one now resting on a flower, opening its brilliant wings to the sun, is the Black-based Yellow (C. Coesonia). It is a strikingly-marked species, the sulphur-yellow contrasting well with the broad border and basal cloud of deep black. Each wing has a silvery spot in the centre of the under surface, on which side the black is altogether wanting. And this pigmy, whose wings are scarcely more than half an inch in length, is the Black-banded Yellow (C. Diara); it is of the same sulphur-yellow as the last, with a black tip, and a broad band of the same running along parallel to the inner margin of the fore wings. The caterpillars of these butterflies have generally much resemblance to each other, being green, with white or yellow stripes; and the chrysalids, which in this genus are suspended by a girdle of silk around the thorax, as well as by the anal button, are like the larvæ in colour.

But we will go on: look at that conspicuous tree standing out from the edge of the woods just at the corner of two roads. It is a blasted chestnut; its bark has long fallen off, and left its limbs to bleach and dry in the summer sun. On the very topmost branch sits a brown thrush, or French mocking-bird (Turdus rufus). Nearly every morning as I pass, I see him on that very twig; I have no doubt it is the same individual. Look at him, and listen to his warbling in my opinion he is one of the sweetest of our songsters I generally pay him the compliment of standing a few moments to hear him. Does he not seem in earnest, and full of enjoyment, with his broad tail spread like a fan and bent under the bough, his head elevated, and his spotted throat quivering with song, as he pours out his morning hymn of praise? He is fond of singing from an elevated point like this; but does not seem to frequent the shade of the woods.

Now we are going through a belt of stunted pine woods, mixed, however, with some hard-wood trees of slender growth: here the beautiful Cardinal Grosbeak (Fringilla cardinalis) delights to haunt. We hear its singular whistle on each side of us-"whit, whit, whit, whit," and there we catch sight of its brilliant plumage. Is he not a charming fellow? Look at his bright scarlet body, wings, and tail, his coal-black face and red beak, and his fine conical crest, now erect, and now lying flat: with what vivacity he hops from bough to bough, his glowing colour flashing out like a coal of fire among the sombre pine shades, then again hidden from sight!-he cannot be still an instant. His vocal efforts are not confined to this monotonous whistle: that clear and loud song which we hear proceeding from the depth of

the woods, and which, though not equal to that of the thrush, is yet highly melodious, is uttered by the Cardinal. Being easily raised, they are often caged, and are great favourites. Close to the school-house I know of the nest of a Cardinal, which I will show you by-and-by. It is in a young tree, about six feet from the ground, not very artfully concealed: there are two eggs in it, which are nearly as large as those of the quail. They are whitish, covered with brown spots.

See the little dusky butterflies characteristically called "Browns," dancing along in their peculiar jerking way, just over the tops of the bushes; they much resemble their congeners, the meadow-butterflies (Hipparchia) of our own country. They chiefly affect the glades and lanes of the woods, being not very often seen in the clearing; sometimes, however, they come into our gardens of a morning, but then they fly along close to the ground, beneath the shrubs, and in the shelter of the fence, as if shade were more congenial to their feelings than sunshine. Perhaps, as there is a correspondence and a harmony in all the divine works, there may be a reference to these retiring habits in the dull tint common to the tribe, and the want of those glowing colours so general among butterflies. These are both small species; one is the Dusky Argus (Hipparchia eurythris), with two double-pupilled eyes in each fore-wing, and one on each hind-wing, besides a very minute eye in the angle of the latter; beneath, the hind-wings have four eyes. The smaller of the two is the Blind Argus (H. 80sybius), of which the upper surface is spotless brown, the under handsomely marked with a numerous series of eyes near the margin, and two transverse dark lines.

An intruder It is a Tick

The trivial

Ha! what have we here, crawling on your back? with whose acquaintance you may well dispense. (Ixodes Americanus), and a singular subject it is. name, Americanus, is but a poor distinction, for two species at least, much resembling each other in size, form, colour, and habits, are common here. They are both flat, about one-eighth of an inch in diameter, of a dark-reddish brown, but one has a white spot on the back, and is round, while the other is oval. On the first day that I spent at my school, I was surprised by a violent twinge in my breast, just like the sting of a wasp, yet I could feel nothing with my fingers: the pain continuing, I examined beneath my clothes, and found one of these rascally ticks, with his rostrum so firmly embedded in the flesh, that it was only after repeated efforts that I succeeded in pulling him off. Since then, scarce a day

elapses without other polite attentions of the same kind; but I am informed this is nothing to what I may expect in a month or two, when the "seed-ticks" come about.

a pen,

Look into the woods in this direction :-yonder are two wild Turkeys (Meleagris gallopavo), the finest bird that America has produced. Let us go nearer, we shall easily find the path again. They are both hens, and have young, their alarm and anxiety for which cause them to make that loud calling, and to run round and round as if bereft of their senses. They are not eaten at this season, being very poor: no doubt if we could examine those, we should find them little but bones and feathers, and even of the latter no great quantity, the breast and belly being totally bare from sitting. If you will come a little way further into the forest, I will show you a very curious contrivance for taking turkeys. It is called and it is a common and very successful trap: this one was set up, "fixed," by some of my schoolboys in the winter, but it is not baited in summer, when the bird is not in season. It consists of an enclosure about ten feet square, made with rails resting on each other at the corners, covered in also by rails. A hole or passage is dug, leading from some distance outside to the midst of the pen under the bottom rails, the part next the rails, within the pen, being covered with a board, or with sticks. Corn is then scattered around the hole and within the pen: the turkeys follow the corn, eating as they go, until they get into the pen; when, finding themselves enclosed, they endeavour to get out, running round and round, looking for an opening above, but are so stupid that they never think of getting out by the hole by which they got in, but remain there, until the hunter comes, who goes in and knocks them on the head. Many are sometimes taken at once in this way. I saw yesterday a number of eggs that had been taken from the nest of a wild turkey; they were larger than hen's eggs, and rounder, but not so large as I should have expected from the size of the bird; their colour was drab, or pale brown with darker dots.

But here we approach the august vicinity of that seat of learning, of which the presidential chair is occupied by your humble servant. This, sir, is our “seminary," our " academy," our " establishment," our “alma mater." Walk in while I collect the urchins.

And now, as the declining sun indicates the approach of five o'clock, having dismissed our tumultuous boys, who have rushed from their restraint whooping and shouting at the return of liberty, we, with perhaps not less of enjoyment, will take our quiet,

walk homeward. We have yet two good hours of day, although the fierce heat of the high sun has in some degree abated. The dayfliers have not yet retired, for here is that wide-spread species, the Violet-tip Butterfly (Grapta C. aureum), slaking its thirst at the edge of the brook. And just now I saw another northern species, the little Pearl Crescent Fritillary (Melitaea tharos), which seems to be rather common.

The Turtle-dove (Columba Carolinensis) has been making the woods resound with its soft and mournful notes for some hours, but at this hour they are, most garrulous in their melancholy. In truth it is a sweet sound; there is something inexpressibly touching in it, soothing our spirits and calming us into unison with the peaceful quiet of nature. It puts one in mind of the note of our own country's cuckoo, so full of summer and all its pleasant associations; but the coo of the turtle is softer, more deliberate, and consists of five syllables instead of two. They generally fly in pairs at this season, and often utter their coo as they sit on the road-fences, whence they frequently descend to the roads to peck among the gravel, or to bask in the sun and dust. They seem of a confiding nature, and to possess a large share of that gentleness and tenderness we are accustomed to associate with all the doves. As if conscious how much of a favourite it is, this sweet bird will scarcely leave the fence, or even the road, at the approach of a passenger. Its confidence, however, does not always protect it, for its flesh is a delicacy, and the gentle turtle often becomes a victim to the rifle. Its flight when alarmed is very rapid, and attended by a loud whirring sound, which frequently betrays it in the woods to the hunter's unerring aim. Its shape is slender and elegant, the head is small and the tail long; the general colour of the upper parts is light blue, and of the under parts pale orange, the plumage reflecting, in a remarkable degree, those brilliant metallic hues which are more or less common to the whole pigeon tribe.

Here is a flower of great beauty, growing neglected and unnoticed in the corners of the rail-fence. It is the Indian pink (Spigelia Marylandica); its spike of slender tubular flowers, brilliant crimson externally and internally yellow, would entitle it alone to our admiration, but it has other claims to our regard, on account of its value in medical botany. But notice that heavy, thick-set butterfly, probing with its long tongue the deep nectartube of the corolla. Like the rest of its tribe, for it is one of that extensive group commonly called Skippers (Hesperiada), the white

spotted skipper (Eudamus tityrus) is more like a moth than a butterfly, and serves well to be one of the connecting links between the diurnal and the nocturnal Lepidoptera. It is very susceptible of alarm, flies swifty, violently, and in a headlong manner, and has many of the motions of the hawk-moths.

Now, as we plunge into this romantic little hollow, where the oaks and hickories meet overhead, and entwine their branches together, we seem to leave daylight behind us. And, as if to be quite in character, see the Barrel Owl (Strix nebulosa) flying silent and ghost-like across our path, and now staring at us from yonder tree.

Here we emerge again into at least comparative daylight, though the sun sends nearly horizontal rays across the fields. Notice those birds, resembling swallows, which are mounting on the wing higher and higher and higher, screaming as they ascend, till, having gained a great elevation, down each plunges with closed wings, like a stone, so that you think he will be killed by the fall, but just before he reaches the earth, he suddenly wheels round, and again mounts on the wing. The most singular part of the procedure is, that at the moment the bird arrests its precipitate descent, a hollow boom is heard, something like a heavy gun at a great distance, or the hoarse bellowing of a bull. The mouths of all this genus, for it is the night-hawk (Caprimulgus Americanus), are very wide and capacious, though their beaks are extremely small, and it is doubtless to this fact that the sound is owing; the swift descent causing the air to rush into the open mouth, as into the bung-hole of an empty cask. They do not, however, always perform these manoeuvres in regularly-continued succession, often when high in air they will rove about, or several will play together on the wing for some time before they precipitate themselves. The common people here generally call these birds by the name of bullbats.

I see your surprise at the long whoops which begin to be heard from every quarter; be not alarmed, it is not the war-whoop of the wild Seminole, but a much more peaceful sound. The sun has set, and the negroes on the plantations have begun to call home the hogs. Some negroes, from long practice, have acquired great power of voice; they will utter a continued unbroken shout, lasting nearly a minute, which may be heard at the distance of a mile; and to me, in the still balmy evening, when softened and mellowed by distance, there is something pleasing and even musical in these sounds. The hogs are turned out in the morning to forage in the

VOL. II.

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