so 
THE CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, 
stood by all. Many a time have I been assailed by all the 
birds in the neighbourhood darting out of the bushes, and 
from the trees, in consequence of the shrieks of a young 
robin, which I have been endeavouring to place beyond 
the reach of a cat. To give another instance. While 
sitting at the door of a farm-house, in the vicinity of our 
village, just as the shades of evening began to gather; the 
birds were all hymning their little vespers, and the domestic 
fowls, one after another, were settling on the low branches 
of the trees for the night — when suddenly a dead pause in all 
these sounds and motions occurred; this was quickly suc- 
ceeded by loud and various screams of alarm from every 
quarter. The smaller birds dashed into the briars and bushes 
for safety, and the domestic fowls dropped suddenly from 
the trees; some concealing themselves under the fences, 
while others cowered and trembled close to my very feet. 
The cause of all this hurry and alarm, was a prowling 
hawk, that swept swiftly over the spot, and had made a 
fruitless attempt to seize with his talons one of the chick- 
ens on the outermost limbs of a neighbouring tree. These 
examples will be sufficient to prove that the cries of one 
species are understood and attended to by other species. 
Whatever may be the truth with regard to musical sounds, 
it seems to be certain that the language of fear, or note 
of alarm, is universally comprehended by all the feathered 
tribes. 
Singing birds are undoubtedly, for the most part, found 
near the habitations of man, and commonly follow in the 
track of cultivation. This is in part owing to the protec- 
tion which he affords, and the greater facility in obtaining 
food. In the extensive deserts of land, or of ocean, their 
warblings, I think, are never heard. The Peterel, which 
is found far out on the sea, in almost every latitude, utters 
nothing but a monotonous squeak; yet I must confess that 
his notes to my ear were not disagreeable. I will close 
these desultory remarks, with an extract from my journal 
kept at sea, and which relates to this curious bird. 
April 24. I was very much interested to-day in observ- 
ing the habits of a little bird, which keeps principally in 
the wake of our ship, no doubt to pick up any aliment 
which may be thrown over-board. This bird is the Stormy 
Peterel, or Procellaria Wilsonii. It is called Peterel, from 
the Apostle Peter, because it seems to walk on the surface 
of the water. For hours I have stood at the taffrail, watch- 
ing the motions of hundreds of these birds; some of them 
skimming gracefully over the surface of the waves, and 
curiously preserving the same ever-varying curves; some 
climbing up the hills of water, and others, in clusters, ap- 
parently at rest round an article of food. The sailors are 
very superstitious with regard to these birds, which they 
call Mother Cary’s chickens, probably after some old witch 
or fortune-teller of that name. It is supposed by many 
that the Peterel, as it is seen in almost every part of the 
ocean, lives on the water entirely, and hatches its eggs 
under its wings. There is, of course, no truth in this opin- 
ion. It is surprising, however, what a length of time 
they continue on the wing; they have been the last ob- 
jects which the darkness of the night concealed, and the 
first which the morning dawn enabled me to discover. 
They utter a low note, something like weet, weet, which 
is quite audible when they are near the ship. This some 
of the sailors translate into wet, wet, and say that it indi- 
cates stormy weather. It is generally supposed that the 
same species of Peterel inhabits both the European and 
American portions of the Atlantic. There are, however, 
two species. That which sweeps over the vast range of the 
European ocean is called the Pelagic Peterel , and that 
which inhabits the American Atlantic is called Wilson’s 
Peterel, after our own great ornithologist. There is no 
one perhaps who crosses the ocean, but must feel indebted 
to these interesting little wanderers of the deep for many 
hours of amusement. At sea every thing, which tends to 
break the dreadful monotony of the wide waste of water 
and sky, amuses the mind. From the peculiar habits and 
the superstitious notions entertained by many with regard 
to the Peterel, it might suggest to the imaginative some fine 
fancyings; but with the exception of two or three allusions, 
it seems to have been entirely overlooked by the poet. 
The following lines served to amuse a tedious, and what 
would have otherwise been an unoccupied hour. 
THE PETEREL. 
What airy forms are on the deep 1 
Now dancing on her heaving breast, 
Now sinking with the surge’s sweep, 
Now rising on its snowy crest. 
’Tis th’ stormy Peterel, ocean ranger, 
W arning the sea-boy of his danger. 
Ere morning rises from the sea, 
Their ceaseless gambols they begin, 
And the pale evening’s fitful breeze, 
Still wafts them in their wandering. 
Oh speak not to me, thou phantom bird, 
Of rocks unseen and of storms unheard. 
Whether in sunshine or in storms, 
These sports mysterious they pursue, 
Still I behold their fairy forms, 
Flitting amidst the briny dew. 
Oh speak not to me, thou phantom bird, 
Of rocks unseen and of storms unheard. 
The live long day I’ve stood to gaze, 
Marking these spectres of the sea, 
