84 THE YOUNG 



and never came across the hundredth 

 person except once, when I had journied to 

 Lewisham purposely to see one particular 

 insect. I wrote him, told him I should like 

 to see his birds and take sketches of some of 

 his varieties for my work on British Birds. 

 I do not wonder, now that I have seen the 

 eagerness and interest with which Mr. 

 Whitaker opens a letter from another of the 

 clan, that I received such a frank and 

 candid reply, and a pressing request to 

 come and see them before I published 

 another part. Our desires were evidently 

 mutual, and the few weeks of suspence 

 quite exhausted my patience, and fearing 

 Mr. Whitaker would be suffering from the 

 same complaint I made my mind to delay' 

 no longer. The day was set, and the journey 

 undertaken. I started by an early train 

 and arrived at Mansfield before ten o'clock. 

 Mr. Whitaker was good enough to send his 

 carriage to meet me at the station, and a 

 drive of four miles over sand and boulder, 

 with gorse blooming all the way, brought 

 me at last to the desired haven. 



Rainworth Lodge is a house for birds, 

 not only for those dead and stuffed, but also 

 for those in life and health, and after a 

 hasty run over the stuffed birds, Mr. 

 Whitaker took me to a plantation behind 

 the house where he has made ample 

 provision for his feathered friends. 

 Upon almost every tree in this little 

 plantation, is some expression of his 

 care for the object of his love. Small boxes 

 are tied against the boles of the trees, these 

 are occupied in the breeding season by tits 

 of three or four species ; blacking bottles, 

 tin cans, and old kettles, are stuck about the 

 trees and bushes, and are appropriated by 

 robins and flycatchers ; larger boxes are 

 placed higher for the starlings, and they too 

 have a tower to themselves, made of a long 

 pole with four rows of boxes at the top. 

 The number of birds about, some of them 

 already paired, showed that they were pre- 



NATURALIST. 



paring for the breeding season. Primroses, 

 crocuses, and snowdrops in great profusion ; 

 the happy song of the thrushes and robins ; 

 the number of small insects on the wing, 

 above all the warm genial weather made it 

 look like the happiest of all seasons — spring. 

 Mr. Whitaker tried to interest me by telling 

 me about Rainworth Lodge in the eleventh 

 century, and of royal stag-hunts, but my 

 head was too much filled with the thoughts 

 of what I had seen to care anything for 

 either. These nest boxes are made, let me 

 not forget to say, with loose tops so that the 

 eggs or young can at any time be inspected. 

 But we are back at the house, let us, as we 

 really did, re-enter the hall which contains 

 the collection of stuffed birds. Reader, come 

 along, take a mental flight to the entrance 

 hall at Rainworth Lodge, and I will show 

 thee what beauties it contains. That case 

 at the top contains two varieties of the 

 woodcock, both pretty, but one of them is 

 a gem : it is nearly white, mottled with 

 black ; but no description can do it justice. 

 Near it is a case containing about twenty 

 varieties — linnets, sparrows, starlings and 

 larks ; — but the prize of the whole group is 

 an adult cuckooo, white, barred with rusty 

 red — a really handsome bird. Two peculiar 

 hybrids — one between a greenfinch and a 

 linnet, and another between a goldfinch and 

 a linnet — adorn the next case. A bulfinch 

 with wings and tail semi-diaphanous, two 

 rare white redpoles, and a pale-coloured 

 siskin — the only variety I have seen of this 

 species — are well worth our attention. Pure 

 white blackbirds, white thrushes, a pale 

 redwing, pied reed buntings, pied yellow 

 buntings, black linnets, and black bulfinches, 

 a pale corncrake, and a pale water-rail, are 

 such as are rarely seen and still more rarely 

 obtained. Next we see a pied swift, itself 

 quite a treat, and a peculiar gold and grey 

 water-hen whose feathers have grown into 

 hair. A ring plover, so strange that I could 

 hardly persuade myself of its being a ring 



