ORNITHOLOGIA.

BY H. G. ADAMS.

NO. II. THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WARBLER,

[This is an elegant little bird, bearing some slight resemblance to the Golden-crested Wren of Britain; it is, however, considerably larger, the tail is more forked, and the prevailing tint of the plumage is green, instead of being brown, as is the case with that tiniest of songsters. This Warbler is a native of Denmark, and would appear ill adapted to the cold northern regions which it inhabits; but as "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," and as nothing, into which he has put the breath of life, is without its peculiar enjoyments, so I doubt not that this seemingly fragile and delicate creature is gifted with powers which enable it to withstand the tempests of the north, and that it passes its days as pleasantly as those which dwell 'neath sunnier skies and in a warmer atmosphere. We are but too apt to be led by appearances, without sufficiently reflecting on their deceptive nature, and the thought immediately struck me, on viewing a drawing of this beautiful bird, and reading that it was a Warbler, and a native of so bleak and ungenial a country as Denmark, that it resembled the poet, placed in a situation where few can appreciate his value, or care to listen to the melody of his lyre. This idea I have endeavoured to carry out in the following stanzas :-]

WHERE the stormy Baltic dashes

On the rocks of Elsinore,

And the coast of Zealand lashes
With a loud, continuous roar,
There, amid the pines and spruces,
Which impregnate all around
With their terebinthine juices,

Flowing forth from many a wound,—
Dwells the Warbler, golden-crested,
Green and glossy are his plumes,
Many a fierce wind hath he breasted,
Many an hour of tempest-glooms.

'Tis a dark and stormy region,
For a bird so fair and small;
Blasts are there-an angry legion,
And, as on they sweep, down fall
Stately pines of growth gigantic,
Flinging their black arms about;
Billows leap as they were frantic,
Caverns echo to their shout;
Rock to rock is wildly calling,
Rock to rock again replies;
There is crash and boom appalling,
And the sea-fowl's piercing cries.

Who can hear that sweet bird singing,
Who can listen to its lay,

When such sounds as these are ringing-
Ever ringing-night and day!
Can the fisher on the billow?
Can the fowler on the rock?
Can the sailor, he whose pillow
Is amid the tempest shock?

He who sees the walrus whelter,
And the porpoises at play,
Seeking neither rest nor shelter-
Lovers of the storm are they!

Can the serf, who in the forest
Cutteth down the stately trees?
Cold or hunger, which is sorest?
He must work, or starve and freeze!
Can the delver and the miner,
Labouring far under ground?
Can the smelter and refiner ?—

Flames are roaring all around!
Can the merchant in the city?
He's too full of hopes and fears!
Can the noble?-more's the pity-
Furs are all about his ears!

Tell me, then, can no one hear him-
That sweet bird of dulcet song?
May no mortal wight come near him,
All the dreary winter long?
Yes! for now and then a maiden,
Stealing from the town or farm;
Or a youth, with breast love-laden,
Owns the music hath a charm ;
So do tearful sires and mothers,

Widows sad, and men forlorn,
Sisters lone, and grieving brothers-

All, who sorrow's yoke have borne !

All, in whom the chords of feeling
Have been woken by the touch
Of some angel-power, revealing
Grief or pleasure overmuch;
All, who are by aspirations,
Glorious and lofty, swayed;

All, whose thoughts are like oblations
On a heavenly altar laid;

These, and such as these, will hearken To the sweetly-warbled song,

Though the clouds around may darken, And the winds be loud and strong.

Like that bird so sings the poet

In the dreary waste of life;

Sweet he sings, but, who shall know it?
All around is storm and strife!

Jarring interests, and contending,
Passions wage eternal war;
Angry conflicts, never ending,

All his strains accordant mar:

Who shall know it? who shall listen
To the chaunted notes of love?
Many an one whose eye shall glisten,
Thinking of the realms above!

Though the multitude may never
Come to listen to thy strain;
Though to him who toileth ever
All thy singing be in vain;
Though the merchant's gains and losses
Fill his heart and close his ears!
Though ambitious pride engrosses
Noble statesmen, high-born peers;
POET! ne'ertheless continue
To uplift thy voice in song,
Use the power that is within you,
To subdue it were a wrong !*

Use the gift, and thank the Giver,—
Blending notes of love and praise,
Let thy song flow, like a river
Fertilizing arid ways;

Flowers shall spring where least expected,
Cheering thoughts in many a heart,
Pining, lonely and neglected,

Stricken by affliction's dart;

Hope, and Peace, and Gladness giving,

Such shall be thy blessed lot,
Cherished by the few while living,
And when dead, still unforgot!

* I am here forcibly reminded of the words of CONRAD OF WURSBURGH, a minstrel who flourished at the conclusion of the 13th century; speaking of the apathy of the world towards poetry, he indignantly exclaims, "I care not for their gifts! My tongue shall not be silent, since the art itself will reward me. I will continue to sing my song like the nightingale, who sings for her own sake; hidden in the woods her notes assuage her cares, nor does she heed whether any stranger listen to her strains."

Chatham.

Erratum to No. I. Prefatory Note, Humming Birds, in last No. line 4, for hunters read haunters.

PRACTICAL JOKES.

By W. H. LOGAN, ESQ.

CHAPTER IV.

THE families Twickenhams, and Dickenses, the Misses Popkinses, Dobsons, and Smiths, together with Mr Gubbins the poet, and Mr Perkins the amateur vocalist, were at seven o'clock duly divested of their walking-gear, and tastefully arranged in the drawing-room, where, in half an hour more, they were regaling upon tea, coffee, crumpets, and buttered toast.

"Take a whole slice, dear!" said the eldest Miss Dobson to the junior Master Dickens, who was patronizing her so far as to sit upon her knee, much to her annoyance, for she hated children—and to the evident detriment of her fine new white frock. Her motive for this extreme fondness was apparent enough, from the glances which she shot in the direction of the poetical Gubbins, whose good graces she proposed to secure by her seeming fondness for the little wretch on her knee, whom she, with a subdued intensity of emotion, wished any where else but where he was. The sweet poppet did as he was bid, and repaid his fascinating protectress with one of his sweetest kisses. This, however, was given with such fervency, that a record was impressed on her fair cheek of the masticating process in which he had previously been engaged. Having thus testified his gratitude, the intellectual little citizen contemplated with much satisfaction the interesting piece of buttered toast in his hand, and commenced a vigorous attack on the softer part, which, in process of time, disappeared, leaving behind it a barrier of crust, the extremities thereof, when the excavation was finished, embellishing either cheek. Finding his progress thus impeded, he indignantly threw the fragment on the ground, and by a dexterous demivolte performed the same evolution with his little arms round Miss Dobson's neck, and again kissing her, signified his wish for another slice. These repeated endearments so far irritated Miss Dobson, that, unperceived by the company, she administered a pinch to her charming protegée, who thereupon commenced squalling and clutching at the coffee cup which the lady held at arm's length, and speedily transferred its contents to the lap of her white gown. All the women gathered round, expressing their regret at the accidentthe little dear was sent home in the reluctant custody of his eldest sister, with the prospect of being

and Miss Dobson, after trying to seem quite unconcerned about the matter, in a short time took her departure, very much chagrined that the poet did not offer to see her home.

Some execrable music-some quadrilling-and some pointless witticisms by Mr Joseph Miller Twickenham, a well-up-in-years tallowchandler, satisfactorily prolonged the evening's amusements till about nine, when Mrs Watkins wondered what had become of the dinner party. Edith concurred in the wonderment, Seraphina did not, when presently the door opened, and Cousin Tom, Mr Snoozle, and Mr Stanley, appeared, and were introduced, during which imposing ceremony a profound silence was observed.

Tea and coffee were ordered up for the refreshment of the new-comers, and which Cousin Tom ventured to observe were "" reyther cold." Mrs Watkins coolly remarked, that they had been made two hours before, and insinuated that the fault-if any-was attributable to themselves. Mr Twickenham, having by a "hem!" attracted notice, submitted that "the tea was very like themselves." The wit of this observation lying too deep for the understanding of his auditors, he explained that "it had been long in their cups

"Ha! ha ha!" resounded through the room in all sorts of voices, from "the manly bass to the childish treble ;"-those who, upon this explanation, understood the joke, and those who even then did not, appeared equally gratified. When the applause had somewhat subsided, Mr Perkins, the vocalist, said, that "they ought to esteem the tea as a pearl of great price, for it was of the first water.'

The more obscure an attempted witticism is, the more successful is it likely to prove, for whatever is unintelligible is invariably thought to be very clever; and, accordingly, this sally set the company in convulsions a second time, and its consequences might have proved fatal, had not Mr Perkins been "stuck" for a song.

With the air of a man who knows that he is "born to command ten thousand slaves," did Mr Perkins advance and request Miss Sally Twickenham to play the accompaniment. Miss Sally endeavoured to blush— hesitated but was overruled by her mother, and that amiable lady having ingeniously adjusted her daughter's frock, which left room for the display of a superabundance of shoulder, and shed her ringlets, gave her in charge to Mr Perkins, who led her to the piano.

Mr Perkins drew out his white pocket-handkerchief, coughed slightly, and in a throat voice broke forth into the following:

Come where the dew-drop reposes,―

There, our dwelling-place ever shall be !
And we'll sit in a bower of roses,

'Neath the leaves of the sycamore tree.
And we'll gaze on the deep blue sea, my love,
While the moon sheds her misty light;
And thou'lt be all in the world to me, my love;
A sun in the bosom of night.

The Mermaids shall rise from the ocean,
To braid their long-flowing hair ;

But I've ne'er of their beauty a notion,

Whilst thou, sweetest angel, art there.

There's a smile on that pouting lip, my love,
There's a tear in that soul-speaking eye;
Oh! believe me, I'll never sip, my love,
Of another's when thou art by.

Nothing occurred to mar the effect of this song, save the exclamation "how shoaking!" by Mrs Twickenham on the conclusion of the first stanza, when mention was made, as she supposed, of "a son," and a slight interruption on the part of the vocalist himself, who had so far forgotten the words as to sing :—

"There's a tear on that pouting lip, my love,"

which he instantly corrected by commencing the line again, but as this movement altogether escaped Miss Twickenham's notice, he had the satisfaction of wandering through the last line without the aid of an accom