THE NATURALIST. THE HERON. "THE Heron," observes Mudie, in his very interesting account of this curious bird, "measures about forty inches in length, and sixty-four in breadth; and yet, with all this vast spread, it does not weigh above three pounds. The fact is, it is all legs, wings, neck, and bill; and this gives it, when seen from a distance, a very formidable appearance. In its way, it is a formidable bird; and though shy and retiring in its nature, and not disposed to attack anything but its finny prey, its structure is admirably suited to its modes of life. Its legs are of great length and strength. The scaly coverings of the legs, and the nature of the cuticle on the naked parts and between the plates, enable it to bear the water for a great length of time without injury. Its toes are long, with claws well adapted for clutching, and one toe is toothed, so that eels and other slippery prey may not wriggle out of its clutches. The muscular power of its long neck is wonderful, and by it the point of the bill can be jerked to the distance of three feet in an instant. No bird indeed can, with its feet at rest, "strike out" so far or so instantaneously as the heron; and the articulations of the neck are a sort of universal joints, for it can, with the same ease, and in the same brief space, jerk out the head in any direction or in any position; nay, the bill can act, and that powerfully, when the neck is twisted backwards and the head under the wing. The bill, too, is formidable; the points pierce like spears, and towards the extremity there are sharp and strong barbs, turned backwards; so that when once it strikes, it never quits that which it can lift, and it makes a terribly lacerated wound in that which it cannot. The bill is about six inches long, and the gape still longer, as it extends backwards as far as the eyes. The gullet and craw are exceedingly elastic, so that it can swallow large fish, and a number of them. Seventeen carp The have been found at once in the maw of a heron. The neck of the heron is indeed one of the most singular pieces of animal mechanism, and proves how nicely the maximum of activity and strength can be combined in the smallest possible quantity of materials. wings are also admirably fitted for enabling it to float itself with its weighty prey, or to lean upon the air in its long and elevated flights. They are concave on their under sides, and thus act like parachutes. This formation of the wings also enables it to alight in such a way as not to disturb the water, or in any manner alarm its prey. By exerting the parachute power, it not only prevents the accelerated motion in descent, which makes the stoop of the eagle so terrible, but it gradually softens the motion, and alights so gently as not to occasion a rustle in the grass, or a ripple in the water. "This structure of the wings is of great use to the heron in one of its modes of feeding. Its usual mode is to wade and wait for the prey; but it sometimes fishes on the wing. It seldom does that, however, except in shallow water, the depth of which does not exceed the length of its neck or legs; and its vision must be very acute to enable it at once to see the fish and estimate the depth of the water. It comes to the surface with a gradually diminished motion; and then, suspended by the hollow wings, whose action does not in the least ruffle the surface, it plunges its bill, transfixing the fish to the bottom, and after perhaps a minute spent in making its hold sure, rises with a fish struggling in its bill. The prey is sometimes borne to the land, and there swallowed, and sometimes it is swallowed in the air. Eels are generally carried to the land, because their coiling and wriggling do not admit of their being easily swallowed when the bird is on the wing; but other fishes, especially when small, are swallowed almost instantly, and the fishing as speedily resumed. We once had an opportunity of seeing four or five small trout caught in this way in about as many minutes; and we know not how long the fishing might have been continued, as the bird did not appear to be in the least exhausted; but a goshawk came in sight, and at her appear ance the heron escaped, screaming, to the upper regions of the sky. That, however, is not its usual mode of fishing. Wading is the general method, and in it the hooked and serrated toes are often used in aid of the bill. Small streams and ponds are its most favourite places, and the success, especially in the latter, is often very great. Nor is the actual catching the only injury that the heron does to fishponds, for it lacerates a great many that it does not secure, and often in so severe a manner that they will hardly recover, though fish suffer far less, either in pain or injury, from wounds, than land animals. The heron does not much frequent the larger and deeper lakes, and seldom, perhaps never, fishes in water deeper than the length of its neck and legs. Its time of fishing is the dusk of the morning and evening, cloudy days, and moonlight nights. We remember seeing only one instance of a heron fishing when the sun was bright; that was in a rivulet, on the hills of Perthshire, the banks of which, at some places, nearly closed over the water; and there the heron appeared, like a skilful angler, to take the side opposite to the sun," We know not what the habits of the heron may be in the north of England, but in the midland counties we have frequently seen it fishing some hours before sun-set. Near the village in which we lived, a few years since, we scarcely ever passed the ford at any hour of the day without seeing the heron at his work, wading to and fro, and seizing its prey at intervals. The country people say that the legs of this bird emit an odour which attracts the fish, who are thus lured to their destruction; and we have read in some old book, that the fat of the heron's leg is an excellent bait for fish; but it would be difficult, we believe, to find fat in any part of this bird. "Herons," continues the author above quoted, "appear, like many other animals, to have some instinctive perception of the approach of rain, as their favourite time of flying, and at which they take their loftiest flights, is just before a fall of rain. Their elevation then is greater than that of the eagle, and their flights are also longer at those times than when they are merely in search of food. It is possible that their elevation may be chosen as an instinctive means of defence against their enemies, as when they are assailed by eagles and hawks, their first means of escape is usually ascent; and if they can sufficiently attain that, they are understood to be safe. "In cases of extremity, they can shake off their natural timidity, and shew both courage and skill. When a hawk gets higher on the wing than a heron, the heron, it is said though it is very difficult to verify the saying by actual observation-to assume rather an ingenious system of tactics. The neck of the heron is the part usually struck at, as when that is successfully hit, he is finished, without harm to the assailant. To prevent this, he is said to double the neck backward under the wing, and turn the bill upward, like a spear or bayonet, over the centre of its body. The bill is, as has been mentioned, six inches in length; so that if it be well aimed, and the heron can avoid the stroke of the wing, the enemy is sure to be transfixed before the talons can take effect. We have heard of instances in which not hawks merely, but eagles (not the golden eagle, but the sea eagle, halactus albicilla, or the osprey) have been thus transfixed by the heron, and have fallen to the ground pierced through the vitals, while their intended prey has soared untouched, and made the air resound with its scream of victory. As these contests must take place at a considerable height above the earth, it is not easy to know the detail of them; and indeed the habitual vigilance which the heron observes upon all occasions, necessarily renders the encounters not very frequent. Still, though we have not seen it, the occurrence may be possible; and the greater the force with which the assailant descends, the greater the probability of its being fatally pierced by the bill. Even when wounded, the heron is a dangerous bird; and when winged, it cannot be approached but with the utmost caution. The bill is darted out with rapid and unerring aim at the eyes of whatever animal comes within its reach; and powerful dogs have been struck blind in rushing too hastily upon a wounded heron." We remember, some few years since, when snipe shooting in the neighbourhood of Enfield a neighbourhood in which these birds abound-our dogs put up a heron. We had advanced so close to the ditch, in which it was, perhaps, intent on its pursuit of prey, that it rose at scarcely a dozen yards' distance. It is very rare that the sportsman gets so near this proverbially shy bird, and its sudden appearance somewhat startled us; nevertheless, we fired, and at the same instant poor "molly hern" received the charge of another of the party, and, turning a somerset in the air, came scrambling to the ground. The noble bird was disabled for flight, but it was not quite hors de combat; it rose on its long legs, and, with its broken wing trailing on the ground, its blood besprinkled breast, its elevated top-knot, and its levelled beak, presented an attitude that might have inspired old Snyders, or Landseer, for he can paint such subjects. The dogs rushed forward to attack him, but the formidable aspect of the bird and the voices of their masters told them that the attempt would be dangerous, and the bird was secured with some difficulty. "I lost a valuable dog last winter," observed our friend; "I winged a heron in the marshes, and he attacked my pointer with such fierceness, that he completely destroyed the animal's eyes." The best chance of getting within gun shot of the heron is when it alights in a brook, the banks of which are steep; you may then advance nearly up to the spot before he hears your footsteps; and you may, if you are a good shot, bring him down but he will not unfrequently receive the charge, and, uttering a scream, soar away, uninjured. E. M. A. THE PHILANTHROPIST. (From the French.) "AFFAIRS of honour" attract company, as well as marriages, baptisms, and fune rals. I could cite you five or six individuals, well known in Paris, who are forced, as seconds, into every duel about to "come off" at certain celebrated places of rendezvous; these persons are so notorious, that one never thinks of addressing himself to any other. Indeed, I am not very sure but that you may read upon their visiting card-" Mr. legal adviser in affairs of honour'-such a number-in such a street. N.B. Office for consultations open from twelve p.m. to seven a.m." These gentlemen go thoroughly into the business-possessing every description of weapon, from a firelock down to a toothpick; with them an "affair" is never satisfactorily arranged without forfeiture of breath by one or other opponent. Were the unlucky ball simply to fracture an arm or a leg, honour would be but half way repaired. I have had one duel in the course of my lifetime; it is considered as necessary to the existence of a fashionable young man, as sojourning in St. Pelagie; in short, he cannot be said to have lived at all, without, at least, having exchanged cards, turned deceiver, and killed his fellow-man. As a matter of course, to seek my seconds, I bent my way to the "office of general administration." I addressed myself to a couple of charming youths, with whom I had not conversed five minutes ere I came to the decision, either to fall myself or to slay my adversary. The latter project pleased me better than the former; and it is but justice to my seconds in stating, that they perfectly coincided with me. We jumped into a hack, with the accompaniments of four swords, two pistols, thirty balls, half a pound of royal powder, first quality, and we reached Montmartre, the place of rendezvous. Thanks to my friends, it was promptly settled that we should commence with the sword and terminate with the pistol, in the event of the former weapon inflicting but a mere scratch. Our blades flashed in the sun, when, presto! a man clad as half-citizen, half peasant, and appearing, as it were, to rise out from the earth, precipitated himself between myself and my adversary, and flatly declared that we should not fight. At this unlooked-for interruption, my seconds stormed and raved, quoted the article of the charte which refers to the protection of individual liberty, and were for sending to the right-about this unwelcome guest. He assumed a goodhumoured countenance, stood his ground firmly, and declared imperatively that we should not fight. "I will not allow you to fight," said he; "you have no reason for coming to such an extremity. I shall not quit you, and one shall not pierce his antagonist's body without previously transfixing mine." Our seconds discharged volleys of most insulting language, which in nowise changed this droll character either in aspect or resolution. "Have your say out," quoth he, very coolly, "but these gentlemen shall not fight.' "This is insupportable," cries one of my seconds; “let us be off, gentlemen -away to Vincennes; there, at least, we shall be free from the interruptions of originals' of the same species as that fellow." We re-entered the coach, and arrived at the wood of Vincennes. Having selected a convenient spot, we reined up, and were preparing to descend, when we perceived our hero, who had seated himself behind the coach, advance, and obligingly come and let down the steps for our descent. "Did I not tell you that you should not fight," said he, smiling. "To Fontainbleau," exclaimed our seconds. "As you please," replied the other, as, folding up the steps, he added, "I have no particular engagement; besides, I take infinite delight in pleasure ex cursions." He shut the door, and was preparing quietly to resume his seat behind, when we could contain ourselves no longer at this last stroke, and burst out into roars of laughter; we invited our unceremonious guest to an inside place; and, instead of going to Fontainbleau, descended at a restaurateurs, where we sealed our reconciliation with a hearty breakfast. The repast concluded, our "original" stole out; we waited his return upward of half an hour; at length, we decided to depart without him. He had disappeared, after having defrayed the reckoning. J. G. W. GRADUS AD PARNASSUM. THE ancient kings of England used to keep jouglers, or minstrels; then jesters, under the Tudors; and James I. converted them into poet laureates. PUBLIC IMPROVEMENTS. THE LONDON AND GREENWICH RAILWAY. WHATEVER may be the result of this undertaking, whatever may be the difference of opinion as to the advantage which the citizens of London and the shareholders may derive from its establishment, it must be allowed on all sides that it is a noble work, and highly characteristic of that spirit and enterprise which have distinguished Englishmen above all other nations. Canova is said to have greatly admired our Waterloo Bridge, and to have classed it as one of the finest architectural efforts in England. What would he have said of the stupendous work, the recent inspection of which has occasioned these remarks? A handsome viaduct, raised on thousand arches, stretches in an almost direct line from London Bridge, or rather, from Saint Thomas's Hospital, to Bexley Place, Greenwich, passing over a large portion of the suburbs of London, which may in truth be deemed terra incognita to many of its citizens. one On a recent visit to this work, we were much interested in observing the different localities on its line. Near the London end, a large space has been cleared away, and many wretched hovels, the residence of the most filthy and degraded beings, among whom the cholera, but a short time since, made frightful havoc, have been demolished, and their occupants compelled to seek less perilous places of abode. Proceeding onward, we arrive in a neighbourhood which those who reside at the west end of the town will scarcely suppose to exist so near the heart of the city: it is occupied by tanners, skinners, fellmongers, and others, who seem to have chosen it for such trades for centuries past. Farther on, the scene changes: market gardens, of great extent and variety, meet the view; one of these surpassed in richness and beauty all that we have ever witnessed. It occupies many acres, and contains, besides its other productions, innumerable luxuriant fruit-trees, the coup d'œil of which, when in blossom, defied description. We are glad to learn that this garden is about to be taken by a horticultural society, as every object of this kind must greatly add to the picturesque beauty of the Railway. From this spot a beautiful view of the Surrey Hills is obtained on the right, while, on the other side, the tall masts of the shipping proceeding up and down the Thames, form a pleasing contrast to the THE SEASONS. BY WILLIAM COX. SUMMER. WHEW! how awfully-how unmercifully hot it is! The intolerant sun, with an eye like molten brass, glares fiercely on his poor, perspiring victim, man, who hies in all directions to shady coverts, cellars, sylvan arbors, ice-houses, or any sort of retreat, natural or artificial, that promises a shelter from his sultry foe. It is noonday, and the enemy triumphantly lords it over earth and heaven, flaring and glaring upon the unfortunate plants and shrubs, who shrivel up their leaves, droop their heads, and bear his hot assaults as best they may, until the cooling dews and blessed breeze of even. ing comes to renovate their shrunken frames. How still is all around! The cattle recline mute and motionless in the shade; the birds are silent in the hedge; and there is not a sound, save the occasional hum of pestiferous insects, born of the solar beam for the sustenance of swallows, and the plague and torment of all other created things. A drowsy listlessness seizes body and mind, and a horror of locomotion pervades your every thought. What are now the boasted sports of the field-the spiritstirring joys of the chase? Revolting images of toil and sweat. What the whilom pleasant canter, or lively drive? Things to be abhorred even in imagination. You do not even wish your "direst foe worse than a seat on a rough-trotting horse, going fourteen miles an hour along a hard, dusty, glistening turnpike. You take up a book-it is too hot to read; you open your lips to converse, but tire in the middle of a sentence. In fact, you are, so completely nerveless and unstrung,, that you could not go through with the veriest trifle imaginable-pay your debts or peruse the "Triumphs of Temper." In such weather, I will not tell you to be patient (the most aggravating thing man can be told), but follow your natural impulses, loll, roll, and tumble about for a few hours longer, until the enemy begins to slacken his fire: or better still, steal quietly away to the pleasant greenwood, and "under the shade of melancholy boughs" forget for a while the heat and hubbub of active existence. The last plan is especially to be recommended. It is perfectly delicious, on a sultry summer's day, to steal away to a sequestered nook in some antique wood, unto whose venerable trees some tiny brook "singeth a quiet tune," blending the gentle rippling of the waters with the still more gentle rustling of the leaves. It is like casting oil upon the waves; your temper mollifies, the irritation of your nerves subsides, and mind and body calm and cool simultaneously, as you luxuriously stretch yourself on the greensward beneath the shelter of some mighty oak, draw your hat partially over your face, and attune your mind to pleasant thoughts. You feel just in the temper to exclaim with the old poet, in his address to Melancholy "Friends and companions, get ye gone! No gem, no treasure like to this- Nought so sweet as melancholy. |