chaffinch, the blackbird, the golden-crested wren, and the yellow-hammer. The ring-doves begin to coo to each other; and sometimes, though only on a very mild bright day, the skylark may be heard pouring out the first of his melodious strains. It is now that the rooks assemble in flocks and revisit their colony. The sable tenants of five hundred years, That on the high tops of yon ancient elms Did you ever observe the return of these birds to their rookery? If not, you can hardly imagine what a scene of animation and excitement it is! Many meetings are held, at which earnest consultations appear to take place. What clamour and squabbling on every side! What an endless screaming, cawing, wheeling aloft and then round and round the trees in rapid flight! All foreign intruders are, if possible, banished. At length matters are arranged, the rooks pair off, and at once set to work to repair their old nests or build new ones. Perhaps some members of the community are of a lazy turn, and, instead of gathering their own, prefer stealing the materials of their neighbours. It is said that all such pilferers, if detected, are tried in the presence of the whole assembly, and summarily expelled-serves them right-the idle rogues and vagabonds. March sees the nests of the rooks complete; and during this month the old birds fly off to the fields, where they follow the ploughshare, watching for the worms, grubs, and snails which it turns up. These they gobble up by thousands, and in this manner destroy much vermin, so that they may well be pardoned for the corn, or the cherries, they sometimes take it into their wise heads to devour. During this month, too, the lark may be often seen and heard gaily carolling in the deepblue sky. The robin's song is now more lively, as he is looking out for his mate; the plaintive coo, coo, of the ring-dove to his partner is heard more frequently; the blackbird's lay is louder and stronger, and the thrush, after some few attempts, bursts into song. A merry blithe old boy is he; You may hear him on the roadside bush, On the topmost twig of the mountain tree. In April, the woods, fields, and hedge-rows are all alive with birds intent on important business. Each one has chosen its mate, and nest-building has begun and is being carried on in downright earnest. All our winter visitants have gone northward; while numbers of our well-remembered feathered friends now return from the warmer climes where they have been sojourning during our cold season. The different species of swallows are with us again, enlivening the air with their rapid flight and their twitterings. At first you see a single swallow, or perhaps two, skimming past you; but soon after they arrive in vast numbers. The swallow, bonny birdie, comes sharp twittering o'er the sea, She hunts the summer o'er the earth with wearied little wing. The lambs like snow all nibbling go upon the ferny hills; Light winds are in the leafy woods, and birds, and bubbling rills; Then welcome, little swallow, by our morning lattice heard; Because thou com'st when Nature bids bright days be thy reward! These birds have often a house to return to; for if they find their old nest not destroyed, they soon put it to rights, and do not build a new one. In this manner a pair of martins have been known to return to and use the same nest for several successive years. PART II. NEST-BUILDING. Ir is very interesting to study the nest-building of the different kinds of birds; and we may watch and note our feathered favourites engaged in their work, without in any way disturbing or injuring them. M L The poet Thomson writes thus of the building of birds : : Some to the holly-hedge Nestling repair, and to the thicket some; Their food its insects, and its moss their nests. Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave. As soon as the regular number of eggs are laid, the hen sits on them, often cheered by the loving song of her mate, till they are hatched. Now What melting sentiments of kindly care, The most delicious morsel to their young; The search begins. Various as are the sites chosen by birds for their habitations, equally great is the difference displayed amongst them in the form of their nests, and in the choice of materials with which to build. Some, like the wren, will not tolerate being interfered with, but will cease building, and seek another situation; while others, like the robin, are quite indifferent, even continuing their building, although surrounded by noisy occupations, and in sight of everyone. We all know what a careless fellow the common sparrow is! What odd places he chooses for his nest, in the construction of which he rarely takes much pains. Mary Howitt thus describes a sparrow's dwelling that had been blown out of an old elm tree : What a medley thing it is! I never saw a nest like this,- There is a scrap of red and brown, See, hair of dog, and fur of cat, And shreds of silk, and many a feather, But if we cannot say much in praise of the structure of such nests as the sparrow, the wood-pigeon, and the rook build and are satisfied with, there are numbers of other birds whose homes are most exquisitely and beautifully formed. Look, for example, how compact and elegant are those of the chaffinch and goldfinch! Did you ever see one? If so, you will fully agree with the lines of Hurdis It wins my admiration To view the structure of that little work A bird's nest. Mark it well within, without: No glue to join; her little beak was all. And yet how nicely finish'd! What nice hand, The chaffinch, goldfinch, and several others, often build in enclosed grounds, and have a particular fancy for making a dwelling-place on the fruit-trees in orchards. The blackbird dearly loves a thick hawthorn hedge by the side of a stream, or a bank covered with last year's withered grass. The thrush frequently chooses a plantation, and there makes a deep basinshaped nest of small twigs, withered grass, leaves, and moss, lined with clay, which is put in wet, and dried by the heat of her own body. The following is the poet Clare's description of a thrush's nest : Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, No one ever wrote about the dwellings of these little creatures better than John Clare, the peasant poet of Northamptonshire. What a delightful picture he gives us of the nest of another bird! Just by the wooden bridge a bird flew up, |