sweet, pretty girl, and is generally thought a very amiable one. Beside which, it is well known she will have a very handsome fortune." "That is all very true, and I admire Maria exceedingly; but, unfortunately, there is an insurmountable obstacle in the way." "You mean, I suppose, that you are not in love, whatever she may be." "I have no reason to imagine that she is any more in love with me than I am with her." "But may it not be worth while, my young friend," said Mr. Woodford, in a serious tone, "to consider whether this love which young people are so apt to think indispensable, is really so essential as they imagine. I am myself disposed to think that if there is care taken to choose a partner with amiable dispositions and correct principles, there would be as much real happiness found in the end, as if they allowed themselves to be wholly guided by the love that is proverbially blind." "But if the little god has happened to stumble in the way first," said Horton, laughing, "what is to be done then?" "Ah, true, that is another matter. I forgot at the time what was whispered about that pretty little Miss Shirley, who paid your mother so long a visit last summer. She was, indeed, a very fine girl, and as she and Lucy have been such great friends ever THE LOST since they became acquainted, I would advise you, if you are not quite sure of your ground, to bespeak the interest of your old school-fellow and playmate. What say you, Lucy? You would do your best to aid Norman's cause, would you not?" But Lucy, who had before been sewing at a wonderful rate, just at the moment her father appealed to her, happened to drop her needle, so that when he paused for a reply, she was too much occupied in searching the carpet to give it. "Let me assist you," said Horton, but before he reached the place where the needle had dropt, she had found it, and risen from her bending posture. "Why, my child, you have sent all the blood of your body into your face, by stooping to search for that foolish needle," said her father. And, indeed, the poor girl's face was a perfect scarlet, and the beautifully defined shades of white and red, which were amongst her striking beauties, were completely destroyed. "You havn't told us yet," continued the father, as Lucy made a slight effort to shake back the bright auburn tresses which seemed to try to curtain her face till it recovered its usual hue, "whether you will give Norman your vote and interest." "Oh, certainly, papa! Norman knows well enough it will always give me pleasure to be of service to him," said the young girl, but in consequence, perhaps, of the blood having been forced into her head, her voice had not its sweet silvery sound, but seemed husky and scarcely audible. "As soon as I have settled Hinckley's affair, I believe I shall be tempted to come and make a trial of your kindness," said the young man; "but as long as I am in his clutches, it would be inexcusable in me to try to involve any other person in my fortunes." "We will soon give him his quietus," returned Mr. Woodford; "Lucy, dear, where did I put those notes ?" "I don't know, papa, I never saw them. Indeed I didn't know you had received them till I heard you mention it just now." "That's strange! You are always with me, and know every thing I either do or say.” "But you know you sent me yesterday morning to see brother Henry, when sister sent word he was sick; and I suppose the gentleman came while I was away." "Ah, true, so he did; and where was I dear-what room was I in. Sickness has destroyed my memory so entirely that I cannot remember any thing." "I left you in the breakfast-room reading, and when I came back, you were in this room lying down." "Yes, I remember now, I felt what I thought were premonitory symptoms of spasms, and hastened to lie down. But no doubt I put the notes by first, though where I don't recollect. Go, dear, and look in my desk. You will probably find them in the large red pocket-book or in one of the little drawers, or-" who had now recovered her voice and natural color, and immediately left the room. "It seems a strange thing," said Mr. Woodford, turning to his companion, "that I should be so careless about such a sum of money; but the fact is, I had already set my house in order, as far as money matters are concerned, and was therefore almost sorry to have my mind called back to such a subject, from things of so much higher importance." "There is one thing, however, in the business," said Norman, "which cannot fail to be gratifying, and that is the proof your friend has given of his honorable feelings." "Yes, that gave me sincere pleasure; and, indeed, I don't pretend to say that the money itself was not very acceptable, for though we have had enough to live upon comfortably whilst all together, it will be but a small portion for each when divided amongst my large family." Lucy now returned to the room, but with a look of disappointment. The notes were no where to be found. Again and again she was sent on various errands of search, but all proved equally fruitless. "I should not wonder, after all," said the invalid, "if I merely put them into my pocket till you came home;" and as he spoke he began to draw one piece of paper out of his pockets after another—but the right ones were not there. "Papa," said Lucy, and the color almost forsook her cheeks, "you gave me some paper out of your pocket last night to light the lamp with." "And what sort of paper was it?" asked the father. "It was too dark for me to see it, but it felt soft and thin. "Was it single or double?" 'It was double; but I cannot tell whether it was in one or two pieces." "What did you do with the part that was not consumed? If the number is left, the money may still be obtained." "I threw it into the fire," replied Lucy, in a mournful tone. "Then I am afraid it is gone," said the father. "But keep up your spirits, Norman, I have promised my aid, and you shall have it, unless death overtake me before I have time to make the arrangement. I cannot think of letting one so deserving be trodden on by the foot of persecution." "For myself," returned Horton, "it would not be of much consequence to have to begin the world again, even with very limited means. I am young and healthy, and have had an education which has put many resources in my power. But my poor mother! It would go hard, indeed, at her age, and with her delicate health, to be turned away from the scene of all her early pleasures, and which is endeared to her by a thousand tender associations." "It must not be," said the invalid; "and I will see after the business as soon as I have taken a little rest; but at present I feel rather exhausted.” Horton then took leave, and Lucy, after assisting "I will look everywhere, papa," interrupted Lucy, her father to lie down, resumed her accustomed seat, and began to sew, her active mind keeping pace with her no less active fingers. With painful anxiety she dwelt on the state of her only surviving parent, and on the loneliness and destitution in which she would be left were he to be taken from her. It was true she had a brother older than herself, but she remembered with a sigh, how little either he or his wife were calculated to fill up the vacuum. The rest of the children were all younger than herself, and were consequently of an age rather to require protection than to render it. A sister of her father's had promised to remain with the younger branches of the family, but though a well-meaning woman, she was but a poor substitute for the parent that was about to be taken from her. Then her thoughts would turn to Norman Horton's embarrassments, and to the distress of his poor mother-and the tears of sympathy often filled her soft beautiful eyes, though they were as often dashed away, lest they should be observed by her father. Indeed, the gentle, selfdenying girl, had learnt to deprive herself, almost wholly, of the luxury of tears, from an anxiety to keep her parent's mind composed and tranquil. But nature would sometimes have its course, and on this day it was unusually imperative. "It would be strange if I did not feel for Mrs. Horton," she argued with herself, as if anxious to find an excuse for the tears which in spite of her utmost efforts would course each other down her cheeks. "It would be most ungrateful of me did I not do so, for ever since mother's death she has behaved to me with even maternal tenderness. It is true I have not seen much of her of late, but that is certainly not owing to any fault of hers." The truth is that since the visit of Miss Shirley to Mrs. Horton, Norman and Lucy had met much less frequently than formerly. That young lady had hinted to Lucy the probability of an engagement taking place between herself and Norman, and as he had since that time been a much less frequent visiter at Mr. Woodford's, Lucy concluded that the engagement had actually taken place. It was a subject which she had never ventured either to inquire into, or even to examine her own bosom upon, for though in the habit of scrutinizing her thoughts and feelings on all others, on this one she was a complete coward, and preferred remaining in ignorance to risking the result of an investigation. It was true that from what Norman had said that morning, it was evident no actual engagement yet existed, but as it was equally evident that it was a thing he desired, she was determined to use whatever influence she had in forwarding his wishes, though she at the same time felt ashamed of the strange sensations that the probability of being called upon to perform such an office, excited in her mind. She was, however, roused from these interesting though painful reveries by the voice of her father. On going to his bed-side she was exceedingly alarmed at the expression of his countenance, and the blueness round his mouth, which always preceded one of his severe attacks. "Go, Lucy," said he, in a feeble voice, "and look in the private drawer in my writing-desk. I had my desk open to write a receipt, and I may perhaps have put the notes in that drawer." "But, papa, you will be left alone," objected the daughter. "Send your aunt to me," returned the invalid, "and look well, for I am exceedingly anxious on poor Norman's account." Lucy did as desired, but with a faint and trembling heart; first, however, dispatching one of her brothers to summon the doctor, for there was a something about her father's look that seemed to say, they would soon be an orphan family. The writing-desk was diligently searched, and every paper it contained carefully examined, but in vain, and she was just turning the key to lock it again, when she was hastily called by her aunt, who said her father had made two or three attempts to speak, but she could not understand him. Lucy ran with all the speed of which she was capable to the bed-side of the invalid, but could scarcely restrain a scream of horror at sight of the frightful change that had taken place in the few minutes she had been absent. The blueness that she had before observed around his mouth had extended to his lips, and his whole face wore that expression that all who have attended the bed of death know as the indications of approaching dissolution. The moment she appeared he motioned to her to put her head close to his mouth, when he said, in a voice scarcely audible, "I know now, they are in the-" but the last word, though evidently spoken, could not be heard. "Never mind the notes, dear papa," cried Lucy, in an agony of distress, "only keep yourself composed and let them take their chance." But the dying man shook his head, and again attempted to speak. “Look in the—” but again the word died away, and though the anxious girl laid her ear close to the blue and stiffening lips, she was unable to catch a shadow of the sound which they emitted. After lying a few minutes as if to collect the small portion of strength yet remaining, the sufferer made another effort, and again Lucy put her ear to his now cold lips, and stretched every faculty to catch the sound, far more, however, for the sake of satisfying him, than on account of the money itself; but the word "in" was all she could distinguish. Distressed beyond measure at seeing his ineffectual efforts, she cried, "Don't attempt to speak, dear papa, but let me guess, and if I am right only make a motion of assent." She then guessed the breakfast-table drawer, the drawer in her own work-box, and a variety of similar places, but received no intimation in return. Whilst thus engaged the physican arrived, who, struck with the extreme stillness of his patient, endeavored to raise his head, but in so doing he found that life was already extinct, and the spirit which had made its last effort in an attempt to aid a fellow-creature, had burst its prison bars. We pass over the grief of the mourning family. Those who have never experienced such an affliction could have little idea of it from our description, and those who have already tasted the bitter cup, |