in extent, the mass descends lower and lower, and now a leading cohort or division sinks down and is lost in the reed-bed; it rises; it descends; it rises again; it re-descends. In like manner another cohort sinks, and as if restless, rises and descends again, as did the first. Another and another follow in their turn, imitating their predecessors. The whole mass has at length settled down, but not as yet to repose. During the whole of these preliminary movements a confused guttural chatter, the dissonance of a troubled multitude, has been incessantly kept up: nor does it cease now; occasionally it lulls for a brief interval, but the clamour breaks out again. Darker shadows come o'er the scene; the lulls are longer, the clamorous interruptions shorter, fainter, and uttered more drowsily. Night closes round, and all at last is still-the busy horde is buried in slumber.

It is not on the lower portion of the reed-stems (Arundo phragmitis) that the starlings settle, but on their upper portion; hence the stems bend beneath the weight of the crowded birds, even to the surface of the water, and are not unfrequently broken down, and snapped asunder, over a considerable area. The clamour that arises when such an accident occurs may be well imagined; but the mischief usually is not very serious. It is otherwise, however, when a sudden storm, with a deluge of rain, and a rising of the water, takes place. Then, indeed, occurs a calamitous scene; the reeds, already overweighted, are broken up and drifted along; the violent wind and the pouring rain overwhelm the affrighted multitude, and numbers perish in the swollen marsh. Once did such an occurrence, in Derbyshire, come under our own cognizance; but, happily, the destruction of life was not great; thirty or thirty-five birds only were found; and the flock, rendered cautious by the "accident," betook themselves to the woods near Haddon Hall. We have notes by us, however, of more extensive destruction of starling life. In September, 1836, after a hurricane

along the banks of the Shannon, it was ascertained by Mr. W. Todhunter, late of Portumna, that one thousand nine hundred of these birds were washed ashore.

The late eminent zoologist, Mr. W. Thompson, of Ireland, commenting on the partiality of these birds for marshy districts during autumn and winter, states that a few years since, in the month of December, during a heavy snow, starlings frequented the marsh lands near the shore in the vicinity of Belfast, in such vast flocks that some of the little grassy patches rising above the ooze could not contain them, so that a portion of the flock kept hovering above their more fortunate brethren who had found a resting-place. On such petty islets of greensward, or heaps of “sleech grass (a marine weed, Zostera marina), they assembled in multitudes; but the sand or the bare beach was ever avoided. Mr. Thompson's remarks refer especially to the habits of the starling along the sea shore; and these remarks are the more interesting, as few naturalists, comparatively speaking, have had opportunities, or have availed themselves of them, for investigating, during the autumn and winter, the economy of this bird in such localities. To those who have a taste for zoological observation, and whose local residence is favourable, we would suggest the idea of taking notes of the "doings of the starling" during its visit to the borders of the shore.

Thus, during the winter do the starlings in united bodies forage over the country; but the flocks break up on the return of spring. Our foreign sojourners return home, and our native birds seek their old nesting-places; even the young pairs give preference to the familiar spot in which they were reared; there they breed, and are ready with their offspring in autumn, to join their relatives, their parents, and all the branches of their family, in social union for the winter campaign.

As we write, the cry of the starling passing by our window, with

food for its young, interrupts us. We turn our head. The cows in the meadow are lying down while they chew the cud; several rooks are stalking about, not many yards distant; and four or five starlings are walking round each placid beast, intent upon the insects, which are either attracted or disturbed, which emerge from their lurking-places in the ground or the grass, or give annoyance by their pertinacious intrusion.

Of the caged starling we have little to say. It is an imitative bird, and may be readily taught to utter words, or short sentences, and even simple bars of music. When taken young, it becomes, under judicious management, confident and familiar; but never, when captured at a later period. The starling is by no means so easily reclaimed as many other birds-there is a wild love of freedom in its nature, and it is of an impatient temperament-at the same time it is affectionate towards those with whom it is on terms of intimacy. Let the young bird-fancier accept a word of advice. Never purchase a starling perched upon the finger of an itinerant birdseller; it is most probably an old bird, and certainly it is restrained by a strait waistcoat of packthread, bracing the body under the shoulders, and is thus held in wing-curbing fetters, the end of the string being wound round the man's finger; its appearance of tameness is deceptive, it is frightened almost to death; and when taken home and caged, will dash itself about, and never become reconciled. The young nestling of the year is easily known by its plain unmarked plumage, which after the first month becomes spotted, and subsequently very lustrous and beautiful.

THE REDBREAST.

THOSE who are truly lovers of Nature rejoice as much in the sweet sounds and harmonies of woods and fields, as in their pleasant sights. The ear is said to be the most intellectual of all our organs; and assuredly we are receiving every moment by its means both delight and improvement. God has so ordained this material world, as that it shall offer us continually objects fitted to soothe and elevate our spirits, and to lead us to the contemplation of himself. Few who have lingered in copse or meadow, by the sea-shore or the rippling stream, but have felt themselves impressed with cheerful or solemn emotions as they listened to the melodies of Nature. The rain which comes with its gentle patterings upon the leaves, the soft rustling of the wind-swept corn, the murmuring of the waters among the sedges, the gliding of the clear stream over the pebbles, and the whispering winds and stormy gusts which rush among the boughs, or stir the wild waves of the sea, have each a music of their own, and are ministers of delight to us. And the song of birds! Beautifully does the inspired writer conclude his vivid picture of spring-time, by describing it as the season when the singing of birds is come. How gleeful, how joyous are some notes! how touching and plaintive are others! Now there comes forth from the boughs such an outpouring of gladness, that the saddest wanderer in the woods may feel a momentary sympathy with joy; and now comes some gentle note, so like the tone of a lament, that he is ready to pause and pity. We can seldom catch the melody so as to reduce it to the tones of our musical instruments. The notes are all too rapid, their pauses too uncertain, and most are pitched too high to be reached by our instruments of greatest compass; so that the song of the birds remain peculiarly their own. We wonder not that the enthusiastic naturalist who

lives among them, listens to their songs till he fancies that the birds are intentionally singing their morning or evening hymns to their great Creator. Assuredly they are praising him, though they know it not; for of every flower and leaf, and waving tree and singing bird, the Psalmist said, “All thy works praise thee."

In few spots of earth are the woods more musical with the singing of birds than in our land; and the traveller who has delighted himself among the far brighter and more luxuriant vegetation of the American forests, feels how much richer are our humbler woodlands in their songs. The robin, the favourite of our childhood, is the bird which sings there during the longest season; for though these birds are most familiar to us in the garden and near the dwelling-houses, both in spring and winter, yet their favourite haunts are in woods and forests of great extent, where they may sing among the embowering foliage.

In spring, when the thrushes and blackbirds and linnets and goldfinches and chaffinches and blackcaps are forming a concert, their notes extinguish the soft and weaker ones of the robin; but when autumnal winds have swept away the sheltering leaves, the redbreasts are the chief singers; and later yet, when naked branches stand out against the cold blue sky, when other birds have retreated to their winter haunts, or have winged their way afar, or have perished in the woods, the song of the robin remains to cheer us. And when the snow has covered up all sources of nourishment, we hear it more and more, as the bird approaches more frequently the dwellings of man. Few persons are fully aware of the vocal powers of our pretty bird. The remarks of a writer on this subject, in the 'Magazine of Natural History,' are very just. "I have frequently," he says, "heard this bird sing in a manner to do honour to its connection with the nightingale, when it has been disputed whether or not it could be the robin. I would at any time silence the finished song of the chaffinch, in three distinct parts, to listen to the mellow