152 THE BIRDS OF SPRING. 



in the way of investigation or even sport; but a habit greatly prevails of 

 useless destruction whenever either rare beast, bird, or plant is met with 

 in our rambles. Who that has read St. John's delightful book has not 

 grieved over the murder of the Osprey on her nest? and who that has 

 delighted himself over the wilds of Snowdonia has not mourned over the 

 disappearance of many a rare plant, which might well have rewarded the 

 toils of climbing, had it been left for the examination of him who loves 

 to see Nature's rarest productions flourishing in their native wildness? But, 

 alas! the hand of the spoiler must root it up, and selfishly appropriate 

 perhaps the last specimen. If a rare bird appears in any locality, num- 

 berless guns are at once bent upon its death, when surely a moment's 

 reflection would check such selfishness, and make us consider that the more 

 rare the bird or plant, the more we should be careful not to destroy it. 

 Had a different and more rational spirit prevailed, we might still have had 

 a sight of the Bustard on Salisbury Plain, and the Bittern in the marshes 

 of Wales; but, alas! we now look for these noble and beautiful works of 

 Nature in vain. 



Next to this ignorant mischief is the wanton destruction of harmless 

 and useful birds. The wretched and wicked habit of almost all children 

 seeking after and taking birds' nest with no other object than mere wilful 

 destruction, is, I verily believe, conducive to many a wicked propensity in 

 after life; but not to follow up this moral strain too deeply, I would just 

 at this season raise my voice to protect three particularly beautiful harm- 

 less, and useful birds which, I am sorry to say, are often killed through 

 prejudice or wantonness. The I^apwing, Peewit, or Common Plover, is, 

 perhaps, one of the most elegant inhabitants of air; its elegant flight, its 

 plaintive pipe, as it gambols in airy wheels and dips over and around its 

 mate, must have delighted every real lover of the rural ramble. One 

 would have supposed that the thousands of slugs that it lives upon would 

 have made it a peculiar pet of the farmer; and its peculiar vigilance in 

 giving the alarm if either weasel, or crow, or magpie, or dog, or poacher, 

 cross its resting-place, ought to make it sacred to the gamekeeper; and 

 yet how constantly is it destroyed through sheer thoughtlessness. So like- 

 wise the beautiful White Owl, that best of mousers, how rare has it 

 become! its usefulness is without a drawback, and yet how wilfully is it 

 persecuted? I know scarcely anything so beautiful as to see this spirit 

 of the early night silently glide along the dim hedge-row, and then, light as 

 the foam of the wave, perch upon the picturesque stump of some old tree — 

 who would destroy thee, if they thought but for a moment of thy use- 

 fulness and beauty? And thirdly, let me say a word for that endless 

 mocker and imitator, that croaks, and whistles, and screams, and warbles, 

 in mockery of all its feathered songsters, the Starling, whether we see 



