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THE CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, 
NOTES OF A NATURALIST. 
BY JACOB GREEN, M. D. 
PROFESSOR OF CHEMISTRY IN JEFFERSON COLLEGE. 
Our Village. — Music of Birds, fyc. 
In the country, the early morning hours, and those of 
closing day, are peculiarly interesting to the naturalist. 
When rosy morning first appears, all around seems fresh 
and unsullied; and in the spring and summer months the 
air is peculiarly invigorating and elastic. Every one who 
delights in the music of nature, must listen, 
When the song of the grove hails the rising of day. 
The fresh fragrance of the fields and gardens, and the 
cheerful carolling of our tuneful birds, cannot fail to be 
grateful to the senses, and to be perfectly in unison with 
the feelings and sentiments of every well-regulated mind. 
It was a strange and wild theory of Buffon, to say the 
least of it, that men and other animals degenerated in the 
climate of America. Among the examples which he 
brings forward in support of this notion, is our sweet 
Wood Thrush, (T. Melodius,) which he imagines to be 
the same species of bird as the Song Thrush, ( T . Musicus ,) 
of Europe. Our Thrush he then represents as destitute of 
any note but a single scream, having so far degenerated by 
food and climate from his progenitors in Europe, as now 
to utter nothing but harsh and unpleasant sounds, like the 
cries, he says, of all birds that live in wild countries inha- 
bited by savages. There is more poetry than natural his- 
tory in all this. Who, that has devoted any attention to 
this subject, does not know, that the lonely exile in the 
unfrequented and dreary forests of Siberia and Lapland, is 
often cheered with the music of the Grosbeak; or that the 
cannibal of New-Zealand, reposing in his wigwam, may 
hear the mellow song of many warblers of the night? 
With regard to the Wood Thrush, Wilson refutes the fan- 
ciful theory of Buffon, by giving us a beautiful description 
of its habits and song. After remarking that the voice, 
energy, and expression, of birds of the same species, dif- 
fer as widely from each other, as the voices of different in- 
dividuals of the human race, he observes of the Wood 
Thrush: “ I remember one, whose notes I could instantly 
recognize on entering the woods, and with whom I had 
been, as it were, acquainted from his first arrival. The 
top of a large white oak, that overhung part of the glen, 
was usually the favourite pinnacle from whence he poured 
the sweetest melody, to which I have frequently listened, 
till night began to gather in the woods, and the fire-flies 
to sparkle among the branches.” This sweet and solitary 
songster arrives in Pennsylvania about the latter end of 
April, and soon announces his presence. “With the 
dawn of the succeeding morning, mounting to the top of 
some tall tree, that rises from a low, thick shaded part of 
the woods, he pipes his few clear and musical notes in a 
kind of ecstacy, the prelude, or symphony to which, 
strongly resembles the double tongueing of a German 
flute, and sometimes the tinkling of a small bell; the 
whole song consists of five or six parts, the last note of 
each of which is in such a tone, as to leave the conclusion 
evidently suspended; the finale is finely managed, and with 
such charming effect, as to soothe and tranquillize the 
mind, and to seem sweeter and mellower at each successive 
repetition. During the burning heat of the day he is com- 
paratively mute; but in the evening the same melody is re- 
newed, and continued long after sun-set. Even in dark, 
wet, and gloomy weather, when scarce a single chirp is 
heard from any other bird, the clear notes of the Wood 
Thrush thrill through the drooping woods from morning 
to night, and it may be truly said that the sadder the day 
the sweeter is his song.” Every school-boy in the village 
who rambles over our woody hills, and along the margin 
of the creek, on Saturday afternoon, can testify to the truth 
of this beautiful description. The clear, mellow, flute- 
like notes of the Wood Thrush, always recall to my mind 
many interesting little adventures, — a thousand pleasing 
scenes and youthful sports in by-gone days; some of which 
I must be indulged in here repeating. A great portion of 
my holyday pastime, when at boarding-school, at Prince- 
ton, in New-Jersey, was passed with my hook and line, 
on the margin of Stony brook, not very far from the spot 
where the gallant Mercer fell during our revolutionary con- 
flict. The quiet and retired situation of this gentle stream, 
the romantic and uncultivated solitudes by which it was 
then surrounded, and the marvellous adventures with the 
Indians, which are aaid to have happened along its peace- 
ful banks in the early periods of American history, ren- 
dered the brook, as we used to call it, an oft-frequented 
and a deeply interesting place of resort. A considerable 
stretch of the stream passed through the estate of my grand- 
father, where I usually passed my holyday time, in joyous, 
unrestrained, and 1 hope innocent revelry. As I have al- 
ways experienced an uncontrollable antipathy to strange 
dogs, whether 
Mongrel, puppy, whelp, or hound. 
Or curs of low degree, 
for this reason, I rarely ever crossed the boundaries of 
the estate; but I could wander in these extensive and se- 
cluded retreats, without fear of molestation from any quar- 
ter. When the mowers were to be engaged in the neigh- 
bouring meadow; when the boys drove the cattle into these 
