KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



25 



happy. We never " sing," surely, -when our 

 mind is ill at ease ! Some may ; but we do 

 not. In this, truly, we " measure our 

 neighbor's corn in our own bushel.'' 



The late Macgillivray, a writer with 

 whom we are by no means altogether pleased 

 (for he recommends the indiscriminate and 

 murderous slaughter, on certain ocaasions, 

 of our small harmless choristers), has drawn 

 a pretty and correct sketch of the blackbird. 

 He has regarded him in the light of a happy 

 parent in esse, or in expectancy ; for he sings 

 in both cases equally well. A right joyous 

 fellow is he ; we love him dearly. But now 

 for a poetical description of his abandon to 

 the inspiration of his muse. 



" It is not," remarks Macgillivray, " in 

 the wild valley, flanked with birchen slopes, 

 and stretching far away among the craggy 

 hills, that the music of the blackbird floats 

 upon the evening breeze. There you may 

 listen, delighted to the gentle song of the 

 mavis ; but here, in this plain, covered with 

 corn-fields and skirted with gardens, sit thee 

 down on the green turf by the gliding brook, 

 and mark the little black speck, stuck, as it 

 were, upon the top twig of that tall poplar. 

 It is a blackbird ; for now the sweet strain, 

 loud, but mellowed by distance, comes upon 

 the ear, inspiring pleasant thoughts, and 

 banishing care and sorrow. The bird has 

 evidently learned his part by long practice, 

 for he sits sedately and in full consciousness 

 of superiority. 



" Ceasing at intervals, he renews the 

 straiD ; varying it so that, although you can 

 trace an occasional repetition of notes, the 

 staves are never precisely the same. You 

 may sit an hour, or longer, and yet the song 

 will be continued ; and in the neighboring 

 gardens, many rival songsters will sometimes 

 raise their voices at once, or delight you 

 with alternate strains. 



" And now what is the purpose of all this 

 melody ? We can only conjecture that it is 

 the expression of the perfect happiness which 

 the creature is enjoying, when, uncarked by 

 care, conscious of security, and aware of the 

 presence of his mate, he instinctively pours 

 forth his soul in joy, and gratitude, and love. 

 He does not sing to amuse his mate, as many 

 have supposed — for he often sings in winter, 

 when he is not yet mated ; nor does he sing 

 to beguile his solitude, for now he is not 

 solitary ; but he sings because all his wants 

 are satisfied, his whole frame glowing with 

 health, and because his Maker has gifted 

 him with the power of uttering sweet 

 sounds." 



There are very few of us, indeed, who know 

 how to enjoy the charms of a country life, 

 that can help anticipating the vernal treats 

 so ready to burst upon us at an early day. 

 Nor do we envy those who — 



"In populous cities pent," 



can say they are happy, and want for no- 

 thing. Smoke and dirt, dust and noise, 

 barter and anxiety, speculation and uneasi- 

 ness, may sit easily on some shoulders. We 

 have known much of such " enjoyments " 

 ourself ; but now — books and flowers, birds 

 and pure air, are the only solace in which we 

 care to take refuge. If ever happiness may 

 be lawfully sought, it is in the fields or 

 gardens, on a fine morning in spring. There 

 we listen to our hero singing his early matins, 

 and we exclaim with one of our modern 

 poets — Adams — 



Methinks, methinks, a happy life is thine, 

 Bird of the jetty wing and golden bill ! 



Up in the clear fresh morning's dewy shine 

 Art thou, and singing at thine own sweet will : 

 Thy mellow voice floats over vale and hill, 



Rich and mellifluous to the ear as wine 



Unto the taste ; at noon we hear thee still ; 



And when grey shadows tell of Sol's decline. 



Thou hast thy matin and thy vesper song, 

 Thou hast thy noontide canticle of praise, 



For Him who fashioned thee to dwell among 

 The orchard-grounds, and 'mid the pleasant 

 ways, 



Where blooming hedge-rows screen the rustic 

 throng : 



Thy life's a ceaseless prayer, thy days all Sab- 

 bath days. 



We have already spoken of the small 

 modicum of " instinct " inherent in the black- 

 bird. When we were boys, we used (boy- 

 like, naturally " cruel ! ") to " draw " the 

 nests of these birds. When we found four 

 eggs, we removed three. To the odd one, 

 the poor hen blackbird would lay another. 

 This we again removed, and so on for a 

 number of days; until, Nature exhausted, the 

 ill-fated bird would die on its nest ! Oh that 

 we could write with a pen of iron, on the 

 heart of every thoughtless youngster, the 

 wickedness, the cruelty of such a wanton 

 act ! How often have we shuddered whilst 

 contemplating these indefensible acts of ours 

 in early childhood ! We record it with 

 shame, hoping that it will fall with a salutary 

 effect on the conscience of others, who may 

 even now be contemplating some similar act 

 of early spoliation. We need hardly add, 

 that most birds, w r hen they find their locus in 

 quo is discovered, immediately decamp to 

 other quarters, The genus " school-boy " 

 liketh them not. 



In our next, we will go into matters of 

 detail with respect to the proper treatment 

 of a blackbird, — or at least the best mode 

 of treatment for " a bird in confinement." It 

 is a sad " duty" indeed to perform! 



Whilst viewing this noble, happy fellow 

 in the country — and listening to his mellow, 

 joyous song from the top of a lofty tree, we 

 feel we could write " up" to him with spirit ; 

 but as we shall have to treat of him as a 



