her, sung cheerfully among the underwood, and her golden-crested relative, the most elegant of British birds, peeped suspiciously from the spreading branches of a silver fir, then flitted from spray to spray, and shook a shower of tinkling ice-drops on the withered leaves. Robin, too, who loves mankind, alive or dead, was ready with his song, and the cheerful voice of the woodlark resounded from a wild acclivity shaded with high trees.

These are the only musicians that enliven January with their songs. The other soft-billed species, that continue stationary, are generally silent; but though silent, they perform important services to the husbandman. Some examine the young buds for such of the insect tribes as insidiously destroy them; others employ themselves in searching with a similar design the quarried bark of aged trees, among the thatch of barns and cottages, and in beds of moss.

As most of the soft-billed species subsist on insects, they migrate at the end of summer, but the following, though insectivorous, are seen around the village during this severe month.

The redbreast and the wren are welcome at the open door, where their light steps may be traced on the snow: children throw them out crumbs, and they collect flies and spiders from open barns and outbuildings. They are held sacred by our

little peasantry: those who mercilessly destroy the nests of every other species, respect the cradles of these favourite birds; and the child who dared to injure them would be thought to give but a bad presage of his future disposition.

I know not to what we may attribute this peculiar kindliness of feeling, except to that exquisite ballad, "The Babes in the Wood," with which our village children are well acquainted; a composition of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity. Hard-hearted must the child be, who, when he inclines to pillage a robin's nest, does not recall to mind the dying parent, the innocent deserted children, and how fondly the little red-breasted birds covered them with leaves in the midst of that wild wood, whither the faithless guardian had cruelly conducted them. But why the same kind feeling is evinced towards the grey-wren, when the golden-crested is eagerly sought for, and captured, I have never been able to ascertain.

The house-sparrow, (fringilla domestica,) a bold pertinacious bird, though often chased away, as frequently returns to share the feast. Why should he not? That he has neither a handsome coat, nor a sweet song, is no just reason to deny him the rites of hospitality, especially when he only craves a few crumbs to save him from perishing. His services are always ready if required, and were it

not for his active ministry, our early fruits would often fail.

The winter fauvette, or hedge-sparrow, (motacilla modularis) is a general favourite in the village. You may see him peeping from the loaded hedges, and hear his cheerful twitter in the coldest weather. In the homestead, too, and orchard, he is equally at home, loving the vicinity of man, and never deserting him. If the sun breaks out, and a mild breeze begins to blow, he is all life and animation; his wings quiver with delight, and his sweet gentle song is heard throughout the day.

Then he is the first to build a nest; and as if trusting to the general favour that is shown him, he often commits his little citadel to some leafless hedge, where, sad to tell, the prying schoolboy as frequently discovers it, bears off the nest in triumph, and strings the blue eggs.

We have also mottled, yellow, and grey wagtails-the motacilla alba, flava, and boarula. They frequent such shallow rivulets as are never frozen, and feed on the aurelia that are concealed in the damp herbage. The wheatear (sylvia œnanthe) has been seen occasionally in a warm sheltered coppice, eastward of the village; whinchats (motacilla rubetra) and stone-chatterers (m. rubecola) on a rocky declivity belted with high trees.

I have watched them when the snow has lien thick upon the ground, hopping carelessly among the stones on that wild common, and in the quarries at its base. As they looked in good case, aureliæ, most probably, also furnished their table in the wilderness. Here, too, is the golden

crested wren, (motacilla regulus,) that fairy of a bird, which braves our severest winters, and keeps apart from tower and town.

This little bird seems hardly equal to the shortest flights, and yet it passes over stormy seas of at least fifty miles in breadth, from the

Orkney to the Shetland isles.

When the young

are grown, and able to accompany their parents, the whole family set out on their return. It is beautiful to witness these rejoicing little groups speeding to the parental strand, calm and unmoved

above the dreadful thundering and recoiling of those tremendous billows, from which even the hardiest sailors turn with a feeling of instinctive dread. But golden-crested wrens are not migratory with us. During the winter, they frequent a tall cypress, and build their nest in the shrubbery about June, at which time I have seen them hovering in the garden over an honeysuckle in full bloom.

Different kinds of titmice are frequent in the neighbourhood. If the weather is unusually severe, the blue, the cole, great black-headed, and marsh titmice approach our cottages, the former (parus cæruleus) will glide into the butchers' shops for bits of suet; while others carry away barley and oat-straws from the sides of ricks.

But their delicate long-tailed relative,* which is nearly as minute and beautiful as the goldencrested wren, remains in the woods and fields. Though well acquainted with this beautiful little bird, I have never seen her near the village, nor will the most distressing seasons induce her to relinquish even in imagination that wild independence which she loves so dearly. Poor helpless little bird! I have often thought, 'Where canst thou find a table in all this dazzling waste of snow? how is the vital heat preserved in thy slender

*Parus Caudatus. Lin.