THE STARLING. 79 
THE STARLING. 
«TI can’r get out, —I can’t get out, said the star- 
ling.” I know not any thing, except Gay’s “ Hare 
and many Friends,” that made so much impression 
on me, when a boy, as Sterne’s description of the 
captive starling in its cage. His attempt to re- 
lieve the prisoner bird, — its pressing its breast 
against the wires, — its telling every body who 
came down the passage that it could not get out, — 
its remaining in hopeless captivity, — all tended to 
make this pretty bird particularly interesting to me, 
and, in days long past, I have spent many an hour 
in listening to its morning warblings, and in admir- 
ing its aerial evolutions towards the close of day. 
I wish I could do it a friendly turn, for the plea- 
sure it has so often afforded me; but, in taking up 
the pen to clear its character, my heart misgives 
me, on account of the strong public prejudice 
against it. 
There is not a bird in all Great Britain more 
harmless than the starling: still it has to suffer per- 
secution, and is too often doomed to see its num- 
bers thinned by the hand of wantonness or error. 
The farmer complains that it sucks his pigeons’ eggs ; 
and, when the gunner and his assembled party wish 
to try their new percussion locks, the keeper is or- 
dered to close the holes of entrance into the dovecot 
overnight; and the next morning three or four 
dozen of starlings are captured to be shot: while 
