is one of the commonest of all the British species, needs no description. It is seen and heard everywhere, and all the year through, although less in the summer than the winter, because, during the leafy season, it remains very much in the woodlands, and only comes to man for food and shelter when its natural supply begins to fail, and the naked boughs afford no covering. Then is realised the picture drawn by Wordsworth :

The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless woods and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half afraid, he first
Against the window beats, then brisk alights
On the warm hearth, and hopping o'er the floor
Eyes all the smiling family askance,

And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is,
Till, more familiar grown, the table crumbs
Attract his slender feet.

But we are beginning where we ought to leave off. Our little friend has a world of cares to go through, and a busy active life to lead, for several months before he is driven from his woodland haunts to seek the company of

man,

By chill blasts sweeping through the forests bare,
And gathering mists, and clouds that hide the sun,
And dull and dreary prospects everywhere,

Telling the reign of winter hath begun.

Let us first, then, look at Bobby in his vernal aspect. Pert and busy and cheerful is he at all times, but never so much so as in early spring, when 'love swells his breast and animates his strain,' and a forecast of coming family cares and duties adds to his sense of importance, which is always sufficiently great. Gloomy it is, and cold and bleak, in the middle, it may be, of the reign of stormy March, when Robinet, having found a mate, begins with her the task of constructing a habitation: hither and thither the little birds flit in search of materials, the cock ever and anon pausing upon some yet-naked spray to warble his love-strain; sweet it is and mellow, although not loud and varied as that of many other feathered songsters. Now he flies to the ground, hops a little way, then stands with his head on one side, then starts forward and picks up a piece of moss, or a feather, or something suitable for the nest he and his partner are intent on making; for her ear his song is intended, as is the lively chirp of encouragement which he ever and anon emits. Soon the nest is formed in the hollow of a bank, under a hedge or bush, or a small tuft of herbage. It is rather loosely made, of moss and decayed leaves, and blades of grass at the bottom; the middle layer is of finer grasses, leaves, and moss; and the lining is of hair and wool, a quarter of an inch or so thick. In this are deposited five or six reddish white eggs, freckled with light purplish red very sparsely at the small, but thickly at the larger end; they are five or six in number, and average about three-quarters of an inch in length.

An English naturalist of the sixteenth century, named

A MARVELLOUS BUILDER.

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Turner, has given an extraordinary account of this lively little builder's mode of proceeding on such occasions. He says that The Robinet, which hath a red breast, both in summer and winter nestleth as far as possible from towns and cities, in the thickest copses and orchards, after this manner. When she hath found many oak leaves, she constructeth a nest, and when built, covereth it in with archwork, leaving only one way for entrance, for which purpose she buildeth with leaves a long porch before the doorway, the which when going out to feed she covereth up with leaves.' And then, as if there might be some doubt of the accuracy of this statement, he adds:-These things which I now write, I observed when a boy, though I do not deny that she may indificate otherwise; and if any one curious in such matters hath observed her build differently, it will be a gratification to me to learn the same; I have related candidly that which I have seen.' And certainly a marvellous thing it was; quite a phenomenon. If the Robin built in that way two centuries ago, she or he has quite forgotten the art now. We never find that she makes a domed nest, or builds a porch to the entrance. She certainly does 'indificate' (nidificate we should say) otherwise now, and sometimes chooses strange places for building and rearing her young, often where we should least expect to find them. Although it is generally away in the copse, or hedge, or greenwood wild, yet, as Mant says,

No less the Redbreast makes his bower
For nestling in the vernal hour,
In thatch, or root of aged tree,
Moss-grown, or arching cavity
Of bank, or garden's refuse heap,
Or where the broad-leaved tendrils creep
Of ivy, and an arbour spread
O'er trellised porch or cottage-shed.
So, as we pass the homestead round,
At every change of place the sound
Of Robin's voice salutes the ear,
Carolling to his partner near;
And with sure gaze the observant eye
May Robin's hidden home descry.

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NOT EASILY SCARED.

We have asserted that this bird selects at times singular localities for its nest; let us adduce an instance or two. Jesse relates in his Gleanings,' that William the Fourth, when residing in Bushy Park, had a part of the foremast of the Victory, against which Lord Nelson was standing when he received his fatal death-wound, deposited in a small temple in the grounds of Bushy House, from which it was afterwards removed to the upper end of the diningroom, with a bust of Nelson upon it. A large shot had completely passed through this part of the mast, and while it was in the temple, a pair of Robins had built their nest in the shot-hole, and reared a brood of young ones. was impossible to witness this little occurrence without reflecting on the scene of blood and strife of war which had occurred to produce so snug and peaceable a retreat for a nest of harmless Robins.

It

During the completion of the Crystal Palace at Sydenham, in 1854, several Robins lived in the interior of the building, and made their nests in the holes of the large roots which were employed in the formation of the banks at the south end, notwithstanding the constant passing and repassing of the workmen, and the almost deafening noise which was continually going on.

One pair, we are told, chose a small cottage in which potatoes were kept, and which closely adjoined a blacksmith's shop, and despite the noise of the forge, and the frequent visits of the owners, they built their nest in a child's covered cart which hung against the wall over the fireplace. Much curiosity was excited by the circumstance, and the birds had many visitors, which did not seem to alarm them. They raised their first brood, and made a new nest on a shelf on the opposite wall of the room, close to a mouse-trap; here they sat in state, and again held a sort of levee with the most perfect unconcern. The second brood dismissed, they set about building a third nest, on another shelf in a different corner of the same room, 'and there,' says the narrator, a correspondent of the 'Field Naturalist's Magazine,' 'on their mossy bed, on a bundle of papers, on the 21st of June, were four half-fledged nestlings, which the hen was feeding, while a party was watch

ing the proceedings, and the cock bird contenting himself with looking on from the outside.'

Wood observes that 'This bird is by no means easily disturbed in its nest, and especially when thus built in holes of walls, it will allow itself to be handled without deserting. On one occasion especially, I remember to have caught a female on her nest, six times in a single day, and I even went so far as to cage her for a few minutes, and yet she hatched her eggs successfully. My friend Dr. Liverpool informs me that he has known this bird to sit so close, as to allow herself to be removed with her nest and eggs into a cage, where she continued sitting until she died from starvation. From this Dr. L. infers she had been accustomed to be supplied with food on the nest by the

male.'

During the summer the food of the Redbreast consists almost entirely of worms, larvæ, and insects; and this, according to Macgillivray, is how he forages :- There he stands under the hedge as if listening or surveying the neighbourhood, his body inclined, his wings drooping, his head a little raised and his full and humid eye beaming with a mild lustre. Now he starts, hops forward a short way, and picks up something which he has espied, resumes his former attitude, observes a worm, partially protruded and wriggling among the grass, attacks it, and wrenches off a goodly piece, which he divides into morsels and swallows. And thus he goes on all day, taking matters quite coolly, seldom appearing in a hurry, but gleaning the small dainties which the bounteous hand of Providence has spread around for his use. When disturbed, he flies into the hedge, or perches on the wall, where he stands for a while, and then perhaps amuses himself with a sweet little song. Although simple, and composed of few notes, this melody varies considerably at different times and seasons.'

In 1843 there was to be seen, said a local paper, in the house of Mr. Brook, surgeon, at Stansted, in Essex, a Robin's nest built between the candlestick on the mantelpiece and the kitchen fire-place; it had four eggs, on which the old bird was sitting. Whether she hatched her brood and reared them in this singular place, we did not learn.