118 
ON THE POPULARITY OF NATURAL HISTORY. 
-- w Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
Stands a tall Ash-tree ; to whose topmost twig 
A thrush resorts , and annually chants, 
At morn and evening, from that naked perch. 
While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, 
A time beguiling ditty, for delight 
Of his fond partner, silent in the nest 
Bards in general take but a low rank among naturalists, although the latter 
are indebted to them for many an illustration; but surely the above is a sweet 
morsel of local Natural History, recorded by an evident observe? and lover of 
Nature, and though having reference to a particular Thrush and Ash-tree, yet it 
interests all, because, to say nothing of Ellen, few persons familial with the 
country are unacquainted with Thrushes resorting, like that of the poet, to some 
old tree's “ topmost twig.” 
Many an observer of Nature, competent to the task, has probably never 
thought of presenting himself as a professed naturalist, but if his delineation be 
correct, it is evident that he understands that truly popular language which 
captivates all hearts' by its adaptation to the subject depicted, and which is not 
the less interesting because it is comprehended by all, and recognized by all who 
have an opportunity to make the comparison. I scarcely think the manners of 
that pert braggadocio of the farmyard, the Common Goose, has been better pour- 
tray ed in any professedly ornithological work, than in the following lines of poor' 
almost-forgotten Bloomfield— 
“ He comes, the pest and terror of the yard, 
His full-fiedg’d progeny’s imperious guard; 
The gander ; spiteful, insolent, and bold, 
At the colt’s fetlock takes his daring hold: 
There, Serpent-like, escapes a dreadful blow, 
And straight attacks a poor defenceless Cow. 
Each booby Goose th’ unworthy strife enjoys, 
And hails his prowess with redoubled noise. 
Then back he stalks, of self-importance full, 
Seizes the shaggy foretop of the bull, 
Till whirled aloft he falls ; a timely check 
Enough to dislocate his worthless neck : 
For lo ! of old, he boasts an honoured wound. 
■—Behold that broken wing that trails the ground.” 
The following quotations from the same authors 45 Farmers Boy,” describe 
two forms of cloud that have received peculiar appellations from scientific mete¬ 
orologists, which I dare say Bloomfield never knew of, though his appropriate 
Poetical Works, Vol. V., p. 260. 
