BIRDS. BY LYDIA MARIA CHILD, There is nothing which makes me feel the imprisonment of a city, like the absence of birds. Blessings on the little warblers! Lovely types are they of all winged and graceful thoughts. Dr. Follen used to say, I feel dependent for a vigorous and hopeful spirit on now and then a kind word, the loud laugh of a child, or the silent greeting of a flower.' Fully do I sympathize with this utterance of his gentle and loving spirit; but more than the benediction of the flower, more perhaps than even the mirth of childhood, is the clear, joyous note of the bird a refreshment to my soul. The birds the birds of summer hours, In their swift and airy flight, Come pealing through the air, quivered, as she exclaimed, And would you be a slave,' said he, if you could live in a great house, and be fed on frosted cake?' After a moment's thought, the child began to say half reluctantly, Would he be happier, if I opened the door of his cage?' He would be free!' was the emphatic reply. Without another word, she took the cage to the open window, and a moment after, she saw her prisoner playing with the humming-birds among the honey-suckles. One of the most remarkable cases of instinctive knowledge in birds was often related by my grandfather, who witnessed the fact with his own eyes. He was attracted to the door, one summer day, by a troubled twittering, indicating distress and terror. A bird, who had built her nest in a tree near the door, was flying back and forth with the utmost speed, uttering wailing cries as she went. He was at first at a loss to account for her strange movements; but they were soon explained by the sight of a snake slowly winding up the tree. Animal magnetism was then unheard of; and whosoever had dared to mention it, would doubtless have been hung on Witch's Hill, without benefit of clergy. Nevertheless, marvellous and altogether unaccountable stories had been told of the snake's power to charm birds. The popular belief was that the serpent charmed the bird by looking steadily at it; and that such a sympathy was thereby established, that if the snake was struck, the bird felt the blow, and writhed under it. But alas! like the free voices of fresh youth, they come not on the city air. Thus should it be; where mammon imprisons all thoughts and feelings that would fly upward, their winged types should be in cages too. Walk down Mulberry-street, and you may see, in one small room, hundreds of little feathered songsters, each hopping about restlessly in his gilded and garlanded cage, like a dyspeptic merThese traditions excited my grandfather's curiosichant in his marble mansion. I always turn my humane man, he resolved to kill the snake before he ty to watch the progress of things; but, being a head away when I pass; for the sight of the little had a chance to despoil the nest. The distressed captives goes through my heart like an arrow. The darling little creatures have such visible delight in and troubled cries; and he soon discovered that she mother meanwhile continued her rapid movements freedom; In the joyous song they sing; I seldom see a bird encaged, without being reminded While Petion administered the government of the island, some distinguished foreigner sent his little daughter a beautiful bird, in a very handsome cage. The child was delighted, and with great exultation exhibited the present to her father. It is indeed very beautiful, my daughter,' said he; but it makes my heart ache to look at it. hope you will never show it to me again.' With great astonishment, she inquired his reasons. He replied, When this island was called St. Domingo, we were all slaves. It makes me think of it to look at that bird; for he is a slave.' I went and came continually, with something in her bill, from one particular tree-a white ash. The snake wound his way up; but the instant his head came near the nest, his folds relaxed, and he fell to the ground rigid, and apparently lifeless. My grandfather made sure of his death by cutting off his head, and then mounted the tree to examine into the mystery. The snug little nest was filled with eggs, and covered with leaves of the white ash! The little bird knew, if my readers do not, that contact with the white ash is deadly to a snake. This is no idle superstition, but a veritable fact in natural history. The Indians are aware of it, and twist garlands of white ash leaves about their ankles, as a protection against rattlesnakes. Slaves often take the same precaution when they travel through swamps and forests, guided by the north star; or to the cabin of some poor white man, who teaches them to read and write by the light of pine splinters, The little girl's eyes filled with tears, and her lips and receives his pay in massa's' corn or tobacco. The father-bird scarcely ever left the side of the nest. There he was, all day long, twittering in tones that were most obviously the outpourings of love. Sometimes he would bring in a straw, or a hair, to be interwoven in the precious little fabric. One day my attention was arrested by a very unusu I have never heard any explanation of the effect produced by the white ash; but I know that settlers in the wilderness like to have these trees round their log houses, being convinced that no snake will voluntarily come near them. When touched with the boughs, they are said to grow suddenly rigid, with strong convulsions; after a while they slowly real twittering, and I saw him circling round with a cover, but seem sickly for some time. large downy feather in his bill. He bent over the The following well authenticated anecdote has unfinished nest, and offered it to his mate with the something wonderfully human about it: most graceful and loving air imaginable; and when she put up her mouth to take it, he poured forth such a gush of gladsome sound! It seemed as if pride and affection had swelled his heart, till it was almost too big for his little bosom. The whole transaction was the prettiest piece of fond coquetry, on both sides, that it was ever my good luck to witness. A parrot had been caught young, and trained by a Spanish lady, who sold it to an English sea-captain. For a time the bird seemed sad among the fogs of England, where birds and men all spoke to her in a foreign tongue. By degrees, however, she learned the language, forgot her Spanish phrases, and seemed to feel at home. Years passed on, and found Pretty Poll the pet of the captain's family. At last It was evident that the father-bird had formed her brilliant feathers began to turn grey with age; correct opinions on the woman question;' for durshe could take no food but soft pulp, and had not ing the process of incubation he volunteered to perstrength enough to mount her perch. But no one form his share of household duty. Three or four had the heart to kill the old favourite, she was times a day would he, with coaxing twitterings, perentwined with so many pleasant household recol-suade his patient mate to fly abroad for food; and lections. She had been some time in this feeble the moment she left the eggs, he would take the condition, when a Spanish gentleman called one day maternal station, and give a loud alarm whenever to see her master. It was the first time she had cat or dog came about the premises. He certainly heard the language for many years. It probably performed the office with far less ease and grace brought back to memory the scenes of her youth in than she did; it was something in the style of an that beautiful region of vines and sunshine. She old bachelor tending a babe; but nevertheless it spread forth her wings with a wild scream of joy, showed that his heart was kind, and his principles rapidly ran over the Spanish phrases, which she had correct, concerning division of labour. When the not uttered for years, and fell down dead. young ones came forth, he pursued the same equalizing policy, and brought at least half the food for his greedy little family. There is something strangely like reason in this. Itm akes one want to know whence comes the bird's soul, and whither goes it. But when they became old enough to fly, the their manœuvres ! Such chirping and twittering! Such diving down from the nest, and flying up again! Such wheeling round in circles, talking to the young ones all the while! Such clinging to the sides of the shed with their sharp claws, to show the timid little fledgelings that there was no need of falling! There are different theories on the subject of in-veriest misanthrope would have laughed to watch stinct. Some consider it a special revelation to each creature; others believe it is founded on traditions handed down among animals, from generation to generation, and is therefore a matter of education. My own observation, two years ago, tends to confirm the latter theory. Two barn-swallows came into our wood-shed in the spring time. Their busy, earnest twitterings led me at once to suspect that they were looking out a building-spot; but as a carpenter's bench was under the window, and frequent hammering, sawing, and planing were going on, I had little hope they would choose a location under our roof. To my surprise, however, they soon began to build in the crotch of a beam, over the open door-way. I was delighted, and spent more time in watching them, than penny-wise' people would have approved. It was, in fact, a beautiful little drama of domestic love. The mother bird was so busy, and so important; and her mate was so attentive! Never did any newly-married couple take more satisfaction with their first nicely-arranged drawer of babyclothes, than these did in fashioning their little woven cradle. For three days all this was carried on with increasing activity. It was obviously an infant flying school. But all their talking and fussing was of no avail. The little downy things looked down, and then looked up, and, alarmed at the infinity of space, sunk down into the nest again. At length the parents grew impatient, and summoned their neighbours. As I was picking up chips one day, I found my head encircled with a swarm of swallows. They flew up to the nest, and chatted away to the young ones; they clung to the walls, looking back to tell how the thing was done; they dived, and wheeled, and balanced, and floated, in a manner perfectly beautiful to behold. The pupils were evidently much excited. They jumped up on the edge of the nest, and twittered, and shook their feathers, and waved their wings; and then hopped back again, saying, 'It's pretty | garlands; receiving presents at every door, where sport, but we can't do it.' Three times their neighbours came in and repeated their graceful lessons. The third time, two of the young birds gave a sudden plunge downward, and then fluttered and hopped, till they alighted on a small upright log. And oh, such praises as were warbled by the whole troop! The air was filled with their joy! Some were flying round, swift as a ray of light; others were perched on the hoehandle, and the teeth of the rake; multitudes clung to the wall, after the fashion of their pretty kind; and two were swinging, in most graceful style, on a pendant hoop. Never, while memory lasts, shall I forget that swallow party! I have frolicked with blessed Nature much and often; but this, above all her gambols, spoke into my inmost heart, like the glad voices of little children. That beautiful family continued to be our playmates, until the falling leaves gave token of approaching winter. For some time, the little ones came home regularly to their nest at night. I was ever on the watch to welcome them, and count that none were missing. A sculptor might have taken a lesson in his art, from those little creatures perched so gracefully on the edge of their clay-built cradle, fast asleep, with heads hidden under their folded wings. Their familiarity was wonderful. If I hung my gown on a nail, I found a little swallow perched on the sleeve. If I took a nap in the afternoon, my waking eyes were greeted by a swallow on the bed-post; in the summer twilight, they flew about the sitting room in search of flies, and sometimes lighted on chairs and tables. I almost thought they knew how much I loved them. But at last they flew away to more genial skies, with a whole troop of relations and neighbours. It was a deep pain to me, that I should never know them from other swallows, and that they would have no recollection of me. We had lived so friendly together, that I wanted to meet them in another world, if I could not in this; and I wept, as a child weeps at its first grief. There was somewhat, too, in their beautiful life of loving freedom which was a reproach to me. Why was not my life as happy and as graceful as theirs? Because they were innocent, confiding, and unconscious, they fulfilled all the laws of their being without obstruction. Inward, inward to thy heart, Kindly Nature, take me; Lovely, even as thou art, Full of loving make me. Thou knowest nought of dead-cold forms, Knowest nought of littleness; Lifeful truth thy being warms, Majesty and earnestness.' The old Greeks observed a beautiful festival, called The Welcome of the Swallows.' When these social birds first returned in the spring-time, the children went about in procession, with music and they stopped to sing a welcome to the swallows, in that graceful old language, so melodious even in its ruins, that the listener feels as if the brilliant azure of Grecian skies, the breezy motion of their olive groves, and the gush of their silvery fountains, had all passed into a monument of liquid and harmonious sounds. LUCY. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Three years she grew in sun and shower, On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take; Myself will to my darling be In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the fawn The floating clouds their state shall lend Even in the motions of the Storm The stars of midnight shall be dear Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake-The work was done How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, IN SADNESS. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. There is not in this life of ours One bliss unmixed with fears; The hope that wakes our deepest powers A face of sadness wears, And the dew that showers our dearest flowers Is the bitter dew of tears. Fame waiteth long, and lingereth Through weary nights and morns, And evermore the shadow Death With mocking finger scorns That underneath the laurel-wreath Should be a wreath of thorns. The laurel-leaves are cool and green, But the thorns are hot and sharp; Lean Hunger grins and stares between The poet and his harp, Though Fame be slow, yet Death is swift, Life after life doth change and shift With larger destinies : As on we drift, some wider rift Shows us serener skies. And, though naught falleth to us here Yet all, though ne'er Christ's faith they wear, SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. HY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. She was a Phantom of Delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been, To be a moment's ornament; Grim Want thrusts in the warp. And if, beyond this darksome clime, That keeps unjarred the blissful chime Of its golden infancy, Where the harvest-time of faith sublime Not always is to be ;— Yet would the true soul rather choose Its life's supremest bliss,- The want, the sorrow, and the pain, That makes us fain strong hearts to gain High natures must be thunder scarred With many a searing wrong; From mother Sorrow's breasts the bar. Sucks gifts of deepest song; Nor all unmarred with struggles hard Wax the soul's sinews strong. Dear Patience, too, is born of woe, Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; From May-time's brightest, liveliest dawn; I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet And now I see with eye serene A Traveller between life and death; Who knows that truth is strong next to the Almighty; she needs no policies, no stratagems, no licensings, to make her victorious! Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so truth be in the field, we injure her to misdoubt her strength! Let truth and falsehood grapple; who ever knew truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter ?-MILTON. VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED. No. 14. THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. I saw an aged Beggar in my walk; And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, Him from my childhood have I known; and then So helpless in appearance, that for him He travels on, a solitary man; His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turned, and as he moves along, Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, But deem not this man useless.-Statesmen ye Else unremembered, and so keeps alive The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, And that half-wisdom half experience gives, Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign |