PARTRIDGESPARTRIDGES.
I have sad cause to know how this sport is conducted, for I have been in the trap myself. Only one man, or perhaps a boy, fired at me as I rose; but I received two wounds, for one shot passed through my crop, but I was astonished to find how soon it got well; the other broke my leg just below the feathers. Oh, what anguish I suffered for two months! at the end of which time it withered and dropped off. So now, instead of running about amongst my red-legged brethren, as a pigeon ought, I am obliged to hop like a sparrow. But only consider what glory this stripling must have acquired, to have actually fired a gun and broke a pigeon's leg! Well, we both know, neighbour Partridge, what the Hawk is; he stands for no law, nor no season, but eats us when he is hungry. He is a perfect gentleman compared to these "Lords of the Creation," as I am told they call themselves; and I declare to you upon the honour of a pigeon, that I had much rather be torn to pieces by the Hawk than be shut up in a box at a convenient distance to be shot at by a dastard. You partridges are protected during great part of the year by severe laws, but whether such laws are wise, merciful, or just, I cannotdetermine,
but I know that they are strictly kept and enforced by those who make them. Take care of yourself, for the harvest is almost ripe.
I am, your faithful,
ONE-LEGGED FRIEND AT THE GRANGE.
FROM THE WOOD-PIGEON TO THE OWL.
My Good, Old, Wise, Secluded, and Quiet Friend,
I write to you in the fulness of my heart, for I have been grossly insulted by the Magpie, in a letter
OWLOWL.
received this morning; in which I am abused for what my forefathers did long before I was born. I know of nothing more base, or more unjust, than thus raking up old quarrels[4]and reproaching those who had nothing to do with them. The letter must have come through your office, but I know you have not the authority to break open and examine letters passing between those whoshould be friends; I therefore do not accuse you; but sometimes the heart is relieved by stating its troubles even when no redress can be expected. I know that you cannot bring to punishment that slanderer, that babbler of the woods, any more than I can; but I wish you would give me a word of comfort, if it is ever so short.
From the plantation of firs,
Near the forest-side,
WOOD-PIGEON.
FrontispieceNIGHTINGALE.
THE OWL IN REPLY TO THE WOOD-PIGEON.
Distressed Neighbour,
I am sorry for your trouble, but cheer up your spirits, and though you are insulted, remember who it is that gives the affront, it is only the magpie; and depend upon it that in general the best way to deal with impudent fools is to be silent and take no notice of them. I should have enough to do if I were to resent all her impertinences. She will come sometimes round the ivy where I lodge in the old elm, or into the tower on the top of the hill; and there she will pimp and pry into my private concerns, and mob me, and call me "Old Wigsby" and "Doctor Winkum," and such kind of names, and all for nothing. I assure you it is well for her that she is not a mouse, or sheshould not long escape my talons; but who ever heard of such a thing as eating a magpie? I live chiefly on mice (when I am at liberty to catch them), but I have my complaints to make as well as you, for you know I hold a high situation in the Post-office, and I suppose you know, likewise, that the letters are brought in so very late that it often takes me half the night to sort them, and night is the very time when I ought to get my own food! At this rate of going on, and if the cats are industrious as usual, there will not be a mouse left for me, if I do not give up my place.
I have heard that my family are famed for wisdom; but for my part I will not boast of any such thing: yet I am wise enough to know that other people in high offices expect either a good salary or perquisites, as a reward for their labour, or what is easier still, somebody to do all the work for them. If I hold in my present mind until next quarter, I will certainly send in my resignation. Thus you see what an important thing it is to suit the person to the office, or the office to the person on whom it is conferred; for had the magpie, for instance,been secretary, every one of the letters would have been peeped into, for a certainty, for nothing can escape her curiosity. I will try to bear with my situation a little longer, and believe me to be
Your true friend,
SECRETARY TO THE BOARD OF MANAGERS.
FROM A SWALLOW IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE TO AN ENGLISH ROBIN.
Dear Little Bob,
I remember your peaceful singing on the top of your shed, near my late dwelling, and I remember also that I promised to write you some account of my journey. You may recollect that, at the close of your summer, when flies became scarce, we all assembled on a sunny morning, on the roof of the highest building in the village, and talked loudly of the flight we intended to take. At last came the day appointed, and we mounted up in a vast body and steered southward.
SWALLOWSSWALLOWS.
Being hatched in England, I had thought your valleys and streams matchless in beauty; and for anything I know to the contrary they certainly are; but I am now a traveller, and have a traveller's privilege to say what I like. When we reached the great water I was astonished at its width, but more still to see many travelling houses going at a prodigious rate, and sending forth from iron chimneys columns of black smoke over the face of the water, reaching further than you ever flew in your life; they have a contrivance on each side which puts the waves all in commotion, but they are not wings. My mother says that in old times, when swallows came to England, there were no such things to be seen. We crossed this water, and a fine sunny country beyond it, until I was tired, and we
now found flies more abundant, though the oldest amongst us assure me that we must travel further still, over
another wide water, into a country where men's faces are of the same colour as my feathers, black and tawny; buttravellers see strange things. When I come to England again I will endeavour to find out your village.[5]I hope, for your sake, you may have a mild winter and good lodgings. This is all the news worth sending, and I must catch flies for myself now, you know.
So farewell,
For I am in haste.
ON HEARING THE CUCKOO AT MIDNIGHT, MAY 1st. 1822.
(Charles Bloomfield.)
'Twas the blush of the spring, vegetation was young,And the birds with a maddening ecstasy sungTo welcome a season so lovely and gay—But a scene the most sweet was the close of May-day.For the air was serene, and the moon was out bright,And Philomel boldly exerted her mightIn her swellings and trillings, to rival the soundOf the distant defiance of nightingales round.While the cuckoo as proudly was heard to prolong,Though daylight was over, her own mellow song,And appeared to exult; and at intervals, too,The owl in the distance joined in with "Too-whoo!"Unceasing, unwearied, each, proud of his power,Continued the contest from hour to hour;The nightingale vaunting—the owl in reply—With the cuckoo's response—till the moon from the skyWas hastening down to the west, and the dawnWas spreading the east; and the owl in the mornSat silently winking his eyes at the sight;And the nightingale also had bidden "good-night."The cuckoo, left solus, continued with glee,His notes of defeat from his favourite tree;At length he departed; but still as he flew,Was heard his last notes of defiance, "Cuckoo!"
THE END.
London: R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor, Printers
NOTES:[1]This part of the letter is very difficult of translation, as the plain word, in spiders' language, means merely "a deep one."—R. B.[2]Cowper, that excellent man and poet, and close observer of nature, writes as follows to his friend, on the 11th of March, 1792:—"TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ."You talk of primroses that you pulled on Candlemas Day, but what think you of me, who heard a nightingale on New Year's Day? Perhaps I am the only man in England who can boast of such good fortune. Good indeed! for if was at all an omen, it could not be an unfavourable one. The winter, however, is now making himself amends, and seems the more peevish for having been encroached on at so undue a season. Nothing less than a large slice out of the spring will satisfy him."He adds the following lines on the occasion:—"TO THE NIGHTINGALE, WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ONNEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792."Whence is it that amazed I hearFrom yonder wither'd spray,This foremost morn of all the year,The melody of May?"And why, since thousands would be proudOf such a favour shown,Am I selected from the crowd,To witness it alone?"Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,For that I also longHave practised in the groves like thee,Though not like thee in song?"Or, sing'st thou rather under forceOf some divine command,Commissioned to presage a courseOf happier days at hand?"Thrice welcome then! for many a longAnd joyless year have I,As thou to-day, put forth my songBeneath a wintry sky."But thee no wintry skies can harm,Who only need'st to singTo make e'en January charm,And every season spring.R.B."[3]I once witnessed this silly and barbarous sport, and saw at least a score of maimed and wounded birds upon the barns, and stables, and outhouses of the village. I was utterly disgusted, and it required a strong effort of the mind to avoid wishing that one of the gunners at least had hobbled off the ground with a dangling leg, which might for one half-year have reminded him of the cowardly practice of "shooting from the trap."—R. B.[4]The poor pigeon, I think, must here allude to the old well-known quarrel between the two families about building their nests. The magpie once undertook to teach the pigeon how to build a more substantial and commodious dwelling, and certainly it would have become the learner to have observed her progress, and not interrupt the teacher; but the pigeon kept on her usual cry, "Take two, Taffy, take two" (for thus it is translated in Suffolk), but Mag insisted this was wrong, and that one stick at a time was quite enough; still the pigeon kept on her cry, "Take two, take two," until the teacher in a violent passion gave up the undertaking, exclaiming, "I say that one at a time is plenty, and if you think otherwise, you may act about the work yourself, for I will have no more to do with it." Since that time the wood-pigeon has built a wretched nest, sure enough, so thin that you may frequently see her two eggs through it, and if not placed near the body of a tree, or on strong branches, it is often thrown down by the wind, or the eggs rolled out; yet the young of this bird, before they are half grown, will defend themselves against any intruder, at which time the parent bird will dash herself down amongst the standing corn or high grass, and behave as though her wings were broken, and she was utterly disabled; and this she does to draw off the enemy from her young; so that this bird is not so foolish as Mag would make us believe.—R. B.[5]It is much to be wished that the above letter had contained some information on a very curious subject, for I would rather believe the swallow himself than many tales told of them. It has been said that, instead of flying to southern countries, where they can find food and a congenial climate, they dive into the waters of a bog, and lie in a torpid state, through the winter, round the roots of flags and weeds.—R. B.
[1]This part of the letter is very difficult of translation, as the plain word, in spiders' language, means merely "a deep one."—R. B.
[1]This part of the letter is very difficult of translation, as the plain word, in spiders' language, means merely "a deep one."—R. B.
[2]Cowper, that excellent man and poet, and close observer of nature, writes as follows to his friend, on the 11th of March, 1792:—"TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ."You talk of primroses that you pulled on Candlemas Day, but what think you of me, who heard a nightingale on New Year's Day? Perhaps I am the only man in England who can boast of such good fortune. Good indeed! for if was at all an omen, it could not be an unfavourable one. The winter, however, is now making himself amends, and seems the more peevish for having been encroached on at so undue a season. Nothing less than a large slice out of the spring will satisfy him."He adds the following lines on the occasion:—"TO THE NIGHTINGALE, WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ONNEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792."Whence is it that amazed I hearFrom yonder wither'd spray,This foremost morn of all the year,The melody of May?"And why, since thousands would be proudOf such a favour shown,Am I selected from the crowd,To witness it alone?"Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,For that I also longHave practised in the groves like thee,Though not like thee in song?"Or, sing'st thou rather under forceOf some divine command,Commissioned to presage a courseOf happier days at hand?"Thrice welcome then! for many a longAnd joyless year have I,As thou to-day, put forth my songBeneath a wintry sky."But thee no wintry skies can harm,Who only need'st to singTo make e'en January charm,And every season spring.R.B."
[2]Cowper, that excellent man and poet, and close observer of nature, writes as follows to his friend, on the 11th of March, 1792:—
"TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.
"You talk of primroses that you pulled on Candlemas Day, but what think you of me, who heard a nightingale on New Year's Day? Perhaps I am the only man in England who can boast of such good fortune. Good indeed! for if was at all an omen, it could not be an unfavourable one. The winter, however, is now making himself amends, and seems the more peevish for having been encroached on at so undue a season. Nothing less than a large slice out of the spring will satisfy him."
He adds the following lines on the occasion:—
"TO THE NIGHTINGALE, WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ONNEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792.
"Whence is it that amazed I hearFrom yonder wither'd spray,This foremost morn of all the year,The melody of May?"And why, since thousands would be proudOf such a favour shown,Am I selected from the crowd,To witness it alone?"Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,For that I also longHave practised in the groves like thee,Though not like thee in song?"Or, sing'st thou rather under forceOf some divine command,Commissioned to presage a courseOf happier days at hand?"Thrice welcome then! for many a longAnd joyless year have I,As thou to-day, put forth my songBeneath a wintry sky."But thee no wintry skies can harm,Who only need'st to singTo make e'en January charm,And every season spring.
R.B."
[3]I once witnessed this silly and barbarous sport, and saw at least a score of maimed and wounded birds upon the barns, and stables, and outhouses of the village. I was utterly disgusted, and it required a strong effort of the mind to avoid wishing that one of the gunners at least had hobbled off the ground with a dangling leg, which might for one half-year have reminded him of the cowardly practice of "shooting from the trap."—R. B.
[3]I once witnessed this silly and barbarous sport, and saw at least a score of maimed and wounded birds upon the barns, and stables, and outhouses of the village. I was utterly disgusted, and it required a strong effort of the mind to avoid wishing that one of the gunners at least had hobbled off the ground with a dangling leg, which might for one half-year have reminded him of the cowardly practice of "shooting from the trap."—R. B.
[4]The poor pigeon, I think, must here allude to the old well-known quarrel between the two families about building their nests. The magpie once undertook to teach the pigeon how to build a more substantial and commodious dwelling, and certainly it would have become the learner to have observed her progress, and not interrupt the teacher; but the pigeon kept on her usual cry, "Take two, Taffy, take two" (for thus it is translated in Suffolk), but Mag insisted this was wrong, and that one stick at a time was quite enough; still the pigeon kept on her cry, "Take two, take two," until the teacher in a violent passion gave up the undertaking, exclaiming, "I say that one at a time is plenty, and if you think otherwise, you may act about the work yourself, for I will have no more to do with it." Since that time the wood-pigeon has built a wretched nest, sure enough, so thin that you may frequently see her two eggs through it, and if not placed near the body of a tree, or on strong branches, it is often thrown down by the wind, or the eggs rolled out; yet the young of this bird, before they are half grown, will defend themselves against any intruder, at which time the parent bird will dash herself down amongst the standing corn or high grass, and behave as though her wings were broken, and she was utterly disabled; and this she does to draw off the enemy from her young; so that this bird is not so foolish as Mag would make us believe.—R. B.
[4]The poor pigeon, I think, must here allude to the old well-known quarrel between the two families about building their nests. The magpie once undertook to teach the pigeon how to build a more substantial and commodious dwelling, and certainly it would have become the learner to have observed her progress, and not interrupt the teacher; but the pigeon kept on her usual cry, "Take two, Taffy, take two" (for thus it is translated in Suffolk), but Mag insisted this was wrong, and that one stick at a time was quite enough; still the pigeon kept on her cry, "Take two, take two," until the teacher in a violent passion gave up the undertaking, exclaiming, "I say that one at a time is plenty, and if you think otherwise, you may act about the work yourself, for I will have no more to do with it." Since that time the wood-pigeon has built a wretched nest, sure enough, so thin that you may frequently see her two eggs through it, and if not placed near the body of a tree, or on strong branches, it is often thrown down by the wind, or the eggs rolled out; yet the young of this bird, before they are half grown, will defend themselves against any intruder, at which time the parent bird will dash herself down amongst the standing corn or high grass, and behave as though her wings were broken, and she was utterly disabled; and this she does to draw off the enemy from her young; so that this bird is not so foolish as Mag would make us believe.—R. B.
[5]It is much to be wished that the above letter had contained some information on a very curious subject, for I would rather believe the swallow himself than many tales told of them. It has been said that, instead of flying to southern countries, where they can find food and a congenial climate, they dive into the waters of a bog, and lie in a torpid state, through the winter, round the roots of flags and weeds.—R. B.
[5]It is much to be wished that the above letter had contained some information on a very curious subject, for I would rather believe the swallow himself than many tales told of them. It has been said that, instead of flying to southern countries, where they can find food and a congenial climate, they dive into the waters of a bog, and lie in a torpid state, through the winter, round the roots of flags and weeds.—R. B.