THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
285 
and dispute their rights with the greatest obstinacy. 
During a severe winter, I was in the habit of throw- 
ing crumbs into an old uninhabited pigeon-house, 
and one robin having taken possession, would not 
let another bird enter it, or partake of his fare. 
What an acquisition is this bright-eyed, rosy bird, 
to the hedge-rows, when perched on the brambles 
or the wild rose bushes, when they are besprinkled 
with the hoar frost. How beautifully chaste are the 
lines of that soul of harmony. Miss Twamley, who 
wTites from and to the heart, where she alludes to 
the redbreast, in her exquisite description of autum- 
nal scenery ; they are so beautiful, that I hope she 
will pardon my inserting them in this work. 
Twas he, 
The wintry warbler, poor robin redbreast. 
As blithe, and brisk, and merry, as his wont. 
Singing and chirruping, as by my side, 
In kind companionship, he skipped along. 
Or flew from tree to tree. And as he sung, 
Methought his gay notes shaped themselves to sense, 
Language like ours ; and thus my fancy framed, 
From his sweet music, unmelodious words : — 
