all heard; at half- past two " blackbirds everywhere
singing," &c.

A very curious question is started by the
worthy vicar of Swaffham Bulbec (the author
of the above " Observations ") on the
mortality of birds. The mortality must be enormous
every year, yet how seldom in our
country rambles do we find a dead bird. One,
now and then, in the woods or hedgerows, is
the utmost seen by anybody, even if he search
for them. Very few, comparatively, are
destroyed by mankind. Only a few species are
killed by sportsmen; all the rest cannot live
long, nor can they all be eaten by other birds.
Many must die from natural causes. Immense
numbers, especially of the smaller birds, are
born each year, yet they do not appear to
increase the general stock of the species.
Immense numbers, therefore, must die every
year; but what becomes of the bodies?
Martins, nightingales, and other migratory
birds, may be supposed to leave a great
number of their dead relations in foreign
countries; this, however, cannot apply to our
own indigenous stock. Mr. Jenyns partly
accounts for this by saying, that no doubt a
great many young birds fall a prey to stronger
birds soon after leaving the nest, and probably
a number of the elder birds also; while the
very old are killed by the cold of winter;
or, becoming too feeble to obtain food, drop
to the earth, and are spared the pain of
starvation by being speedily carried off by
some hungry creature of the woods and
fields. Besides these means for the disposal of
the bodies, there are scavenger insects, who
devour, and another species who act as
sextons, and bury the bodies. During the
warm months of summer, some of the burying
beetles will accomplish " the humble task
allotted them by Providence," in a surprisingly
short time. Mr. Jenyns has repeatedly,
during a warm spring, placed dead birds upon
the ground, in different spots frequented by
the necrophorus vespillo, and other allied
beetles, who have effected the interment so
completely in four-and-twenty hours, that
there was a difficulty in finding the bodies
again.

All this goes a great way to account for our
so very seldom seeing any dead birds lying
about, notwithstanding the immense mortality
that must take place every year; but it
certainly is not satisfactory; for, although the
birds of prey, and those which are not devoured
by others, are, comparatively, small in number,
how is it that none of these are ever
found? Once in a season, perhaps, we may
find a dead crow, or a dead owl (generally one
that has been shot), but who ever finds hawks,
ravens, kites, sparrow-hawks, or any number
of crows, out of all the annual mortality that
must occur in their colonies? These birds
are for the most part too large for the sexton
beetle to bury; and, quickly as the foxes,
stoats, weasels, and other prowling creatures
would nose out the savoury remains, or the
newly-fallen bodies, these creatures only inhabit
certain localities— and dead birds may
be supposed to fall in many places. Still, they
are not seen.

A distinction has been made since the
time of White of Selborne, between in-door
and out-of-door naturalists. It is not made
invidiously, as each class may be said, in
general, to depend upon the other; few men
unite the two qualifications of indefatigable
search and observation out of doors, and
laborious and patient examination, comparison,
classification, and so forth, in sedentary
seclusion. Both are students of Nature, but
the out-of-door naturalists may be said to take
her at first hand. Of this latter class is the
Reverend Mr. Jenyns, a worthy follower of
White; and his book furnishes a truthful
record of many years of actual out-of-door
observations.

Passing over his remarks on the mason wasp,
who builds a nest for its eggs, and then leaves
in it an imprisoned caterpillar for the young
to feed upon as soon as hatched by the warm
season; on the bees, who, he found, got drunk
with the narcotic juices or odours of dahlias; on
his seeing thrushes carry snails to knock
their heads upon a stone, and thus crack
them for eating; on his being able to distinguish
the season by the sounds of animals in
the fields, and insect life in the air (Humboldt
says he could tell what o'clock it was by the
hum of the insects, and the different sensations
of their poisonous stings!); and on the
stockdove, in whose crop he found seeds
which had begun to sprout; we will take
the following delightful story about a pair of
robins:—

A pair of robins built their nest in the old
ivy of a garden wall, and the hen shortly
afterwards sat in maternal pride upon four
eggs. The gardener came to clip the ivy;
and, not knowing of the nest, his shears cut
off a part of it, so that the four eggs fell to
the ground. Dropping on leaves, they were
not broken. Notice being attracted by the
plaintive cries of the hen bird, the eggs were
restored to the nest, which the gardener
repaired. The robins returned, the hen sat upon
the eggs, and in a few days they were hatched.
Shortly afterwards, the four little ones were
all found lying upon the ground beneath,
cold, stiff, and lifeless. The gardener's repairs
of the nest had not been according to the
laws of bird- architecture, and a gap had
broken out. The four unfledged little ones
were taken into the house, and, efforts being
made to revive them by warmth, they
presently showed signs of life, recovered, and
were again restored to the nest. The gap
was filled up by stuffing a small piece of
drugget into it. The parent robins, perched
in a neighbouring tree, watched all these
operations, without displaying any alarm for
the result, and, as soon as they were completed,
returned to the nest. All went on well for
a day or two; but misfortune seemed never