LXII. THE FIELDFARE-(Turdus pilaris).

THIS bird is of an intermediate size between the missel and song thrushes. It is sometimes called the chestnut-backed, or gray thrush. With us it is a winter visitant only, arriving from the

north of Europe towards the ena of October, and departing about the end of April. It is known that a few remain to breed here, as nests of the bird have, though very rarely, been found. We generally see it only in large flocks, associated sometimes with other species of the thrush family. Among these flocks the fowler's gun makes great havoc during the severe weather, when hunger drives the birds abroad to search the open fields and bare hedge-rows for food, which consists, at that season, chiefly of service and juniper, and other berries, oats and other grain, and, when hard pressed, even turnips. In their summer homes and breeding-places, they feed upon worms and insects mainly. They are said to be fond of building in society, as many as two hundred nests and upwards having been found within a small circuit of the forest. The nest is generally

placed in a pine or fir tree, at various heights from the ground, sometimes not more than four feet, sometimes as many as forty. It is composed of small sticks, grass, and weeds, cemented together with clay, and lined with fine grass; the eggs are from three to six in number, of a pale bluish green, spotted with dark red-brown. Like its congeners, the fieldfare is an early builder, and its song, which is soft and melodious (some call it hoarse and disagreeable, but we have not found it so), is sometimes heard at the latter end of February or beginning of March in mild seasons. The alarm note of the bird is not pleasing; it resembles the words chuck! chuck! chuck! uttered very rapidly and shrilly.

The female may be distinguished from the male by the gray-brown tint of the upper mandible, which in the male is yellow; the head and rump are also more of a fallow gray, the throat whitish, and the back dirty rust-colour. Fieldfares are chiefly valued by dealers as decoybirds, it being found that many good

songsters are attracted by their call-note, which is loud and peculiar. In confinement they may be fed and treated like other thrushes, less than any of which do they repay one for the trouble and expense.

LXIII. THE REDWING THRUSH-(Turdus iliacus)

VERY closely resembles the last-named species in habits and appearance; it, too, is a native of the north of Europe, and visits this country only in the winter. Its powers of song are by no means so contemptible as some writers would lead us to suppose. It is sometimes called the Swedish or Norway nightingale, a distinction it appears to deserve. Linnæus, speaking of this bird,

says, "Its high and varied notes rival those of the nightingale herself." It is fond of pouring forth its wild strain, which has been described as loud, sweet, clear, and musical, while seated

on the highest branch of a tree. In favourable weather it may sometimes, during its sojourn in this country, be heard "recording," as the bird dealers term it; that is, running over its modulations in a low, subdued tone, like one that is striving to recover the notes of some half forgotten tune, or practising a yet imperfectly learned musical lesson. The ordinary note of the bird is, however, harsh and shrill. Sometimes a number assembled together at the top of a tree utter this in a low tone in concert; and then it falls on the ear with a pleasing effect.

The nest of the redwing is sometimes placed in a thorn or other thick bush; the eggs closely resemble those of the fieldfare, like which it should be treated in confinement. Bird-fanciers say that it cannot endure much heat, and constantly requires fresh water for bathing.

LXIV. THE BLACKBIRD.

THIS is the Turdus merula of Linnæus, and most other naturalists, and the merle of old English writers, the glossy-plumed golden bill, and the rich mellow songster with which all in this country are familiar-a large, noble, and yet, withal, a lively bird, whose mellow note may be heard, from the gray dawning till the dusky twilight, floating over meadow and moorland, playing

around copse and dingle, like a spirit of sweet sound seeking a resting place in the bosom of silence. The blackbird! who does not know and love the bold and happy songster, with the jet bright wing and eye, lustrous as a diamond? What English child is there who could not tell its note from a thousand others? that note, so loud and continuous, so rich and mellow, running through

the general chorus like a fine bass undertone-a golden chain of melody which binds into one harmonious whole the diverse warblings and twitterings and strains, more or less distinct, of the various feathered performers.

"Merry it is in the good green wood,

When the mavis and merle are singing,"

the great Scottish novelist makes the forester say, in his "Lady of the Lake;" and Graham, in his "Birds of Scotland," bids us "List to the merle's dulcet pipe! melodious bird, Who, hid behind the milkwhite hawthorn spray, Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf, Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year."

By these and other allusions to the bird by writers of Scotland, we learn how commonly the term merle is there applied to it. According to Varro, this name is derived from its habit of flying mera, or solitary; and hence, too, the scientific name, merula. Some naturalists call it the black thrush and some the garden ouzel, reminding us of the term used by Shakspere, when he sings of

"The woosel-cock so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill."

And also of the unmistakable reference made to the blackbird by Drayton, in his "Polyolbion:"—

"The woofell near at hand, that hath a golden bill,
As Nature him had marked, on purpose to let us see
That from all other birds his tune should different be;
For with their vocal sounds they sing to pleasant May,
Upon his dulcet pipe the merle doth only play."

Here, we see, both titles are used, ouzel and merle. But we are getting too theoretical for a series of practical chapters, and must leave poetry for plain prose, and the poets for mere matterof-fact naturalists; even the touching episode in Dickens's "Nicholas Nickleby," of Tom Linkinwater and his blind blackbird, must not detain us, much less must we pause to sing, with the lately departed Sheffield poet, J. Montgomery, that spirited and exhilarating chant of his, beginning

"Golden bill! golden bill!
Lo, the peep of day!"