
208 
On one of these visits, I said, when he had 
been at the pains of showing me some of the 
natural and artificial nesting places of his 
favorites,—the holes in hollow trees for the 
owls, in sand banks for the bank martin, and 
curious turret-like structures for the star- 
lings,—he had named the number of kestrels 
building one year in the crows’ nests, and 
other parts of his grounds. What contrast 
is exhibited at present, and what other rapa- 
cious birds are met with ? 
‘In that year,” he replied, “there were 
about twenty-four pair of kestrels. Now six 
pair are the outside, and two pair of sparrow- 
hawks. It was about fourteen years since, 
when my boundary wall was raised, to keep 
out human and four-footed depredators. I 
had a great increase of both land and water 
birds. We have very rarely the hobby and 
merlin. The magnificent buzzards and 
bitterns are gone. The forked-tailed kite has 
not been seen on the estate since I took pos- 
session of it. The last raven in these parts 
was shot forty yearsago. Of the many noble 
birds that abounded in my father’s time, now 
not one is to be seen.” I remarked that a 
greater enemy to rare birds than the bird- 
catcher, nester, or keeper, was found in the 
scientific collector—because he aims at the 
rarest, and sets allthese emissaries at work to 
snare and shoot them, whenever they appear. 
By and bye, their trade will be gone, as far 
as rare birds are concerned ; for even the 
breeding seasons are not respected, which it 
would be to their interest to regard, so as to 
keep up the stock. The men of science, who 
know of this constant decrease of species, 
will have to take up this question if they are 
earnest in the study of living nature. ‘heir 
very periodicals are a continual record of 
slaughter, related with boastful satisfaction. 
Sometimes even editors—though some use 
their great influence to foster truer tastes— 
unthinkingly congratulate the fortunate 
captor; so much so, that, rather than be 
pained with recitals of extermination, which 
I could not prevent, I discontinued one such 
periodical some years ago. 
‘“‘It is singular,” he remarked, “ that I gave 
up the same periodical for that very reason. 
Besides, what ts a dead specimen, compared 
to the living object? Who would not study 
the one in preference to the other?” 
This admission from the best stuffer—the 
most life-like preserver of animals, we con- 
sider a striking lesson against the mania of 
forming too many collections; there being 
now museums sufficient, in most large towns, 
for all purposes of study. 
Having thanked the veteran for his kind- 
ness, and interesting communications, we now 
took leave of him ; and made the best of our 
way to Roystone Station, which was thought 
rather nearer than the Wakefield one, two 

$$$ eee 
—— 


KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
miles off. We had miscalculated time and 
distance, and had to pay the penalty of per- 
forming the journey to Barnsley on foot. 
This we cheerfully submitted to, out of 
gratitude to our pleasant experience in this 
excursion to the “ Happy Valley”—a paradise 
truly to the feathered race, which we cannot 
take leave of better than in the owner’s 
adopted motto, from our childhood’s favorite 
—Goldsmith— 
No birds that roam this valley free 
To slaughter I condemn; 
Taught by that Power that pities me, 
I learn to pity them. 
Yours, my dear Sir, very faithfully, 
Barnsley, Oct 10. THoMAS LISTER. 

THE DEAD SPARROW. 

There is in life no blessing like AFFrEcTION. 
L. E. L. 

Tell me not of joy! there’s none, 
Now my little sparrow’s gone. 
He would chirp and play with me ; 
He would hang his head awhile— 
Till at length he saw me smile, 
Oh! how sullen he would be! 
He would catch a crumb ; and then, 
Sporting, let it go again. 
He from my lip 
W ould moisture sip; 
He would from my trencher feed; 
Then would hop, and then would run, 
And cry “philip” when he’d done ; 
Oh, whose heart can choose but bleed ? 
Oh, how eager would he fight, 
And ne’er hurt, though he did bite! 
No more did pass, 
But on my glass 
He would sit, and mark, and do 
What J did. Now ruffle all 
His feathers o’er; now let them fall; 
And then straightway sleek them too. 
But my faithful bird is gone! 
Oh, let mournful turtles join 
With loving redbreasts, and combine 
To sing dirges o’er his stone! 
| The above touching lines have been kindly sent 
us by our fair correspondent Catuarina. They 
are the production of a poet named Carrwrieur, 
who died in 1643. We always give ready inser- 
tion to choice morcgeaux of this description. 
“The sparrow is a common,—an ugly bird.” 
Granted. But some of our own race are quite 
as ugly, whether feminine or masculine. It is the 
affection that exists within that must be regarded. 
Short or tall, fair or dark, pretty or otherwise— 
what matters? We have before said, that we have 
ever found people of the commonest features and 
plainest personnel the most agreeable, the most 
truly amiable—the most loveable. It is just so 
with our dumb but mutely-cloquent pets. “The 
heart, the heart, the noble heart!” sing we.] 
Revence.—He that studieth revenge, keepeth 
his own wounds green.—Bacon. 



