he arrived in safety, and astonished the feathered people with his captivity and

escape.

A great difference of opinion exists with regard to the merits of the pinnated grouse as an article of food. Most people will tell you that "prairie hens are mighty poor eating," while the favored few who have eaten these birds under the proper conditions, will say that there is nothing wearing feathers, be it canvasback duck, or October woodcock, that is superior to it. Cooking makes the difference. While the grouse is yet young, and white of flesh, say till the first of September, he should be split open and broiled. or made into a pie. So cooked, he is respectable—about equal to a tame chicken of the same age. But to eat him in perfection, he should be full grown and dark-fleshed, say in November. Should be picked clean, stuffed, and roasted before a quick fire, well basted with butter, and above all, underdone, as you would cook a canvas-back. Eaten in this way, with wild plum jelly (a kind Providence has placed the wild plum and the grouse side by side), the bird will fulfil his destiny, and take his place at the head of American game. How is he generally cooked in hotels, boarding-houses and the like? They pull off feathers and skin together, put him in that vile invention a cooking-stove, dry up all his fine natural juices, till he comes to table a mass of brown strings, with no more sapidity than so much harness leather. Subject the woodcock or canvas-back to such treatment, and where would be the flavor ? and echo answers, nowhere.

THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE.-Tetrao phasianellus. This fine bird seems to have been unknown to Wilson, but Nuttal gives a very good description of it; making its geographical limits, however, more narrow than they have since been found to be. We had frequently been told by sportsmen of a distinct kind of grouse which inhabited the groves of Wisconsin; and from their description of the bird we supposed this to be the species.

In the winter of 1842, while travelling in that section of country, we saw many of the Burr-oak grouse, as they are called by the inhabitants, sitting on trees by the road side; not having a gun we were unable to procure specimens. The next summer, being in the same region, namely, the beautiful country lying between Milwaukie and Madison, we saw them again. Their habits resembled those of the pinnated grouse, excepting that they

inhabited by choice, the groves instead of the prairie.

The winter of 1844 being a severe one, with much snow, these birds came farther south than usual, and we procured several fine specimens in the Chicago market. Two or three winters since, when the cold was severer than common, we have known them killed in the vicinity of Chicago. We also tried them repeatedly on the table, and found them to be superior in flavor to their pinnated cousins. They are feathered half way down the toes, and their plumage generally indicates a northern bird.

THE RAVEN-Corvus corax. Young poets of the third and fourth classes, who formerly abounded more in New England than at present, were wont to draw their illustrations from books, and commonly from English books. In their descriptions of rural scenery, you found ivy-clad cottages, with daisies enamelling the meadow; sky-larks were seen to soar and nightingales heard to sing; while, if their mood was dismal, the raven generally darkened with his funereal presence the tragic page.

Now, if these votaries of the muse had examined for themselves, they would have found that the crow is the bird of ill-omen in New England, where the raven is not. Illinois, on the contrary, rejoices in the presence of the raven, and the crow is seldom seen; these two predatory cousins seldom living together.

The researches of modern naturalists have established the fact, that scarcely any American beast, bird, or fish, is identical with its European analogue, though the difference is frequently to be detected only by close and scientific observation. Thus, our raven, although to unpractised eyes the same as the European, has differences of organization sufficient to make a new species. In all his habits, however, he is the same bird.

Some years ago, being out shooting with a friend, he slightly wounded a young raven. Having heard of the ease with which these birds may be tamed, we begged the life of the captive, and, having tied his legs, brought him home in the buggy. In a few days he entirely recovered from his wound, and became very familiar, amusing, and mischievous. His usual perch was the top of a shed, which stood on an alley much frequented by pigs, poultry, and stray dogs. Ralph would watch his chance, and when a pig came near his perch, he would alight upon the back of the astonished grunter, and ride him about, quickening his pace by repeated digs of his beak, and shouting

his delight most vociferously. If he saw a dog lying in the alley gnawing a bone, Le would steal softly behind him, and giving him a dig in the back, fly away to his perch with a mischievous chuckle, before the dog could retaliate. The dogs would frequently be so much disconcerted by the attacks of this mysterious enemy, as to abandon the field and the bone together, and Ralph would enjoy the spoliavina.

We saw him attack a brood of young turkeys, probably with the purpose of making a meal of them; their cries, however, quickly brought the old hen and gobbler to their assistance. Ralph stood up to the turkey-cock for a round or two, bat was soon driven to his perch, where he consoled himself by scolding the turkeys at the top of his voice as long as they were within sight.

After keeping the raven about six months, he became so troublesome that we were obliged to give him away. His last exploit was to attack a new buggy which had been left near him, and tear the cushions all to pieces.

WILSON'S PHALAROPE.-This beautiful Ittle wader was first noticed by Wilson in a museum in Albany. He never saw the living bird, and Nuttal says that it is only a straggler in the United States.

Ten or twelve years ago a friend brought us two specimens (a male and female), which he had shot in the vicinity of Chicago. He had never seen the bird before, though familiar with most of the Lirds of this region. Having compared it with the description in Nuttal and identifed the species, we went out in search of more specimens, and succeeded in procuring half a dozen. We found the phalarpes on the wet prairies south of the city, generally in pairs, the females containing well developed eggs. This was about the middle of May; but although we have seen them on the same ground nearly every season since, we have never ascertained that they breed here; and from the short time which they stay in this vicinity, we believe that they merely stop here in passing to their breeding grounds.

THE SAND HILL CRANE.-Grus canadensis. Wilson supposes this to be the young of the great white, or whooping crane, Grus americana; while Nuttal, in our opinion a better authority, describes it as a distinct species. Our acquaintance with this bird inclines us decidedly to the latter opinion. Besides the great differease in size, the white crane standing Dear a foot taller, the color of the naked

skin of the head, and of the bill, is sufficiently different to mark them as distinct species. The brown crane has the head of a reddish brown and the bill blackish, while the whooping crane has the bill of a wax yellow, and the head orange colored.

Again, out of large flocks of these birds, which, passing the summer in Illinois, are to be seen all over the State, to one hundred of the brown cranes, you would hardly find two of the white kind; and, it seems to us, that as it resorts to our prairies to breed, that if it were the young of the whooping crane, the old white fathers and grandfathers would sometimes come west to visit their descendants; especially as they can pass from the Carolinas to Illinois in a few hours, and that free of cost; a circumstance which is apt to weigh with people at a certain time of life.

The brown crane arrives in Illinois in May, and takes up in the sloughs or swamps in which its favorite food abounds; for our crane resembles the Frenchman in this among other things, that his most esteemed delicacy is a fat frog.

The nest is made in an elevated spot in a swamp, generally built in a tussock of grass, to raise it somewhat above the ground. The eggs are two in number, of an olive green, spotted with brown, and about the size of that of a goose.

When the young are half grown, they are of a bluish, or slate color, and are very easily tamed. Though one of the wildest and most wary of birds, when in a state of domestication it becomes so tame as to walk about the house and feed from the table, which its long legs and neck enable it to do with ease.

Between one and two years old, the crane assumes its brown color, which sometimes so nearly resembles the peleage of the deer, that in the long grass the bird is often mistaken for the beast.

At the latter end of summer the crane abandons his reptile diet, and resorting to the corn-fields, becomes fat and savory food, quite equal to the Canada goose, and nearly as good a bird as the wild turkey.

At the approach of cold weather he takes himself off to the South, to visit his possible grandsire, and probable cousin, the whooping crane, whose melody of voice our bird possesses in some degree.

Our crane is a very vigorous and courageous bird, and when attacked defends itself so desperately with his five inch dagger, that we think he would be a match for any bird of prey except the eagle. Of this we once had an ocular

proof, when we first came into the country and were unacquainted with the habits of the varmints. Riding over the prairies in September, we came upon a flock of full-grown brown cranes, and drove within easy shot of them. We fired from the waggon at the nearest, and he fell; the others took wing. We leaped from the waggon to secure our easy prey, when to our astonishment, instead of allowing himself quietly to be bagged, the crane tame at us at the pas de charge, with flapping wings and levelled beak. As the bird stands about four feet high, this was a new experience to one who had shot nothing larger or more formidable than a grouse. We gave him the second barrel, but either the shot, No. 8, were too small to penetrate his feathers, coming head on; or in our haste and confusion we missed him altogether.

We now began to think that discretion was the better part of valor, and would have been willing to cry quits with Mr. Crane, but his dander was up, as well as his feathers, and whatever may be his affinity to the white crane, he certainly showed no white feather. There was nothing for it, but a fight. So we aimed a blow at his head with the butt of the gun, which he dodged, and returned with a pass of the long beak at our eyes. Fortunately, we had taken some years before, a few lessons in the art of self-defence; so we cleverly stopped the dagger thrust, and seizing the crane by the neck, after a severe struggle succeeded in throwing him on the ground, and putting our knee on his neck. Then with a pocket knife, we finished him. During this time we were so sorely buffeted by his wings,

and scratched with his long claws, that though we came out of the fight victorious, we determined to be careful how we meddled with a sand-hill crane.

We once saw a tame crane whip a couple of good-sized dogs which had come into the yard where it was kept. The dogs attacked it on sight, but the crane very coolly waiting their approach, flew up some ten feet perpendicularly into the air, and descended on their backs, dealing such savage stabs with his beak, that the dogs fled, howling with pain and

terror.

A tame crane is useful about a farm as a destroyer of insects and vermin, as well is a very amusing pet. Nothing can be more ludicrous than its appearance as it gravely stalks with long strides behind its master, gesticulating in the most grotesque manner, and looking like a sort of feathered Don Quixote. It is, however, rather dangerous to children, whom, when irritated it does not hesitate to attack.

In a wild state this crane has another Gallican habit. It dances. In unfrequented places, where safe from observation, the cranes will arrange themselves into regular cotilions and country dances, and caper by the hour together, indulging in the most fantastic movements of the head and body, and presenting a most amusing caricature of a human dancing party. We once witnessed an exhibition of this kind from an ambush, where the performers were some twenty or thirty in number, and if we had the power of Cruickshank to put it on paper, you would agree with us that it was a sight not to be forgotten.

THE true, full life of plants may be said to begin and to end with their period of blooming. Whilst trees do not blossom until many years have passed over their lofty heads-the fir-tree and the beech, for instance, seldom before the fiftieth year-the humbler plants look upon the time when they are crowned with flowers as the happiest-and last, of their existence. It comes, with some, after a short year, whilst the Agave Americana lives many, though not quite a hundred years, without ever flowering. Then it produces, with amazing rapidity an innumerable host of flowers, growing almost visibly, until it has unfolded its magnificent candelabrum of nearly 50 feet high, and then it perishes. So also the beautiful Tallipot palm: it grows and flourishes, and forms a vast crown of broad leaves at a great .height; then only it flowers for the first time, produces its seed and dies; so true is it, that

"He bids each flower his quickening word obey, Or to each lingering bloom enjoins delay."

Plants, however, have not only their age of blooming, but also their season. Whilst most of them open their bright chalices in spring or midsummer, when "the sun smiles on the earth and the exuberant earth returns the smile in flowers," others do not bloom until fall or even winter. The autumnal crocus, which gives us saffron, blooms not until almost all the other flowers are gone. The black hellebore sends its pale green flowers as a Christmas present, and the fragrant blackthorn blossoms, while the cold north-east winds blow, in spite of cold and frost. The vernal crocus sends up its golden cups in early March, however cold it may be in the reign of what Coleridge calls "the dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month," and the silvery almond flower blooms on a leafless bough. Nay, the very hour of blooming is appointed to plants with mysterious accuracy. A few years ago I went to see near Upsala, the cottage of old Linné, the father of modern botany, and among all the precious relics carefully preserved, there was no token of the pious reverence with which his countrymen honor his name, more touching than his floral clock. In a half circle, carefully arranged around his writing table, stood a number of plants which opened their flowers each at a certain moment,

so that they revealed at a glance to the great master, the hour of the day, with unerring precision. For, as every bird has his hour when he awakes, and sends up his hymn to praise his Maker, so every Hower also has its time. They open commonly to the light, some in the morning, closing at night, whilst others will not open at all except in clear bright weather. The degree of light which they require, determines mostly the hour of the day at which they will unfold their beauty. Thus the daisy, like a true day's eye, opens its white and crimson-tipped star to meet the early beams of the morning sun; and the morning-glory closes its sweet-scented flowers before the sun has risen high; the dandelion opens at half-past five, and closes at nine; the scarlet pimpernel waits patiently until mid-day, and dreads rain so anxiously that it folds quickly up, even before the impending shower, and remains closed during the passage of a cloud. Hence its name of the "poor man's weatherglass." Others love late hours: the evening primrose opens its golden eyes in the sweet hour of eve, and retires before the glare of day. The brilliant white lotus, opening when the sun rises, and closing when he sets, still loves shade so well, that, when it has no shelter to screen it, it folds up its pure leaves as soon as the sun reaches the zenith, as though unable to endure the too ardent rays of the luminary that called it into life. There are, on the other hand, also bats and owls found among plants, wide awake all night long. The convolvulus of the tropics blooms only at night, and so does the magnificent cactus, the large flowered torch-thistle. Late in the silent night, when all other flowers are sleeping, this strange plant, with its dry, bare stem, unfolds its gorgeous, vanilla-scented flowers. There are few others known of greater beauty; they sometimes measure a foot in diameter, and when several of these magnificent creatures are open at once, upon the same plant, they seem like stars shining out in all their lustre, and verifying the poet's assertion, that

"Darkness shows us a world of light
We never see by day."

But it is a short glory indeed: at midnight they are fully blown, and as soon as the morning dawns upon them, they fold up their charms, and a few hours