THE POETS AND BIRDS. 



11 



I also find, after careful research, that our poets, especially 

 Burns and Shakespeare, drew more illustrations from birds than 

 any other class. 



No doubt an amorous tom-cat, perched upon some old dyke 

 or outhouse roof, in a courting mood, emitting his dismally 

 energetic midnight serenade of caterwauling; or lonely, masterless 

 dog, sitting howling on a rock by the sea-shore, with his nose 

 pointed at the moon (like melancholy Jacques), do make some 

 pitiful attempts at whistling or singing — at least howling — like 

 an ill-bred cur in a drawing-room adding his unwelcome chorus 

 to the high notes of the piano — but all miserable failures at the 

 best. 



The frog is even worse, when sitting by the side of a swamp, 

 with his head in the air, like a parson, enjoying his evening 

 •croak. 



The merry whistle of the guinea-pig, and the sweet notes of the 

 little field-mouse, come much nearer the shape of a song than any 

 other quadrupeds I know — especially the latter, which often 

 lilts its low, sweet echo of music for half-an-hour at a time. 



And, as for musical insects — with the exception of the solitary 

 squeak of the forbidding death's-head moth I know of none — for 

 the hum of the bee and the drone of the shard-borne beetle are 

 caused by the rapid motion of the wings — not by the voice. 



You hear the little house-fly buzzing past, and Sir John 

 Lubbock tells us that those busy little wings make 21,120 

 vibrations in a minute. A clever naturalist, named Marey, con- 

 trived an ingenious mechanism by which each vibration of the 

 wing made a distinct mark, and ascertained that there were 

 generally about 330 strokes in a second. I am sure you will 

 look upon the little fly with more interest and respect when you 

 know what efforts it costs to make a buzz — the music of the fly. 

 This instrumental method of producing sounds explains some 

 things that filled our grandmothers with dread. A ghostly 

 sound that used to alarm the watchers around the sick-bed — 

 a sure sign that death was near — is, it seems, produced by the 

 male and female death-watch tapping their heads when courting 

 — more a sign of marriage than death. So this is another tiny 

 insect, quarter of an inch long, that fain would be a musician. 



Fishes are no better, for, with the exception of the doleful 

 crooning of the dying crooner, or groaner, as the gurnard is 

 called, and the most unmusical blowing of the porpoise or whale, 

 I cannot tax my memory to mention a musical fish — unless it be 

 the horribly suggestive sound from the snapping of the jaws of 



