O, blessed with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own, my native land?"

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will,

Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Stone walls do not a prison make;
Nor iron bars a cage.
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage.

V. - BIRDS.

KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.

We love birds. When the first soft days of spring come on in all their gentle sweetness, and woo us with their warmth, and soothe us with their smile, then come the birds. With us they do rejoice that winter's reign (and snow) is ended. No one of the seasons that come to "rule the varied year,” abdicates his throne more to his subjects' joy than winter. While he rules, we lose all respect for the mercury in our thermometer. When we remember how high it stood in our estimation only a few short months ago, we did not think that it could get so low. We resolve to have nothing more to do with it; for "there is a point beyond which forbearance ceases to be a virtue," and we conceive that point to be thirty-two degrees above zero, at the very least.

How pleasant are the early hours of a day in spring! The

air is laden with the perfect perfume of a thousand flowers, and leaves, and buds. And then, besides the pleasure of seeing jocund day go through that difficult gymnastic feat, described by Shakspeare, of standing "tiptoe on the misty mountain tops," we have a glorious morning concert, to which we have a season ticket; for

"Innumerous songsters in the freshening shade

Of new-sprung leaves their modulations mix
Mellifluous."

Such music! It seems the pure outpourings of the greatest gratitude to Him who made the morn so beautiful, so full of joy and light. It is the expression of most perfect praise, in ecstasy of song. Yes, indeed, we love birds!

There is a deal of pleasure, as well as profit, and advantage with amusement, to be derived from studying the habits and the character of birds. Nor is the study burdensome. Of all the lower orders of creation, as they frequent most freely the haunts and homes of men, so they approach us nearest in intelligence. They have their labors and amusements, their conjugal relations, and, like us, they build with taste and skill their houses; they have society, moreover, and the opera. In very many things they are our equals, and in some, superiors; and what in other animals at best is only instinct, in birds is almost reason.

Among the first returning tourists from the south, in spring, are these pleasant little people, the bluebird, martin, and wren. They have particular confidence in man. Nor is their confidence misplaced; for every body hails with joy these harbingers of spring. Their company is peculiarly agreeable, and they seem to know it; for every year they come again to occupy the boxes, or perchance old hats, which were put up for them, and in them build their nests, and there they live rent free; yet not exactly so, for they pay us with their notes. Sometimes these little people have a deal of difficulty among themselves about these habitations. The martins come, and find the bluebirds have taken all these places, and there is a

fuss directly. After some considerable scolding and twitting on facts, the martins take possession of a certain portion of the pigeon cote, and keep it too, for not a pigeon dare go near them, while the smaller wrens content themselves with some spare corner of the portico, where they forthwith proceed to build their houses, with all the architectural skill derived from their great namesake, the builder of St. Paul's.* There is a spice of waggish mischief about the wren somewhat amusing. Often when the bluebird has left his house, and gone to market or down town, the wren peeps in, and finding no one there, proceeds to amuse himself by pulling out the straws and feathers in the nest; but should perchance the bluebird come in sight, the wren remembers there is something very interesting going on around the corner of the barn, that demands his instant and immediate attention.

man.

These birds—the bluebird, martin, and the wren, together with the swallows, (barn and chimney,) and "honest robin,” who, as quaint old Walton has it, "loves mankind, both alive and dead". are half domesticated. They love to live near The bluebird and the robin are the only two among them who appear to have paid much attention to the cultivation of their vocal powers. They salute the morning with sweet songs. The wren and other small birds are in the garden, breakfasting on worms, or, as we sometimes express it, "getting their grub." The martin, meanwhile, listens to the concert, as a critic, or as one of the audience; for he sits up in his private box, now and then uttering an approving note, as if of applause. Indeed, the martin is not very musical. Sometimes, in the bosom of his family, when he feels very social, he takes up his pipe, and then essays a song. But he never gets beyond the first few notes of "Hi Betty Martin," and then goes off on tiptoe.

But here we have a jolly little fellow, who makes up in sociability what he lacks in song. The small house sparrow or, as he is generally known, the "chippin' bird," comes to our

*The architect of St. Paul's, in London, was Sir Christopher Wren.

very doors. He hops along the piazza, gathering “crumbs of comfort" and of bread, and knows that not a soul within the house, not even that "unfeeling schoolboy," would harm a feather of his tail. He keeps a careful eye, however, on the cat; for he is perfectly aware that she would consider him only a swallow, and he does not like to lose his identity.

There is in history a single instance where this bird seems to have forgotten his character, and been a destroyer, rather than, as he is called by boys, a "sparer." Every juvenile of five years, who is at all read in the literature of his age, knows the tragic story of the death and burial of cock robin. That interesting individual was found one morning lying on the ground, with a murderous weapon through his heart. The horror-stricken birds assembled. A coroner's inquest was holden. The first inquiry was, of course, "Who killed cock robin?" There was a momentary silence; and then the sparrow, the last one in the crowd, perhaps, to be suspected, confessed the deed. He then proceeds to state how it was done, and owns he "did it with bow and arrow."

"Caw! caw! caw!" The watchword and the signal of alarm or caution among crows; or else it is the "dreadful note of preparation" summoning the lawless legions from the depths of the pine woods, from yonder hill, from far-off forests, to come and help pull up a field of corn, just beginning to put forth its tender blades. "All these and more come flocking," for there's no one around; the scarecrow was blown down last night; the gun is lent; the boys have gone to school; the farmer tumbled off the haymow yesterday and broke his leg; and so the crows proceed with the destruction

"unmoved,

With dread of death, to flight, or foul retreat."

The crow and blackbird both are arrant rogues. The last, indeed, renders somewhat of service in the early part of spring; for, following the furrows of the field, devouring countless worms and grubs, which would be most destructive to the com

ing crop of corn, all day long he gleans behind the plough, a perfect little Ruth. But when the corn comes, he devotes himself to its destruction with a perfect ruthlessness, and fills his own crop with the farmer's in less than no time. Perchance, should any one appear on the premises, he gets upon the fence, and whistles very unconcernedly, just as if he hadn't been doing any thing. As for that bean pole, standing in the centre of the field, dressed in old clothes, and bearing some faint resemblance to a returned Californian, -ha! ha ha! What fools men are to think that they can cheat the blackbird! Why, there are five of them at this moment pulling corn for dear life, to see who shall get through his row the first, who were born, bred, and educated in the very hat of that identical old scarecrow. То be sure, when it was first set up, the birds eyed it with curiosity, perhaps mistrust, but it never entered their heads that it was intended to resemble a man; or if it did, it soon became a standing joke with them.

Nor

Every farmer hates the crow, and we must acknowledge he is not a very lovable bird. He has neither beauty nor song; for his eternal caw! caw! is a note renewed so often as to be at a decided discount. Nor has he civility of manners; and his ideas concerning private property are extremely vague. Yet, of all the bird tribe, he is far the most intelligent. is he a hypocrite. He robs our fields, and he " acknowledges the corn. There he is, on that old tree by the road side, clothed in a sable suit, and, as you go by, looks demure, interesting, and melancholy. But should there be a gun in the bottom of the wagon, though it is covered carefully with a bundle of straw, a blanket over that, and a large fat boy sitting on top of all, he knows it is there, and, trusty sentinel, alarms the whole community of crows in the region round about; and away they wing, "over the hills and far away." Caw! caw! caw! You didn't catch him that time. He is very well aware that you intend to kill him if you can. He just wants to see you try it - that's all.