in anywise let the dam go, and take the young to thee." And God loved us too, when he bid us care for the claims of every living thing, and thus to cherish loving and gentle hearts.

The attachment which these birds have for each other, is often exhibited in the most pleasing manner. Mr. Yarrel quotes the account of one which was caught and caged by the editor of the 'Naturalist,' during winter. "It was," this writer tells us, "attended constantly by its mate for some weeks after its captivity. If any one came near the cage, the male bird retreated very unwillingly, and if wholly excluded from the room in which the little prisoner was placed, it would wail most piteously and unceasingly. But the affectionate instinct of the little bird was at length too sorely tried. After a time it came to visit its companion less frequently, and at last its visits ceased altogether."

But our robin does not always deserve praise for lovely dispositions. It is among the most pugnacious of birds. Like the nightingale, it lays claim to a particular spot, and will most vigorously resist any intrusion; so that the old Latin proverb, "Two robins cannot dwell in one bush," is true enough. Nor can its warfare be said to be always on the defensive side; it will attack other birds sometimes without any provocation, and will combat with them, with a violence which renders it quite insensible to its own danger. Mr. Thompson mentions a case of two robins which began fighting in one of the most frequented parts of the town of Margate. They struggled together, and fell at the feet of the passengers, rose in the air, still fighting, and finally fell into the harbour. Their rage even then surpassed their sense of danger, and they were taken out of the water clinging most pertinaciously to each other.

The same writer mentions another incident of a still more singular nature, which occurred at the close of September, 1835. He observes, that he is particular in recording the date, because he never noticed this pugnacity in any season but the autumn. “I

heard," he says, "a robin warbling in a tree in a small garden adjoining my house, and wishing to excite its attention, I placed on the window-sill a beautifully stuffed specimen of this bird, which was soon perceived. The song became louder and louder, and at longer strains, as if sounding a challenge. Presently he made a flight of inspection as far as the window, which, after an interval, was repeated, but in the shape of an attack. So violent was it, that he threw the stuffed bird to the ground from the height of two stories, pursuing it as it fell, and attacking it violently when down. I then perched it on an empty box standing in the yard, the live bird remaining within a yard of him while I was doing so; and the moment I withdrew a few paces, he renewed the charge with such obstinacy, that I could easily have caught him, and on my recovering the stuffed bird he resumed his place on the box, strutting about with an expanded tail, and an erect attitude, as if claiming and pronouncing a victory. Shortly after, on noticing the bird to be still hovering about the neighbourhood, I replaced my specimen on the window-sill, securing the stand by a brad-awl; and hardly had I done so, before the robin resumed the war, by settling on the head of his unconscious foe, digging and pecking at it with the greatest rage and violence. I then interfered, and removed the object of strife; but the robin kept watch in the neighbourhood during the rest of the day, and was singing his triumphs even in the shades of evening."

The redbreast is found all over Europe, from Spain and Italy to Sweden, and is very generally diffused over England, Ireland, and Wales, having in almost every land some familiar name of endearment, won for it by its coaxing, winning ways. Though more seen by us in winter, because its necessities bring it to us, yet it inhabits this country at all seasons. Indeed robin is to be met with anywhere. Only walk into the garden and begin to break up the ground, and he is there in a minute to seize any poor little worm

which may make its appearance; walk into the winter forest, there he is on the naked bough, ready to hail your presence with a soft chirp, and if you whistle him a tune or sing a merry air, the little listening bird seems well to love the melody, and will follow you through the wood as if in hopes of another song. The red plumage which gives the redbreast his name, also suggested its old name of "ruddock," which is still retained in some counties, and is evidently a corruption of redcock. But the bird loses nearly all this characteristic colour during summer, and it is not till the approach of autumn that it appears in its full beauty. Pliny said that the robin had only its red breast in winter, but that it became a fire-tail in summer. A white robin was caught in June, 1825, in the garden of the rectory at Writhlington, near Radstock. Its eyes were red, its legs and bill yellow. Others have also seen white robins with red eyes.

Of the birds of this species, some do not quit their native country, while others prepare for their departure at the period when the red colour begins to appear in the breast of the young. Unlike other birds, which migrate in large parties, uniting as swallows do in joyous and noisy companies, the redbreast makes a solitary flight.

WALKING BIRDS.

To cleave the air with feathery wing is the special attribute of bird-people; yet, as no rule is without its exception, some birdpeople cannot fly at all: and this to their sorrow, if life be happiness. Birds that can only run have poor chance of escape from man, the destroyer; especially if they happen to wear fine feathers, like our African friend the ostrich, so dear to civilized ladies, or the New Zealand apteryx, whose sable plumes are the

most cherished ornament that a Maori chief--once a man-eater, now a pig-eater-can join together for the outside of his mantle.

In all countries were they have existed, or still manage to exist, it has ever fared hard with poor walking birds. Some, like the moas of New Zealand-the size of a good big donkey-the dodo, and perhaps a gigantic walking bird that certainly once inhabited Madagascar, have become extinct, barely leaving a tradition of their existence behind them. Others are rapidly departing before the advancing footsteps of man. Thus, the ostriches, for examplecreatures that, fleet of foot as they are, would probably have vanished from the world before now, despite their amazing fecundity, but for the circumstance of their living in regions mostly impracticable of access, by reason of desert sands under foot and a burning sun over all. As for the New Zealand moa, it has vanished from the scene, leaving a few disconnected bones and a tradition. Reports have indeed appeared of there having been seen by some of the natives of remote parts some very recent

traces (or spoor, as African hunters say) of gigantic birds, but this requires authentication. As for the monstrous walking bird of Madagascar, whether it still exists in the unexplored forests of that interesting island may be questioned; but for the present, all we know about it rests on the testimony of a popular record, and some apocryphal eggs.

That such a bird as the dodo existed has been questioned, notwithstanding the precise description of these birds communicated by those who professed to have seen them; and more, notwithstanding the long-known existence of a picture now in the British Museum, in which the lineaments of one of these ungainly fellows are fully displayed, and some reputed dodo relics at Oxford. Truth to speak, it is not so wonderful after all, this scepticism in respect of the dodo. The chief testimony was furnished by the Dutch; and it is a fact, but how to account for it I do not know, that Dutch travellers of olden time availed themselves to a very full extent of the traveller's licence to recite strange tales. Not to mince the matter, they were, some of them, story-tellers in an objectionable sense; as is conclusively demonstrated by the stories of Foersch about the upas tree. Pretty certain though it be now, that the dodo was a reality and no myth, yet the impartial critic of to-day is constrained to admit that if the dodo, instead of having been a real bird, had been the imaginary creation of a Dutch traveller's brain, the result could hardly have been more like himself, more Dutch-like in its attributes and general proportions. Whatever lingering doubt there might have been in regard to the former existence of the dodo, there can be none now. Our distinguished naturalists, Professor Owen and Mr. Broderip, have cleared away the last doubts, by following a line of investigation, that to themselves, as well as to the reader, I have no doubt will prove satisfactory.

Bonteko, one of the early Dutch voyagers to the South Seas,