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soon as the lower limb of the sun reaches the horizon, they are seen issuing from their holes in all directions, which are scattered in groups, like little villages, all over the Pampas. The biscachos, when full-grown, are nearly as large as badgers, but their head resembles a rabbit's, except that they have large bushy whiskers. In the evening, they sit outside their holes, and they all appear to be moralising. They are most serious-looking animals; and even the young ones are grey-headed, have mustachios, and look thoughtful and grave. In the daytime, their holes are always guarded by two little owls, who are never an instant away from their posts. As one gallops by these owls they always stand looking at the stranger, and then at each other, moving their old-fashioned heads in a manner which is quite ridiculous, until one rushes by them, when fear gets the better of their dignified looks, and they both run into the biscacho's hole.-See a beautiful figure of this bird in the Magazine of Natural History.

The hay-harvest commences about the end of the month, in the southern and midland parts of the kingdom.

The mower now, at morning blythe,

Sweeps o'er the mead till night's reprieve;
Thick falls the swath before his scythe,

And withering scents the dewy eve.

About this time, birds cease their notes. The rural ceremony of sheep-shearing usually takes place in June, and was formerly celebrated with much innocent pastime.-See our former volumes.

Seek he who will in grandeur to be blest,

Place in proud halls, and splendid courts, his joy;
For pleasure or for gold his arts employ,
Whilst all his hours unnumbered cares molest,-
A little field, in native flow'rets drest.-
A riv'let in soft murmurs gliding by,-
A bird, whose love-sick note salutes the sky,
With sweeter magic lull my cares to rest.

And shadowy woods, and rocks, and tow'ring hills,
And caves obscure, and nature's free born train

Each in my mind some gentle thoughts instils;

Ah, gentle thoughts! soon lost the city cares among.
Roscoe's Lorenzo.

In the Magazine of Natural History we find the following notes for June 1828.-Wheat came into flower on the 16th, the white lily on the 22d, and the evening primrose on the 28th.-Young wasps appeared on the 20th; the geometric-web-making spider on the 25th. About the same time the little moths, the larva of which had been so destructive to the foliage of many plants, particularly apple trees and whitethorn hedges, came forth from their chrysalis state. They proved to be the Phalana pyralis of Linnæus, and very much resembled the common small moth so destructive to woollen garments and house furniture. The eggs of these insects, it is probable, were deposited on the branches, near the buds, in the preceding autumn, or early during the very mild spring.

Poetical Pictures in June.

When to my fevered brain, the long drear night
No balm bath brought, and restless, and alone,
I've paced the shrouded fields, till glittering bright
From yon green mountain's brink the fresh day shone ;
How have I joyed to mark the hoary tower
Unfolding slowly 'neath the morning beams
Its misty mantle grey-In such an hour,
To Contemplation's eye, fair Nature seems
Most holy, and the troubled heart is still.
The vocal grove, the sky-reflecting lake,
The cheerful plain, and softly-shadowed hill,
To loftier dreams are ministrant, and wake
Unutterable love for this fair Earth,
And silent bliss, more exquisite than mirth!


Nineveh at Sunset.

On Nineveh's proud towers the sinking sun
In cloudless splendour looks, nor through the earth
Like glory doth behold. In golden light
Magnificent the mighty city stands,
Empress of nations.

The flaming orb descends: his light is quenched:
The golden splendours from the walls are fled.
Even so thy glories, mighty Nineveh!
Shall darken, and impenetrable night,

On which no morn must rise, envelope thee!

But joyous is the stirring city now:

The moon is clear, the stars are coming forth,—
The evening breeze fans pleasantly. Retired
Within his gorgeous hall, Assyria's king
Sits at the banquet, and in love and wine
Revels delighted. On the gilded roof
A thousand golden lamps their lustre fling,
And on the marble walls, and on the throne
Gem-bossed, that, high on jasper steps upraised,
Like to one solid diamond quivering stands,
Sun-splendours flashing round.

All rarest flowers,
Bright-hued and fragrant, in the brilliant light
Bloom as in sunshine: like a mountain stream
Amid the silence of the dewy eve

Heard by the lonely traveller through the vale,
With dream-like murmuring melodious,
In diamond showers a crystal fountain falls.
All fruits delicious, and of every clime,
Beauteous to sight, and odoriferous,
Invite the taste.

Methinks the westering sun shines cooler in the garden-that the shades are somewhat deepenedthat the birds are not hopping round our head, as they did some hour ago that in their afternoon siesta they are mute. Another set of insects are in the air. The flowers, that erewhile were broad and bright awake, with slumbering eyne are now hanging down their heads; and those that erewhile seemed


to slumber, have awoke from their day-dreams, and look almost as if they were going to speak. Have you a language of your own-dear creatures-for we know that ye have loves?-Blackwood's Magazine.

But chief when summer twilight mild
Drew her dim curtain o'er the wild,
I loved, beside that ruin grey,
To watch the dying gleam of day.
And though, perchance, with secret dread,
I heard the bat flit round my head,
While winds, that waved the long lank grass,
With sound unearthly seemed to pass;
Yet with a pleasing horror fell
Upon my heart the thrilling spell;
For all that met the eye or ear
Was still so pure and peaceful here,
I deemed no evil might intrude
Within the saintly solitude.
Still vivid memory can recall
The figure of each shattered wall;
The aged trees, all hoar with moss,
Low bending o'er the circling fosse;
The rushing of the mountain flood;
'The cushat's cooing in the wood;
The rooks that o'er the turrets sail;
The lonely curlew's distant wail;
The flocks that high on Hounam rest;
The glories of the glowing west.


But noon's subduing heat and glare
Have melted to a milder air;

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And oh! there comes, so calm and boon,
The eve-the Paradise of June.
Past is the glare-but there is still
A light and glow on dale and hill,
Vivid, yet mild and full of grace,
Shining out like an angel's face.
Freed from the sultry thrall of day,
The glad eye revels far away;
All round is bright-and you may see
Green hill and river, tower and tree,
One wide, fair scene of beauteous rest,
Brilliant and sweet, and calm and blest.


All there is peace, and you may hear
Each softened sound distinct and clear:
The wood-gate's clap, the peasant's lay,
The low of herds, the mastiff's bay,
And the rich blackbird's strains, that swell
Each sunset from the neighbouring dell.

Who has not wandered to inhale
Fragrance, and dew, and living gale,
As the far wood's luxuriant waves
Of green the sun's last radiance laves;
And villagers sit at their doors
Beneath the towering sycamores;
And hum the chaffer's ruddy wings?
And sweet are lovers' loiterings
On by the park pales' silvery moss,
Where listening bares the footpath cross;!
And partridges, met in the glen,
Are racing swiftly back again;
And from the far heath, drear and still,
Pipes the lone curlew, wild and shrill;
And darker glooms the forest glade;
And heaven's pale gleams yet fainter fade;
Till silence only hears awake:

The hoarse, quaint whisperings of the crake.
Howitt's Forest Minstrel.

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