' Tis always morning somewhere, and 



above 

 The awakening continents, from shore 



to shore, 

 Somewhere the birds are singing ever- 



m ore." Longfellow. 



WE are so accustomed to associate birds " the 

 smiles of creation " with all that is wild and fresh, 

 and pleasant, and unlike a great town, that to speak 

 of the birds of London sounds rather like talking 

 nonsense. It is, however, one great advantage which 

 an ornithologist has over most other lovers of natural 

 history, that there are few places in which he cannot 

 find something in his own particular line to interest 

 him, unless it is in countries where Robins and 

 Tomtits have been too long marketable delicacies, 

 and where/ as in some parts of the Continent, woods 

 and plantations are dying off in consequence lands 

 smitten with worms for having slaughtered the 

 innocents. Longfellow's simile is much too good 

 to be given up merely because, as commentators 

 tell us, the King who died on his throne, as he 

 made a speech to the people, was not the Herod 

 who killed the babes of Bethlehem and added 



