us in the spring, and quits us long before the severe weather sets in. While it remains with us, it flies about from tree to tree, and from wood to wood, and sends forth that cheerful voice which every body has heard with delight; and then it sets off for some other part of the world, to enjoy another spring, as the only season of the year suited to its tastes and habits. The poet refers to this when he says, in his pretty address to the cuckoo,—

"Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year."

It is only the male cuckoo, however, whose voice is here spoken of: the note of the female differs from it, is very feeble, and seldom heard.

Most people know that the cuckoo does not build any nest, and does not hatch its own eggs, or rear its own young. She fixes on the nest of the titlark, or the water-wagtail, or some other small bird, but chiefly on that of the hedge-sparrow; and, in their absence, she lays her egg-for she seldom or never lays more than one egg in the same nest. No sooner have the eggs been hatched, than the young cuckoo contrives to turn out the other young ones, and thus becomes the sole object of its nurse's care. A person saw it perform that work, and describes it in this manner :

The little cuckoo, with its rump and wings, got the young sparrow (the last one of the brood) on its back, and making a lodgement for its burden by raising its elbows, climbed backwards with it up the side of the nest, till it reached the top, where, resting for a moment, it threw off its load with a jerk, and set the sparrow quite over the nest. After stopping a little, and feeling about with the extreme part of its wings, as if to convince itself that the thing was done, it dropped again into the nest.

It deserves notice, that though the body of the cuckoo is many times larger than that of the sparrow, its egg is fully smaller. In this there is a wise design; for if the egg of the cuckoo were to be as large as it is common for birds of that size to produce, it must be laid in the nest of a large bird, and then the young cuckoo would not have the same chance of living, by freeing itself from the presence of the other young birds, which would be as strong as itself, or perhaps stronger. But while the smallness of the egg renders it easy for the sparrow to hatch it, the young cuckoo, being more powerful than the young sparrows, can, with perfect ease, throw them out of the nest, and secure from their parents all the care and nurture which it requires.

The growth of the young cuckoo is very rapid. It has a plaintive chirp, which is not learned from its foster parent; and it never acquires the note of a full-grown bird during

its stay in this country. It shows a fierce temper long before it leaves the nest. When any thing provokes it, it assumes the manner of a bird of prey, and pecks with great fury at any object we present to it, often making a chuckling noise, like a young hawk. When fledged, it follows the sparrow, or other bird that has reared it, for a very little time: being unlike them in its instincts and habits, it soon deserts them, and follows its own course. All the smaller birds seem to regard the cuckoo as a foe; and they are hostile to it in their turn. They pursue it wherever it flies, and often oblige it to take shelter in the thickest branches of the tree, to which it retreats for safety. The Jewish law made the cuckoo an unclean bird, and forbade the people to eat it.-THOMSON'S LESSONS.

IV. The Coat and Buttons.

Is'sue, to come out; to send | Ma-chine' (sheen), any

forth.

In-an'i-mate, lifeless.
Rec-ol-lect', to remember.
In-ter-rupt', to stop; to
hinder.

complicated instrument; an engine.

Re-sume', to take back; to

begin again.

E-nor'mous, very large.

Del'i-cate-ly, nicely; po- | En-ter-tain', to amuse; to

EDWARD had one day been reading a fairy tale, in which not only beasts and birds, but inanimate things, flowers in the garden, and

tea-cups on the table, were made to speak and give an account of themselves. "I think it would be very funny to hear my coat speak," said Edward; and a few moments afterwards a soft voice issued from the bosom of his coat, and spoke as follows:

"I recollect once growing on the back of a sheep." Edward could not help starting back with surprise; however, he interrupted him, saying, "I am afraid, Mr. Coat, you do not know what you are talking about; for coats do not grow, nor do sheep wear coats." "I was only wool when I grew on the sheep," replied the voice; "and a very pleasant life we led together, spending all the day in the green fields, and resting at night on the grass. Sometimes, indeed, the sheep rubbed himself so roughly against the trees and shrubs, that I was afraid of being torn off; and sometimes the birds came and pecked off a few flakes of the wool to line their nests, and make them soft and warm for their young; but they took so little that I could easily spare it. We had long led this quiet life, when one day there was a great alarm. The shepherd and his dog drove all the sheep into a fold, and then took them out one by one, and washed them in a stream of water which ran close by. The sheep on which I grew was sadly frightened when his turn came; and, for my part, I could not imagine what they were going to

do with me, they rubbed and scrubbed me so much; but when it was over, I looked so delicately white, that I was quite vain of my beauty, and I thought we were now to return and frisk and gambol in the meadow as we had done before. But, alas, the sheep and I were going to be parted for ever! Instead of setting the sheep at liberty, the shepherd took out a large pair of shears. Only imagine our terror! the poor sheep, I believe, thought his head was going to be cut off, and began to bleat most piteously; but the shepherd, without attending to his cries, held him down, and began cutting me off close to his skin. When the

sheep found that the shears did not hurt him, he remained quiet; it was then my turn to be frightened. It is true that the shears did not hurt me either, because I could not feel; but then I could not bear the thoughts of being parted from my dear friend, the sheep; for we had grown up together ever since he had been a little lamb. As soon as the sheep was released, he went about shivering with cold, bleating and moaning for the loss of his beloved fleece. As for me, I was packed in a bag with a great many other fleeces, and sent to some mills, where there were a great number of strange little things that were for ever twisting and turning round. They seized hold of us, and pulled us, and twisted us about in such a wonderful manner, that at last we were