hungry twit, is all we hear; the families of voice are away, or silent; we have little to note, and perhaps as little inclination to observe.

During no portion of the day can the general operations of Nature be more satisfactorily observed than in the early morning. Rosy June-the very thoughts of an early summer's morning in the country, like enchantment, gives action to the current of our blood, and seems to breathe through our veins a stream of health and enjoyment! All things appear fresh and unsoiled. The little birds, animated and gratulous, are frisking about the sprays; others, proceeding to their morning's meal, or occupied in the callings of their nature, give utterance, by every variety of voice, to the pleasures that they feel; the world has not yet called us, and, with faculties unworn, we unite with them, partake of this general hilarity and joy, feel disposed to be happy, and enjoy the blessings around us: the very air itself, as yet uninhaled by any, circulates about us, replete with vitality, conveying more than its usual portion of sustenance and health; ' and man goeth forth unto his labour.' Night-feeding creatures, feeling the freshness of light, and the coming day, are all upon the move, retiring from danger and observation; and we can note them now unhidden in their lairs, unconcealed beneath the foliage in the hedge; the very vegetation, bathed in dew and moisture, full fed, partakes of this early morning joy and health, and every creeping thing is refreshed and satisfied. As day advances, it changes all; and of these happy beings of the early hour, part are away, and we must seek them; others are oppressed, silent, listless; the vegetable, no longer lucid with dew, and despoiled of all the little gems that glittered from every serrature of its leaf, seems pensive at the loss. When blessed with health, having peace, innocence, and content, as inmates of the mind, perhaps the most enjoyable hours of life may be found in an early summer's morning.”

25. SYLVIA ROSCOE. ROSCOE'S YELLOW-THROAT.

AUDUBON, PLATE XXIV.

THIS species, named in honour of the celebrated author of the Life of Leo the Tenth, in general appearance very much resembles the Maryland yellow-throat, described by Wilson, but differs from it remarkably in its habits.

Audubon, we think, is in the main right in the determination of his species, although he has not stated precisely the grounds on which he founds his specific characters. The number of tail feathers is sometimes a good character; thus, the sula, from Greenland and the Faro Islands, has ten tail feathers; that from Iceland, twelve; and that from the Cape of Good Hope, fourteen; and these, if the numbers are fairly given, may be considered as distinct species. The length of the tail, the size of the feet, &c. are also employed in specific distinc tions; but the chief characters are those taken from the cranium and bill. There is something truly wonderful in the circumstance that creatures, which, in other characters, so nearly resemble each other, should exhibit, in the form of their crania, evident and characteristic differences. Those naturalists who have rejected this character, have never examined it with care. Brehm has made numerous observations on the forms of the crania of different species of birds, and on their affinities. He says, all birds which pair together belong to the same species, and have the same form of skull; on the contrary, those that do not pair together belong not to the same species, and differ in the form of their cranium. Thus, if we examine the Scolopax rusticola, (woodcock,) and the Corvus corax, (raven,) from different countries, the differences in the form of the cranium will arrest our attention. It is true, that a certain tact is required in order readily to detect these differences. The following illustrations in

That peculiar call of the female cuckoo, which assembles so many contending lovers, and all the various amatorial and caressing language of others, excites no influence generally, that I am aware of: with all, but the indi vidual species, it is a dialect unknown. I know but one note which animals make use of, that seems of universal comprehension, and this is the signal of danger. The instant that it is uttered, we hear the whole flock, though composed of various species, repeat a separate moan, and away they all scuttle into the bushes for safety. The reiterated twink twink of the chaffinch, is known by every little bird as information of some prowling cat or weasel. Some give the maternal hush to their young, and mount to inquire into the jeopardy announced. The wren, that tells of perils from the hedge, soon collects about her all the various inquisitive species within hearing, to survey and ascertain the object, and add their separate fears. The swallow, that, shrieking, darts in devious flight through the air when a hawk appears, not only calls up all the hirundines of the village, but is instantly understood by every finch and sparrow, and its warning attended to. As Nature, in all her ordinations, had a fixed design and foreknowledge, it may be that species had a separate voice assigned it, that each might continue as created, distinct and unmixed; and the very few deviations and admixtures that have taken place, considering the lapse of time, association, and opportunity, united with the prohibition of continuing accidental deviations, are very remarkable, and indicate a cause and original motive. That some of the notes of birds are as language, designed to convey a meaning, is obvious, from the very different sounds uttered by these creatures at particular periods. The spring voices become changed as summer advances, and the requirements of the early season have ceased; the summer excitements, monitions, informations, are not needed in autumn, and the notes conveying such intelligences are no longer heard. The periodical calls of animals, croaking of frogs, &c. afford the same reasons for concluding, that the sound of their voices by ele

vation, depression, or modulation, conveys intelligence equivalent to an uttered sentence. The voices of birds seem applicable, in most instances, to the immediate necessities of their condition; such as the sexual call, the invitation to unite when dispersed, the moan of danger, the shriek of alarm, the notice of food. But there are other notes, the designs and motives of which are not so obvious. One sex only is gifted with the power of singing, for the purpose, as Buffon supposed, of cheering his mate during the period of incubation; but this idea, gallant as it is, has such slight foundation in probability, that it needs no confutation; and after all, perhaps, we must conclude, that, listened to, admired, and pleasing, as the voices of many birds are, either for their intrinsic melody, or from association, we are uncertain what they express, or the object of their song. The singing of most birds seems entirely a spontaneous effusion, produced by no exertion, or Occasioning no lassitude in muscle, or relaxation of the parts of action. In certain seasons and weather, the nightingale sings all day, and most part of the night; and we never observe that the powers of song are weaker, or that the notes become harsh and untunable, after all these hours of practice. The song thrush, in a mild moist April, will commence his tune early in the morning, pipe unceasingly through the days yet, at the close of eve, when he retires to rest, there is no obvious decay of his musical powers, or any sensible effort required to continue his harmony to the last. Birds of one species sing in general very like each other, with different degrees of execution. Some countries may produce finer songsters, but without great variation in the notes. In the thrush, however, it is remarkable, that there seems to be no regular notes, each individual piping a voluntary of his own. Their voices may always be distinguished amid the choristers of the copse; yet some one performer will more particularly engage attention by a peculiar modulation, or tune; and should several stations of these birds be visited in the same morning, few or none

probably will be found to preserve the same round of notes; whatever is uttered seeming the effusion of the moment. At times a strain will break out perfectly unlike any preceding utterance, and we may wait a long time without noticing any repetition of it. During one spring an individual song thrush, frequenting a favourite copse, after a certain round of tune, trilled out most regularly some notes that conveyed so clearly the words, lady-bird! lady-bird! that every one remarked the resemblance. He survived the winter, and in the ensuing season the lady-bird! lady-bird! was still the burden of our evening song; it then ceased, and we never heard this pretty modulation more. Though merely an occasional strain, yet I have noticed it elsewhere; it thus appearing to be a favourite utterance. Harsh, strained, and tense as the notes of this bird are, yet they are pleasing from their variety. The voice of the blackbird is infinitely more mellow, but has much less variety, compass, or execution; and he, too, commences his carols with the morning light, persevering from hour to hour without effort, or any sensible faltering of voice. The cuckoo wearies us throughout some long May morning with the unceasing monotony of its song; and though there are others as vociferous, yet it is the only bird I know that seems to suffer from the use of the organs of voice. Little exertion as the few notes it makes use of seem to require, yet, by the middle or end of June, it loses its utterance, becomes hoarse, and ceases from any farther essay of it. The croaking of the nightingale in June, or the end of May, is not apparently occasioned by the loss of voice, but a change of note—a change of object; his song ceases when his mate has hatched her brood; vigilance, anxiety, caution, now succeed to harmony, and his croak is the hush, the warning of danger or suspicion to the infant charge and the mother bird.

"But here I must close my notes of birds, lest their actions and their ways, so various and so pleasing, should lure me on to protract

My tedious tale through many a page;