WINTER. WINTER advances close upon the track of autumn, and— Comes, to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train; So that, before long, in the words of Scott No mark of vegetable life is seen, No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call, Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen, Save the lone red-breast on the moss-grown wall. Very many of our summer birds are now dwelling in the lands of the sunny south, which are better provided with their necessary food than ours is at this season. But the robin and a few kindred species stay behind, and brave the English winter, during which they manage to subsist principally on the slugs and earth-worms that occasionally make their appearance. They keep a sharp look-out for caterpillars which lurk near the roots of trees and shrubs, but often they are obliged to make a meal of crumbs picked up at the cottage-door. Should the weather be very severe, and the frost bite hard, and the ground be for a long time covered with snow, our non-migrating birds suffer great privations, and many perish from cold and hunger. Seldom do we experience much of the severity of winter till the year is drawing towards its close, or even till the new year has opened: according to the old adage, 'As the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen. Our poet-laureate, Tennyson, thus pictures the 'Death of the Old Year': Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: For the old year lies a-dying. He lieth still: he doth not move: He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, So long as you have been with us, He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; Old year, you shall not die; How hard he breathes! over the snow The cricket chirps: the lights burn low: 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: Speak out, before you die. The following is a well-known winter scene from Thomson's poem on this season: Thro' the hush'd air the whitening shower descends, At first thin-wavering; till at last the flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day Put on their winter-robe of purest white. 'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts Sir Walter Scott thus describes a Scottish winter No longer Autumn's glowing red Upon our forest hills is shed; No more, beneath the evening beam, Too short shall seem the summer day. The early winter's morn is often wrapped in gloom, and upon a dreary desolate prospect the country swain must look as he plods his way to his daily toil. The scene is cloth'd in snow from morn till night, He quakes, looks round, and pats his hands and sighs, Notwithstanding the howling blasts, the bitter cold, and the destructive snow-storms of this season, a severe winter is not without its pleasures. There is ample scope afforded for joyful, healthy, and invigorating exercise on the frost-bound ponds and streams, which are then the delightful-resort of skaters, sliders, and hockey players. In Scotland, a curling match on the ice supersedes all other out-of-door winter amusements; and an exciting game it is, especially when it is played, as is often the case, by skilful players from two rival parishes. The pleasures of the English pastime, skating, have been summed up by Wordsworth : In the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and visible for many a mile The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, It was indeed for all of us-for me It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The village clock tolled six; I wheeled about, That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, And woodland pleasures--the resounding horn, Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway; and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me-even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round. The winter, if not too severe and protracted, is of great service to the soil and to the purposes of vegetation, as Eliza Cook says For his wide and glittering coat of snow Beneath his mantle are nurtured and born The roots of the flowers-the germs of the coru. And in the words of Southey Nature soon in spring's best charms And bid the flower re-bloom. SOME OF OUR BRITISH BIRDS. THE feathered inhabitants of our island are not in general very remarkable for the beauty of their plumage; but what they want in this respect, as compared with birds of tropical lands, is fully compensated for by the melody of their voices; indeed, some of them are amongst the finest songsters to be found anywhere. No sooner do the early flowers of the year, the snowdrop, the crocus, and the primrose, as heralds of the spring, display their opening petals, than the birds commence their songs, as if to testify their joy that the cold winter is departing, and that a fairer season for them is dawning. We are glad to hear them; for during the severe frost and the cold wet weather, all, except the robin, have been silent. It must have been a clear bright day on which the poet Burns once heard the song of the thrush in January; and on this rare occurrence he wrote: Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough; At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow. It is not till the end of February that, besides the robin, which has sung all the winter, we hear the |