KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



381 



the year, she hatched five chickens and laid more 

 than sixty eggs. On the 3rd of last April, I took 

 six of these eggs, and six belonging to a white 

 hen (also described in my work on poultry), and 

 I placed them under another hen: all these were 

 hatched on the 23rd of April, so that I had twelve 

 chickens from twelve eggs, laid by two hens reared 

 by artificial aid: I have accurately named the 

 color of the two hens, that any of your readers who 

 might have been at the Birmingham show may 

 remember them from the description given of them 

 ia the catalogue. — Joseph Newton, Ickwell. 



BfRDS OF SONG. 



Give me but 

 Something whereunto I may bind my heart, 

 Something to love, to rest upon, — to clasp 

 Affection's tendrils round. Mrs. Hemajjs. 



No XIV.— THE NIGHTINGALE. 



TURN we NOW FOR A SHORT SEASON, and 



with the kindest of motives, from our good 

 little friends the seed- birds, to give a thrice 

 hearty welcome to their amiable summer 

 associates. We mean those sleek, trim, 

 lovely, lively, delicate " Warblers," whose 

 advent here, at this season, is so anxiously 

 looked for by their expectant admirers ; and 

 some one of whom has been arriving, daily, 

 to take up his summer quarters on our 

 hospitable shores. 



Who would think, to look at that tiny little 

 Babillard, and that glossy black-cap, that 

 only a few weeks since both were braving 

 the elements at sea, and winging their flight 

 across the troubled waters of the Mediter- 

 ranean ? Yet such is the fact. From Africa 

 do they start ; and little repose do they 

 know until they reach England. We are, we 

 believe, about the first, in our parts, to 

 hear of the landing of any of these our visit- 

 ors. Knowing the time they are " due," w r e 

 daily keep a close look-out ; and as we 

 walk abroad, we are not slow to herald their 

 approach : 



" Some well-known voice salutes our ear," 



when others are strangers to its sound. 



The last few weeks have been productive 

 of many interesting " arrivals." We have 

 recognised, one by one, a variety of har- 

 monious foreign voices ; and have seen 

 whence they have proceeded.* Perched 

 among the overhanging branches of trees, 

 a nd half-secreted amongst shrubs — there sat 



* If any of our readers happen by good chance 

 to be located within a reasonable walking dis- 

 tance of the Duke of Devonshire's grounds at 

 Chiswick, let them pay a very early visit to this 

 picturesque neighborhood, and let them make a 

 complete tour of the garden walls. In their walk, 

 they will hear the voices of nearly every one of 

 the " warblers." This is a very favorite spot of 

 ours. 



the choristers in the full enjoyment of their 

 native liberty ; giving utterance to their 

 feelings in gushes of exuberant joy. Nor 

 are these little fellows soon disquieted. They 

 seem instinctively to know that they are 

 " welcome ; " and unsuspectingly do they 

 keep on singing, as if anxious to claim an 

 acquaintanceship with the passing traveller. 

 Hard-hearted monster must he be, who seeks 

 to destroy such pure enjoyment and such 

 innocent mirth ! And yet, this very instant 

 lieth he in wait to ensnare his unsuspecting 

 victim ! See, he is lurking beyond yon hedge ! 

 We shall have a word or two to say about 

 him, anon. But to return. 



Even now, while we write, with our ease- 

 ment open, we are listening to the hero of this 

 day"s article— the Nightingale. Ravens- 

 court Park, which impinges immediately on 

 our flower-garden, is ringing with his song. 

 That magic strain, now borne upon the breeze, 

 comes from the lover's mate. She has been 

 drinking in large draughts of her swain's 

 passionate avowals of constant love and affec- 

 tion, and is now returning him the most im- 

 passioned and pathetic outpourings of a grate- 

 ful and fond heart. Every note she breathes 

 is redolent of sincerity, fervent love, and ado- 

 ration. All evince unmistakeable tokens of 

 the depth of her attachment. Sweet Philo- 

 mel ! How worthy art thou of being loved ; 

 and what a pattern of virtue dost thou not 

 hold out for imitation ! We could sing thy 

 praises until doomsday. 



From this time forward our hedgerows, 

 coppices, brakes, fields, gardens, lanes, and 

 shrubberies, will be heard to echo with the 

 choicest melody — not the melody of the new 

 comers only, but a grand chorus from a union 

 of voices, native as well as foreign. The 

 thrush, the blackbird, the woodlark, and the 

 robin, — all love to commingle their notes with 

 those of the "warblers." No discord have 

 we here — all is " concerted" music. 



How pleasant is it, in this truly lovely 

 month, to rise with the early lark, and listen 

 to the music of the grove ! From four a.m., 

 until half-past four, the birds are at full 

 " Matins." Have our readers ever attended 

 any of these performances ? If not, let such 

 of them as reside in the country make a single 

 trial. If they be lovers of Nature, and also 

 lovers of the feathered choir, how they wall 

 thank us for our suggestion ! 



How delightful is it, just now, to wander 

 out at eventide by the side of a rivulet or 

 running brook, or to saunter through a 

 mead, a meadow, or a secluded lane ! The 

 birds may then be heard chanting their choral 

 "Vespers." Many such happy walks have 

 fallen to our happy lot, in days gone by ; and 

 as our love for such enjoyment seems to gain 

 strength by time, let us hope the day is far 

 distant when we shall seek pleasure in more 



