of white across the front of the head, contrasted with jet black, the under parts are of pale chestnut, the tail being of bright flame colour, hence the bird is called in some parts "fire tail." It would appear as if it was not a little vain of this brightcoloured appendage, for the tail is kept in constant motion, vibrating or rapidly shaken from side to side with a very peculiar movement.

This elegant and beautiful bird may be frequently met with even in the immediate suburbs of a town or city, where we have often observed the building operations proceeding; some hole in an old garden wall or in a ruinous out-building is usually selected, where the nest is constructed, the bird's visits to and fro being marked with great wariness and caution. It alights at some short distance from the nest, a sharp glance is thrown around, and if all is clear a rapid dart is made to the nest. But should there be any cause of alarm, the flight is taken in an opposite direction until the course is clear. The eggs are pale green.

During incubation the male bird is generally found within a short distance of the nesting place, probably perched on the top of the nearest tree, and singing its short but very pleasing song within hearing of its mate, occasionally repeating the strain in the softest and sweetest tones. Here it remains, till, observing some favourite insect food, it suddenly darts with surprising rapidity into the air, captures the insect, and returns to its perch and song. Sometimes it seeks its food on the ground, tripping lightly along with vibrating tail, and then flitting away in the most sprightly manner.

The Redstart, during the breeding season, is a diligent seeker of insect food, not only in the air and on the ground, but in the crevices of old walls and in the bark of trees, thus destroying the eggs and larvæ of insects which would possibly prove greatly injurious. Occasionally we see trees pine and die from no outward conceivable cause, but if we strip off the bark we see that the connection between the bark and wood has been completely severed by larvæ having cut numerous circles round the tree underneath the bark, thus preventing the flow of the sap, and causing death.

MAY 31ST.

THE NIGHTINGALE.-(Philomela luscinia.)

THIS, the king of our feathered songsters, is not an unfrequent spring visitor in many districts; where permitted, like the swallow, it usually returns to the same spot season after season. Unfortunately the bird is of easy capture, and thus the snarers from time to time kidnap many a visitor of the kind, so that if the admirer of the sweetest music would now listen to the elevated strains of the Nightingale he must go to a distance and to secluded spots for that enjoyment. This is greatly to be regretted; not that a warm spring or summer night's excursion is otherwise than pleasurable, especially so with a pleasant companion; but every capture of a Nightingale or lark is a robbery of the gratification of the public.

As we approached the thick copse surrounded with cowslip meadows (a favourite haunt of the bird) we loitered on the way, all attention, but

"Nature's self is hush'd; not a sound is heard

To break the midnight air; though the raised ear,
Intensely listening, drinks in every breath."

BARBAULD.

We had, indeed, begun to fear that we were misinformed or had mistaken the locality, and that our expectations were not to be gratified. An hour at night in the silent woods passes slowly, but our patience was rewarded. First a note or two echoed through the copse, and then, undisturbed by any other voice, joyous strains succeeded each other, the hushed stillness of the night rendering every warble of the sweet music clear and distinct, the tones, whether in power, modulation, or melody, eclipsing those of every other bird-now the expression of entrancing joy, and anon melting into the most plaintive melancholy, as if wailing some past grief.

Pliny says, "There is not a pipe or instrument in the world that can afford more music than this pretty bird doth out of that little throat of hers; yet it is at times almost sad."

Ovid relates the story of the wrongs of Philomela, and of her metamorphosis into the Nightingale; in ancient times those

touching tones were supposed to refer to the remembered past and to reveal the woman in the power and sweetness of the song.

"That thou wert once a woman we believe,

Or such sweet music never had been thine,"

was the conclusion arrived at, and the fable was easily made to fit.

The Nightingale, immediately after its arrival in May, commences its song, beginning in the evening and continuing sometimes until dawn, occasionally joining, too, with undiminished power in the general chorus of the day. Tennyson says,

"The cuckoo told his tale to all the hills,
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm,
The red-cap whistled, and the Nightingale
Sang loud, as though he were the bird of day."

The plumage of this esteemed vocalist is remarkable for its plainness; the upper parts of tawny brown, the under parts of pale ash. It ceases its song with June, and leaves us in August.