Before the door a sloping green extends
No farther than the neighbouring cottage-hedge,
Beneath whose boutree shade a little well
Is scooped, so limpid, that its guardian trout
(The wonder of the lesser stooping wights)
Is at the bottom seen. At noontide hour,
The imprison'd throng, enlarged, blythsome rush
forth

To sport the happy interval away;

While those from distance come, upon the sward,
At random seated, loose their little stores:
In midst of them poor Redbreast hops unharm'd,
For they have read or heard, and wept to hear,
The story of the Children in the Wood;
And many a crumb to Robin they will throw.
Others there are that love, on shady banks
Retired, to pass the summer days: their song,
Among the birchen boughs, with sweetest fall,
Is warbled, pausing, then resumed more sweet,
More sad; that, to an ear grown fanciful,
The babes, the wood, the man, rise in review,
And Robin still repeats the tragic line.
But should the note of flute, or human voice,
Sound through the grove, the madrigal at once
Ceases; the warbler flits from branch to branch,
And, stooping, sidelong turns his listening head."
Long as this extract is, we are strongly tempted to
pass on from the leafy spring-time to the bare deso-
late winter, and continue the description of the
Scottish poet:-

"Of all the tuneful tribes, the Redbreast sole
Confides himself to man: others sometimes
Are driven within our lintel-posts by storms,
And, fearfully, the sprinkled crumbs partake:
He feels himself at home. When lours the year,
He perches on the village turfy copes,
And, with his sweet but interrupted trills,
Bespeaks the pity of his future host.

But long he braves the season, ere he change
The heaven's grand canopy for man's low home;
Oft is he seen, when fleecy showers bespread

The house-tops white, on the thawed smiddy roof.
Or in its open window he alights,

And, fearless of the clang and furnace glare,
Looks round, arresting the uplifted arm,
While on the anvil cools the glowing bar.
But when the season roughens, and the drift
Flies upward, mingling with the falling flakes
In whirl confused, then on the cottage floor
He lights, and hops and flits, from place to place,
Restless at first, till, by degrees, he feels
He is in safety fearless then he sings
The winter day; and when the long dark night
Has drawn the rustic circle round the fire,
Waked by the dinsome wheel he trims his plumes,
And, on the distaff perched, chaunts soothingly
His summer song; or, fearlessly, lights down
Upon the basking sheep-dog's glossy fur;
Till, chance, the herd-boy, at his supper mess,
Attract his eye, then on the milky rim
Brisk he alights, and picks his little share."
Elsewhere Grahame addresses some musical lines to
a Redbreast that flew in at his window, which, how-
ever, we must refrain from quoting, having much to
say about the bird which will, perhaps, prove interesting
to our readers. With regard to the place which na-
turalists have assigned to it, in their systematic ar-
rangements of feathered creatures, we may observe,
that by Linnæus it is placed in the 6th order-Pas-
seres, or Sparrows,-under the generic title of Simplici-
rostres, that is, having simple bills; the family name

of the group, in which also is included the Nightingale, &c., being Motacilla, which name, however, Latham applies to the Wagtails, giving Sylvia to the warblers. It were a difficult, and, after all, an uninteresting task, to trace our red-breasted friend through the varying systems of Cuvier, Pennant, Brisson, and others, amid the labyrinths of which he plays at hide and seek in a most provoking manner, bearing now this, and now that unaccountable, and almost unpronounceable name-a veritable off-shoot, no doubt, from a Greek or Latin root, but sadly puzzling to those who have not had the advantage of a classical education. Let us then take him up where Macgillivray leaves him, standing all alone in his glory, as far as British birds are concerned, the sole and undisputed owner of the pretty generic name Eritha, to which, if we want to distinguish the species from its foreign congeners, we must add Rubecula. There, Robinet, what do you think of such a title? If that is not enough to make you too proud a bird to "sing to simple ears a simple lay," why, we know not what is. And now we have come to speak of your song, we may as well quote some curious remarks upon its variations, in accordance with the seasonal and atmospheric changes, from "Anecdotes of the Animal Kingdom."

"Few observers of nature can have passed unheeded the sweetness and peculiarity of the song of the Robin, and its various indications with regard to the atmospheric changes: the mellow liquid notes of Spring and Summer, the melancholy sweet pipings of Autumn, and the jerking chirps of Winter. In Spring, when about to change his winter song for the vernal, he warbles for a short time in a strain so unusual, as at first to startle and puzzle even those ears most experienced in the notes of birds. He may be considered as part of the naturalist's barometer. On a Summer evening, though the weather may be in an unsettled and rainy state, he sometimes takes his stand on the topmost twig, or on the house top,' singing cheerfully and sweetly. When this is observed, it is an unerring promise of succeeding fine days. Sometimes, though the atmosphere is dry and warm, he may be seen melancholy, chirping and brooding in a bush, or low in a hedge this promises the reverse of his merry lay and exalted station."

A Kentish poet, F. F. Dally, has given this sometimes melancholy chirping of the bird a funereal character

"Though silent is the Nightingale,
The Robin here takes up the tale,
And unto ears that love to hear,
To hearts that fancy fairy things,
In plaintive prelude sweetly sings

The requiem of the dying year."

With William Howitt the bird is a musing monk, haunting the deserted cloisters of Wyckcham's college at Winchester ;

"A Robin Redbreast was the only musing monk that we found in these cloisters. He went with us all round, hopping from opening to opening, or perching on the bushes near us. 'Ay,' said the porter, 'that is

Here is a picture by Mrs. Ellis, which may well be taken for the death scene of the departing year, in which also the Robin figures as a mourner :-

"With wintry aspect had that day begun,

There was no wind, no rain, but yet no sun;
A dreamy silence slumber'd all around,
And damp and dull the dews lay on the ground;
No movement stirr'd the air, save now and then
A leaf came flickering down upon the plain;
A lonely Robin from the leafless spray,
Tuned a sad song, then wing'd its flight away."
James Montgomery also speaks-

"The song of the Redbreast with ominous note,
Foretelling the fall of the leaf."

The bird that comes about our doors
When autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland!

The bird who by some name or other

All men who know thee call thee brother?"

The nest of the Robin, we are told by Mudie, a good authorty on such matters, is "on the ground, at the roots of trees, and in other concealed places, formed of the same materials as the nest of the wren," that is, almost anything suitable which can be found near the spot, and lined with wool or hair; these materials are very loosely put together, so that it is generally a rather bulky affair. If, however," continues the above named naturalist, "there is not a

Elsewhere the poet hails this note as the harbinger of natural concealment of foliage, the birds contrive to

Spring and liberty:

"Soon shall spring, in smiles and blushes,

Steal upon the blooming year;

Then amid th' enamour'd bushes,
Thy sweet song shall warble clear.
Then shall I, too, join'd with thee,
Swell the Hymn of Liberty."

By that close observer of nature, Neville Wood, we are told that

form an artificial one of dry leaves, under which they may reach the nest without the precise spot being known; and when the dam leaves her eggs, she sometimes covers them in the same manner, so that the strewing of leaves mentioned in the old ballad of 'the Babes in the Wood,' is true to the habits of the Redbreast. The eggs are yellowish grey, mottled with chestnut colour, and rarely exceed seven," Macgillivray describes them as "reddish-white, faintly

of an inch in length, seven and a fourth in breadth;" while Bolton, in his truly beautiful and valuable work, entitled "Harmonia Ruralis," says that they are of adull white, or cream colour, marked with reddish brown spots, varying in number from five to nine." There is in reality however no discrepancy here, as the tints vary considerably in the eggs of different individuals. By the authority last named, we find it stated that

"Young Redbreasts, when full feathered, may be easily mistaken for a different kind of bird, being spotted all over with rust-coloured spots, on a light ground; the first appearance of the red is about the end of August, but the bird does not attain its full colour till the end of the following month."

"The song of the Robin is not very loud, but it is remarkable for its sweet, soft, and melancholy ex-freckled with light purplish red, nine and-a-half twelfths pression. In summer, as I have observed, it is little noticed, but in autumn it is peculiarly delightful, though I am certain of the truth of Selby's supposition, that the notes which are heard in autumn and winter, proceed from the throats of the young of the year. Nor do I ever remember to have heard the adult bird singing in its natural state during the inclement seasons. But when confined to the house, or in a cage, both old and young will carol away right merrily. In softness and sweetness, I think the song of the Robin Redbreast is unexcelled by any of our other sylvan choristers, though as a whole it is surpassed by many. Witness, for instance-leaving the Brake Nightingale, the leader of the vernal chorus,' out of the question, the ethereal strains of the Garden Fauvet, the Blackcap Fauvet, the Wood-Lark, and many others. of these, no, not even the Brake Nightingale itself, possesses that ineffably sweet expression, which we must pronounce to be peculiar to our admirable favourite." Similar testimony to this is given by Bechstein and other naturalists. In a beautifully illustrated work on the Song Birds of Great Britain, privately printed, and edited by John Cotton, F. Z. S., it is stated that the song of this bird is "sweet and well supported, and is continued almost throughout the year." Allusion is also there made to the various familiar and affectionate appellations by which it is known, as in Bornholm (Sweden), Tommi-Liden; in Norway, Peter Ronsmed; in Germany, Thomas Gierdet; in England, "Bob," &c. Wordsworth also alludes to some of these titles of endearment, when, addressing the Robin, he says:

"Art thou the bird whom man loves best, The pious bird with the scarlet breast,

Our little English Robin;

But none

What its full colour is, all our readers must be aware, as its familiar habits give frequent opportunities of observing it; and this, not only in the wintry and inclement season, but also in the glad spring and leafy summer time; for, as Bishop Mant observes in his description of the month of April,

most of all to haunts of men,
Familiar though to savage glen,
And woodland wild he oft may roam
Secluded, oft his wintry home,

No less the Redbreast makes his bower
For nestling in the vernal hour,
In thatch or root of aged tree
Moss-grown, or arching cavity
Of bank or garden's refuse heap,
Or where the broad-leaved tendrils creep
Of ivy, and an arbour spread

O'er trellised porch or cottage shed." Hitherto we have looked only on the bright side of Robinet's history; but it is now our duty, as faithful chroniclers, to state the sad fact, that he is, to his own feathered friends and kinsfolk, a most dis

agreeable, quarrelsome fellow; a very Turk among the, who had been thus severe from a desire to make his bushes, disturbing the sweet serenity of the sylvan | son a great chief and warrior, went to the lodge in scene with his brawls and scuffles, and frequently, which he was confined, on the morning after the preshocking to relate, staining the greensward and the scribed time had expired, and how he saw the change pure white blossoms with blood. Who that knows take place, crying out the while in agony of spirit,this, would-could, invoke him as the "gentle bird!" My son! my son! do not leave me!' But the bird Yes, Robinet! for the truth must be told, thou art looked down on his father with pity beaming in his a fierce, pugnacious fellow, and of a verity dost not eyes, and told him he should always love to be near deserve the affection which is lavished on thee by those man's dwellings; that he should always be seen happy who see in thee a poor little harmless creature, driven and contented, by the constant sprightliness and joy by the inclemency of the weather, and the pangs he would display; that he would ever strive to cheer of hunger, to seek shelter and food from man, and his father by his songs, which would be some conwho doubtless think thee very grateful therefore, solation to him for the loss of the glory he expected— though even this may be doubted; for, as soon and that, although no longer a man, he would ever be as the ice-bound streams begin to flow once more, the harbinger of peace and joy to the human race." and the bare branches to put forth buds, thou art away into the woods to seek the food which best thou lovest, and to build a home for thy expected progeny. Not that we would blame thee for thus obeying the promptings of nature, nor, indeed, for anything, save thy quarrelsome propensities: so never heed the ungracious truths which we have been telling of thee, but believe us to be quite in earnest while repeating the anecdote and verses in thy praise, which follow.

The following paragraph, illustrative of the Robin's docility, and attachment to its friend and benefactor, man, is extracted from Percy St. John's "Birds." "John M'Kelvie, gardener to the lady of the late General Hughes, at her seat of Mount Charles, beautifully situated on the banks, and near the mouth of the classic Doon, has a host of winged companions, all of which come at his call, flutter around him in the garden, and feed from his hand. At the head of this feathered tribe stands a Redbreast, which all but speaks, in return for the long kind treatment it has experienced from its master. This bird, when called upon, will fly from the furthest point at which it can hear his voice, alight on his hand at once, and without any apprehensions, pick its meal, and oftentimes will sit on his shoulder as he walks or works, and nestle in his bosom in well-known security. Nay more, when the gardener goes to town, if the Robin by any chance espies him as he departs, it gives him an escort, chirping and fluttering along the hedge before him, until he reaches the toll-bar, at Alloway place, cn which, or on a neighbouring tree, it perches awaiting his return.”

Mrs. Schoolcraft, the wife of an English missionary at Mackinaw, on Lake Huron, relates that

The North American Indians have a tradition that the Robin, which, with them, is a considerably larger bird than with us, was once a youth whose father enjoined on him too long a fast (twelve days), on occasion of the customary abstinence from food before entering upon the duties of manhood, and choosing a guardian spirit, which must be something. dreamt of during this fast. When the youth was upon the point of perishing with hunger, the transformation was effected, which saved him from such a doom and the story goes on to tell how the father,

This tradition is beautifully expressive of the universal feeling of affectionate regard for the Robin, which seems to prevail wherever the bird is known; it appears to be looked upon as a kind of connecting link between humanity and the feathered creation, and it is a creature so intimately associated with the recollections of home and childhood, and all that is brightest, and freshest, and purest in the heart and imagination of man, that we need feel no surprise at the number of poetic tributes which the bird has received from the sensitive and the gifted sons of genius.

In conclusion, we would endeavour to express our own sentiments in relation to this universal favourite, in lines which, if they have no other merit, possess, at least, those of earnestness and sincerity.

STANZAS TO THE ROBIN. "The Lark has ceased his merry trill, the Nightingale is mute,

The Blackbird poureth out no more his notes, so like a flute;

No longer on the bending spray sings sweet the speckled Thrush,

The Linnet's silent in the copse, the Redstart in the bush:

The trees stand bare and verdureless, all swaying to the blast,

And from the leaden sky come down the hailstones thick and fast;

No flower is seen upon the banks, but patches white instead,

Where whirling snow-wreaths cover o'er the leaves all sere and dead.

A mournful silence reigns around, no cheerful sound is heard,

No hum of insect on the wing, no note of warbling bird.

No low of cattle on the hills, no bleat of pastured sheep;

All objects wear a sombre hue, all creatures seem to weep;

Nay! hear ye not that warble low? again it meets

the ear,

Like a consolatory voice the mourning soul to cheer: It is the Robin, who, when all our summer friends are gone,

Because he beareth love to man, still singeth gaily on. Oh, gentle Bird! with ruddy breast, and quick and restless eye,

That flieth not our presence when the stormy days are nigh,

A COLONIST'S STORY OF CHRISTMAS EVE. horted us to admit the owner for the sake of God.

"The man says they are only three. We are five, by the savage noises which were heard in our rear and could see justice done." that we were discovered, and in a few moments we became aware that the whole band of wretches were in full pursuit.

The native eagerly seconded this suggestion, and the result was, that seizing our weapons, we quitted my house in search of the robbers, leaving Hall behind to protect my property.

The night was rather threatening. When the moon occasionally shone forth with a faint glimmer we could discern great piles of clouds approaching, or already surrounding her. Only here and there a star could make itself visible, and as we went on, even these wholly disappeared.

Favoured by the darkness, we contrived to ensconce ourselves in the midst of a clump of trees before our foes could overtake us. They passed the place of our concealment in hot pursuit, and in a few minutes had put some distance between us and them. But their fierce yells were echoed with such fearful distinctness that a foe seemed to be approaching from every side, and we knew not which way to turn.

We followed the stranger for at least half a mile, Cautiously emerging from our concealment, we anxiously looking round for signs of the presence of hurried to avail ourselves of the shelter of another his late assailants. Not a sound, however, broke the clump of bushes, and by thus changing our quarters heavy silence of the night. We proceeded over a several times, we contrived to get over some distance. piece of rising ground which lay within my bounds, Once, when we were about starting for a fresh and when these latter were passed, continued our ambush, we all distinctly heard a rustling noise in course into a little valley which was situate beyond. the grass, and shrank back in dismay. We remained We hurried along the path which had been worn in for some time anxiously listening for a repetition of the centre, while at our right and left hands rose ait: but in a few minutes we heard the return of the sloping embankment, forming a rather lofty wall on either side. These walls were covered with long grass, interspered with trees and bushes of various kinds. No settler had yet taken possession of it, although it was a promising spot and consisting of fertile earth, as the abundance and richness of its vegetation, even without artificial assistance, plainly proved.

We had reached the centre of this miniature valley when our native guide suddenly stopped. He said in a low whisper to White,

'It was here or about dey stop me. I creep forward soft, find 'em, and come back to tell."

"No!" replied the veteran colonist, "you lead us to them. We can come gently after you."

The other urged objections with such eagerness, and hesitated so much to proceed with us at his heels, that White became the more resolute to accompany him.

"You are a stranger to us," he observed in reply to the ebullition of argument, "we come here to protect you, and if you practise treachery you shall dearly answer for it."

As he spoke he reached his hand to grasp him by the shoulder. The fellow, alarmed at the action, eluded him and sprang into a thick bush close by, uttering a loud cry. A sickening emotion of despair seized us when we perceived the treachery which had been practised upon us. With a furious imprecation White raised his rifle in the direction of the fugitive, a stream of flame poured from its muzzle into the bush, a yell of mortal agony mingled with the roar of the explosion and resounded with it among the hills. "One of 'em!" muttered White, between his teeth.

A chorus of cries burst from the ambushed savages, and we heard the rustling of the long grass and the trampling of many feet in close proximity. We commenced rapidly retracing our steps, White leading, and reloading by the way. We were soon convinced

Kaffirs, who were rushing along the path at a furious rate. White, who understood the purport of their exclamations, informed us that they believed we had evaded their pursuit. Overjoyed at the prospect of escaping their anticipated vengeance, we were crouching still closer in our concealment while they passed, when, to our unspeakable dismay, a figure started from the long grass within three yards of us, and leaped directly into the pathway.

"All up!" whispered White to us, “what we wish to keep we must fight for!"

When I consider that I had never seen a shot fired in earnest before, and look at the odds which were against us, I am surprised at the coolness with which I examined my rifle and prepared my knife for deadly work. My energies were all collected to sustain the excitement of the struggle, and I even awaited the onset of the natives with impatience.

They were not long assembling in a body directly in our front, where they deliberated for a few minutes. Our inclinations prompted us to let fly amongst them while they were thus crowded together, but Harry Percy urged the necessity of reserving our fire, and therefore we waited.

Presently our enemies made a simultaneous movement, and a shower of spears fell upon the bush in front. They then uttered their war-cry and rushed on us, keeping huddled together in a dark mass.

They were within three yards of us when, taking steady aim at breast height, we discharged our weapons among them. A fiendish chorus of screams of agony and imprecations of vengeance ensued, by which we were made aware that our fire had not been without due effect.

Checked but for an instant, our ferocious focs, howling with fury, leaped into the bush behind which we lay concealed. Now, we found that a hand to hand struggle must decide the question; we rose to our feet and fell upon the bloodthirsty wretches with the utmost fury. Grasping my rifle by the barrel with