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THE CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, 



NOTES OF A NATURALIST. 

 BY JACOB GREEN, M. D. 



PROFESSOR OP CHEMISTRY IHT JEFFERSON COLLEGE. 



Our Village. — Music of Birds, Sfc. 



In the country, the early morning hours, and those of 

 closing day, are peculiarly interesting to the naturalist. 

 When rosy morning first appears, all around seems fresh 

 and unsullied; and in the spring and summer months the 

 air is peculiarly invigorating and elastic. Every one who 

 delights in the music of nature, must listen, 



When the song of the grove hails the rising of day. 



The fresh fragrance of the fields and gardens, and the 

 cheerful carolling of our tuneful birds, cannot fail to be 

 grateful to the senses, and to be perfectly in unison with 

 the feelings and sentiments of every well-regulated mind. 

 It was a strange and wild theory of Buffon, to say the 

 least of it, that men and other animals degenerated in the 

 climate of America. Among the examples which he 

 brings forward in support of this notion, is our sweet 

 Wood Thrush, (7 1 . Melodius,) which he imagines to be 

 the same species of bird as the Song Thrush, (T. Musicus,) 

 of Europe. Our Thrush he then represents as destitute of 

 any note but a single scream, having so far degenerated by 

 food and climate from his progenitors in Europe, as now 

 to utter nothing but harsh and unpleasant sounds, like the 

 cries, he says, of all birds that live in wild countries inha- 

 bited by savages. There is more poetry than natural his- 

 tory in all this. Who, that has devoted any attention to 

 this subject, does not know, that the lonely exile in the 

 unfrequented and dreary forests of Siberia and Lapland, is 

 often cheered with the music of the Grosbeak; or that the 

 cannibal of New-Zealand, reposing in his wigwam, may 

 hear the mellow song of many warblers of the night? 

 With regard to the Wood Thrush, Wilson refutes the fan- 

 ciful theory of Buffon, by giving us a beautiful description 

 of its habits and song. After remarking that the voice, 

 energy, and expression, of birds of the same species, dif- 

 fer as widely from each other, as the voices of different in- 

 dividuals of the human race, he observes of the Wood 

 Thrush: " I remember one, whose notes I could instantly 

 recognize on entering the woods, and with whom I had 

 been, as it were, acquainted from his first arrival. The 

 top of a large white oak, that overhung part of the glen, 

 was usually the favourite pinnacle from whence he poured 

 the sweetest melody, to which I have frequently listened, 

 till night began to gather in the woods, and the fire-flies 

 to sparkle among the branches." This sweet and solitary 

 spngster arrives in Pennsylvania about the latter end of 



April, and soon announces his presence. " With the 

 dawn of the succeeding morning, mounting to the top of 

 some tall tree, that rises from a low, thick shaded part of 

 the woods, he pipes his few clear and musical notes in a 

 kind of ecstacy, the prelude, or symphony to which, 

 strongly resembles the double tongueing of a German 

 flute, and sometimes the tinkling of a small bell; the 

 whole song consists of five or six parts, the last note of 

 each of which is in such a tone, as to leave the conclusion 

 evidently suspended; the finale is finely managed, and with 

 such charming effect, as to soothe and tranquillize the 

 mind, and to seem sweeter and mellower at each successive 

 repetition. During the burning heat of the day he is com- 

 paratively mute; but in the evening the same melody is re- 

 newed, and continued long after sun-set. Even in dark, 

 wet, and gloomy weather, when scarce a single chirp is 

 heard from any other bird, the clear notes of the Wood 

 Thrush thrill through the drooping woods from morning 

 to night, and it may be truly said that the sadder the day 

 the sweeter is his song." Every school-boy in the village 

 who rambles over our woody hills, and along the margin 

 of the creek, on Saturday afternoon, can testify to the truth 

 of this beautiful description. The clear, mellow, flute- 

 like notes of the Wood Thrush, always recall to my mind 

 many interesting little adventures, — a thousand pleasing 

 scenes and youthful sports in by-gone days; some of which 

 I must be indulged in here repeating. A great portion of 

 my holyday pastime, when at boarding-school, at Prince- 

 ton, in New-Jersey, was passed with my hook and line, 

 on the margin of Stony brook, not very far from the spot 

 where the gallant Mercer fell during our revolutionary con- 

 flict. The quiet and retired situation of this gentle stream, 

 the romantic and uncultivated solitudes by which it was 

 then surrounded, and the marvellous adventures with the 

 Indians, which are aaid to have happened along its peace- 

 ful banks in the early periods of American history, ren- 

 dered the brook, as we used to call it, an oft-frequented 

 and a deeply interesting place of resort. A considerable 

 stretch of the stream passed through the estate of my grand- 

 father, where I usually passed my holyday time, in joyous, 

 unrestrained, and 1 hope innocent revelry. As I have al- 

 ways experienced an uncontrollable antipathy to strange 

 dogs, whether 



Mongrel, puppy, whelp, or hound, 

 Or curs of low degree, 



for this reason, I rarely ever crossed the boundaries of 

 the estate; but I could wander in these extensive and se- 

 cluded retreats, without fear of molestation from any quar- 

 ter. When the mowers were to be engaged in the neigh- 

 bouring meadow; when the boys drove the cattle into these 



