AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 325 
Shanghai—in a neighboring yard, who has 
for several mornings redoubled his exertions 
with most asthmatic results. This is a jeal¬ 
ousy entirely unnecessary. We do not think 
an English sky-lark will ever be able to sur¬ 
pass Sir Shanghai in his own peculiarly mel¬ 
odious song. Let there be peace between 
the top and bottom of the tree ! 
Attempts have been made to domesticate 
the nightingale, without success hitherto. 
W T e know not the causes of failure. We 
know not why all the European songsters 
may not be imported and bred in our woods 
and fields. Already foreign fish have been 
domesticated in our waters, and we know 
not why the process should not go on.—H. 
W. Beecher, in Independent. 
DON'T SHOOT THE BIRDS. 
Oh, it is not the deed of a noble heart, which 
can ruthlessly slaughter the little feathered 
songsters of our forest—those brightest 
Psalmists of Nature, who are ever reitera¬ 
ting their jubilant songs of praise, and 
thanksgiving, and love—whose sweet, melo¬ 
dious voices come wafted like incense to us 
upon the Summer zephyrs, and floating on¬ 
ward and upward through the grand old 
woods, are caught, and reechoed with new 
power, and new beauty, and varying tones, 
by a myriad tuneful chorists, until the very 
air seems filled with the essence of harmony, 
and the embowered branches of the o’er- 
spreading trees are converted into a grand 
orchestral temple. 
We love little birds. We delight, when 
suffering, and care, and sorrow, have left 
their impress upon our mind, or some dark 
shadow of Evil, or spirit of Gloom, or Genii 
of Despair, have crossed the brighter path of 
life, dimming our faculties, destroying our 
preception of enjoyment, and filling our very 
soul with the impress of Melancholy, to stroll 
into the woods, leaving the artificial world 
behind us, forsaking the hum and din, and 
turmoil of the city, turning our back, as it 
were, upon our fellow man, and shutting 
ourselves up in a close communion with the 
mysteries, and wonders, and beauties ofNa- 
ture. We love to cast ourselves upon the 
velvety, emerald carpeting with which the 
bounteous hand of Providence, has so lav¬ 
ishly o’erspread the bosom of our common 
mother Earth, beneath the shadow of some 
giant oak, whose branches mantle, and strug¬ 
gle, and entwine about each other, covered 
with bright leaflets, that wave and flutter, to 
and fro, like some enchained spirits of light, 
and forming a mystic tracery against the 
clear blue vault of Heaven—through which 
the beams of the bright King of Day strug¬ 
gle, and reflect with mellow softness upon 
all beneath—gilding the trunk of the giant 
forest monarch, until it seems no vagary of 
fancy to think it some weird warrior of a 
by-gone age, standing erect in all the pride 
of armor, and shield, and vizer, and helmet, 
who in tire lone woods, like a true knight- 
errant, is awaiting the approach of the fair 
lady-love, falling upon yon violet, which 
hangs its head in modest confusion at being 
thus honored, and looks so like a pearl, just 
sprung up from amid the grand bright sea of 
emerald. 
Look up into that branch, whose beaute¬ 
ous curtain sweeps to and fro, responsive to 
every breathing of the wind. See you that 
merry little robin, hopping about its airy 
castle in all the ecstacy of joyous freedom— 
now pecking pertly at the dun-colored cuticle 
of the tree ; now seizing coyly in its beak 
some fluttering leaf, and pulling and tugging, 
in sheer desperation, until it is severed from 
the parent twig ; and then, like a busy, fru¬ 
gal housewife, flying down to that niche 
where the two giant arms of the oak sepa¬ 
rate. This is the home of the robin. This 
is the palace of nature’s songster. There is 
a slight chirruping in the fair castle, a faint, 
melodious scream of the young robins, who 
are vainly endeavoring to compass the har¬ 
monic notes of their parent, and the dame 
flies forth again from her nest. She has 
covered the floor of her mansion with a ta¬ 
pestry with whose brilliancy of color, and 
elasticity of material no hand of man can 
vie. It was designed by nature, and pen¬ 
ciled and corrugated by the zephyrs of 
Spring. 
Hark! There is a sweet bird-song of 
wondrous melody swelling from some dis¬ 
tant nook of the wood, like the far-off peal¬ 
ing of the vespers of St. Peter’s. Soft, thrill¬ 
ing, wondrously sympathetic are the tones, 
as they fall upon the ear. Now, they are 
feeble and wavering, like the distant war- 
song of the Celtic knight upon the brink of 
Donnybrook lake. Anon, they become more 
full, deep, and powerful. There is a rustle 
amid the leaves of the oak—a slight, bustling 
greeting of welcome from the dame robin, 
and her beautiful mate stands beside her upon 
the branch—and twain, together, pour forth 
such joyous strains of heart-felt melody, that 
we pause to wonder whether they can ever 
be less merry—whether sorrow can ever 
find a home-seat in their little feathered 
breasts. 
There is music in the very nature of the 
dark old woods. The rustling of the tiny 
leaves ; the surging to and fro of the cloud- 
capped bows, as they seem each bowing to 
his neighbor; the dull heavy creaking of the 
trunk, as it is strained to more than its 
wonted tension by the wind; the shrill 
whistling of the breeze over the spear-like 
tufts of grass—all combine in a grand anthem 
of harmony, which art may imitate, but nev¬ 
er even remotely rival. And when to these 
we have superadded the ten thousand choral 
songs of the feathered warblers, in every va¬ 
rying tone of harmony and power, from the 
shrill treble chirp of the little wren, to the 
deep alto of the bob-o-link, or the sonorous 
basso of the flecker, it seems as if all about, 
above, around—the very atmosphere itself— 
were alive with music in its sweetest form. 
And we are thankful for the birds. We 
feel that the woods, without them would be 
like 
“ Some banquet hall deserted, 
Whose lamps are fled, whose glorious dead, 
And all but Hope departed.” 
We should miss them in our morning walk. 
We should miss their matin songs at even¬ 
tide. We should miss their sweet consola¬ 
tion for sorrow and despair in our rambles 
through the woods. We should miss them 
everywhere. 
Then let us feel thankful for the 
“ Ten thousand choral birds— 
Some blue and some sun-dyed— 
Some white as the farm-wife’s curds— 
Some tipped with the moonlight hue— 
Some red as the flame of war; 
And on the crest of some, 
Seerneth a fallen star.” 
Don’t kill the birds. Let them live to con¬ 
tinue their songs of goodness. Let them 
live to brighten our world of materiality and 
care, with their ideal poetry. Let them live 
to peal their morning, noon, and evening an¬ 
thems to the Giver of all Good. Let them 
live to implant in the minds of innocent 
children the first happy lessons of the true 
and beautiful in Nature. Let them live to 
keep company with their copartners of 
poetic beauty, the flowers. As you would 
manifest the refinement of your mind, the 
uprightness of your heart, the sensibility of 
your nature—don’t kill the birds .—Troy 
Daily Times. 
The best mode of revenge, is not to imi¬ 
tate the injury. 
ON WRITING INKS. 
Dr. J. Stark, in a paper recently read in 
the Society of Arts, Edinburgh, stated that 
in 1842 he commenced a series of experi¬ 
ments on writing inks, and up to this date 
had manufactured 229 different inks, and 
tested the durability of writings made with 
these on all kinds of paper. As the result 
of his experiments, he showed that the 
browning and fading of inks resulted from 
many causes, but in ordinary inks chiefly 
from the iron becoming peroxygenated and 
seperating as a heavy precipitate. Many 
inks, therefore, when fresh made, yielded 
durable writings ; but when the ink became 
old, the tannogallate of iron separated, and 
the durability of the ink was destroyed. 
From a numerous set of experiments, the 
author showed that no salt of iron and no 
preparation of iron equaled the common sul¬ 
phate of iron—that is, the commercial cop¬ 
peras—for the purpose of ink-making ; and 
that even the addition of any persalt, such 
as the nitrate or chloride of iron, though it 
improved the present color of the ink, deteri¬ 
orated its durability. The author failed to 
procure a persistent black ink from manga¬ 
nese, or other metal or metallic salt. The 
author exhibited a series of eighteen inks 
which had either been made with metallic 
iron or. with which metallic iron had been 
immersed, and directed attention to the fact 
that though the depth and body of color 
seemed to be deepened, yet in every case the 
durability of writings made with such inKs 
was so impaired that they became brown 
and faded in a few months. The most per¬ 
manent ordinary inks were shown to be 
composed of the best blue gall nuts with 
copperas and gum, and the proportions found 
on experiment to yield the most persistent 
black, were six parts of best blue galls to 
four parts of copperas. Writings made 
with such an ink stood exposure to sun and 
air for twelve months without exhibiting any 
change of color ; wfliile those made with ink 
of every other proportion or composition had 
more or less of their color discharged when 
similarly tested. This ink, therefore, if kept 
from molding and from depositing its tanno¬ 
gallate of iron, would afford writings perfect¬ 
ly durable. It was shown that no gall and 
logwood ink was equal to the pure gall ink 
in so far as durability in the writings was 
concerned. All such inks lost their color 
and faded sooner than pure gall inks, and 
several inks were exhibited which, though 
durable before the addition of logwood, faded 
rapidly after logwood was added to them. 
Sugar was shown to have an especially hurt¬ 
ful action on the durability of inks contain¬ 
ing logwood—indeed, on all inks. Many 
other plain inks were exhibited, and their 
properties described—as gallo-sumach. ink, 
myrobalans ink, Ranges ink—inks in which 
the tannogallate of iron was kept in solution 
by nitric, muriatic, sulphuric and other acids, 
or by oxalate of potash, chloride of lime, &c. 
The myrobalans ink was recommended as 
an ink of some promise for durability, and 
as the cheapest ink it was possible to manu¬ 
facture. All ordinary inks, however, were 
shown to have certain drawbacks, and the 
author endeavored to ascertain byexpsri- 
ment whether other dark substances could 
be added to inks to impart greater durability 
to writings made with them, and at the same 
time prevent those chemical changes which 
were the cause of ordinary inks fading. Af¬ 
ter experimenting with various substances, 
and among others, with Prussian blue and 
indigo dissolved in various ways, he found 
the sulphate of indigo to fulfill all the re¬ 
quired conditions, and, when added in the 
proper portion to a tannogallate ink, it yield¬ 
ed an ink which is agreeable to write with, 
which flows freely from the pen, and does 
