KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



213 



A PLEA FOP THE SKY-LARK. 



SKY-LARKS IN CAGES. 



We feel more than justified, — called 

 upon, to plead hard for the Sky-lark at this 

 season. Till within the last week, or so, 

 thousands of fresh victims have been caught 

 by the villainous trappers, and caged. Mated, 

 and affectionately employed in building nests 

 for their expected young, they have after a 

 long season of cold and misery just begun 

 to enjoy themselves, when a net closing over 

 them has suddenly separated them for ever 

 from all they hold dear in the world. 



To imagine that these birds will sing, or 

 that they can be " happy," would be ridicu- 

 lous. Birds are not such fools — neither are 

 their tender hearts made of such materials 

 as ours. Whilst ours bend, theirs break. 



We are moved to pity, not unmingled 

 with detestation, to see certain birds day by 

 day hung out of windows to make them 

 " sing " — the sun scorching their heads, and 

 the wind sweeping through their cages in 

 fitful gusts. Oh ! the agony endured by those 

 heralds of the sky, as they listen to the dis- 

 tant voices of their free brethren, mounting 

 up to Heaven's gate ! Yet do their tender- 

 hearted owners see no harm in confining 

 them. " They are used to it !" 



We are quite aware that all we can say 

 will avail nothing. Birds alas ! are a doomed 

 race. We are made happy by their suffer- 

 ings ! To show that we are not singular in 

 this idea, we subjoin the remarks of a brother 

 naturalist (Broderip), who thus forcibly 

 speaks his mind : — 



Of all the unhallowed instances of bird incar- 

 ceration (not excepting the stupid cruelty of shut- 

 ting up a robin in an aviary), the condemnation of 

 the skylark to perpetual imprisonment is surely 

 the most repugnant to every good feeling. The 

 bird, whilst his happy brethren are carolling far 

 up in the sky, as if they would storm Heaven it- 

 self with their rush of song, just at the joyous 

 season 



When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear, 



is doomed to pine in some dingy street ! 



There, in a den with a solid wooden roof, 

 painted green outside, and white — glaring white — 

 within, which in bitter mockery is called a sky- 

 lark's cage, he keeps moving his wretched wings, 

 and beating his wings against the wires, panting 

 for one — only one — upward flight into the free air. 

 To delude him into the recollection that there are 

 such places as the fields, which he is beginning to 

 forget, they cut what they call a turf — a turf dried 

 up in the vicinity of this smoke-canopied Babel of 

 bricks, redolent of all its sooty abominations. 

 This abominable lump of dirt is presented to the 

 skylark as a refreshment for his parched feet, long- 

 ing for the fresh morning dews. 



Miserable as the winged creature is, he feels 

 that there is something resembling grass under 



him ; and then the fond wretch looks upwards and 

 warbles, and expects his mate ! Is it possible to 

 see and hear this desecration of instinct unmoved ? 

 And yet we endure it every spring ; and, more- 

 over, we have our Society for Prevention of 

 Cruelty to Animals ! 



NOTES ON THE WHITE SHARK. 



In early childhood, we often associate 

 curious ideas with that monster of the deep, 

 the shark ; and if we turn our memory back 

 to days when cork floats and shot-bound 

 lines formed the symbols of our childish 

 Paradise, our budding intellects would then 

 startle at the least nibble, and draw thoughts 

 to the nursery-book wherein was depicted 

 that scourge of the ocean — the decimating 

 shark. 



But when the form of manhood is full on, 

 those childish pleasures — exciting our simple 

 imaginations to indulge in horrible visions — 

 soon vanish ; the fly rod is exchanged for the 

 tough ash stick, and we feel ourselves, after 

 a season or two's practice, more lords over 

 the finny tribe than any statesman could 

 wish to be : for the art is gentle. 



But to our purpose. The matter with 

 which I am at present engaged, relates not 

 to the rural sports of Britain, and savors 

 little of any claim in an act connected with 

 the government of this country. Small scope 

 there would be for litigation in my subject, 

 even if there were any " Fishery Laws " in 

 vogue for the protection of sharks ; my only 

 wish is that the shark may not form an over- 

 powering attachment to the cod and other 

 fish of our coasts. 



Our interest must now be concerned with 

 the deep sea waters, whose denizens in many 

 parts are little known, and whose habits 

 must be very curious to those who can wit- 

 ness them. On our coasts the White Shark 

 (Squalus carcharius) is seldom met with, es- 

 pecially when full grown. It possibly follows 

 shoals of fish during their migrations through 

 the St. George's Channel, Irish Sea, German 

 Ocean, and English Channel ; but it appears 

 to know the value of deep waters, and instinct 

 warns it to give a wide berth to strangers, 

 for the creature only affords a random chance 

 to be noticed by Naturalists. Dame Nature, 

 it would seem, teaches it to keep well out 

 to sea, and enables it to say good-bye to the 

 stuffing fraternity, commonly styled in these 

 " fast days " of knowledge " Taxidermists." 



It does not follow that subjects which 

 might have gratified the taste of a Buffon, 

 would be by any means acceptable to the 

 man who labors for his daily rations ; espe- 

 cially to men of a maritime class, in which 

 are hardships innumerable, and accidents too 

 common. The lover of shark knowledge 

 would often glory in a capture which involves 



