well-grown ostriches belonging to the factory afforded him a very amusing sight. They were so tame that two little black boys mounted together on the back of the larger. No sooner did it feel their weight than it set off running as fast as possible, carrying them several times round the village. He then asked an adult negro to mount the smaller, and two others the larger of the birds. At first the ostriches moved at a sharp trot; but when they became a little heated, they stretched out their wings to catch the wind, and ran with the fleetness of a race-horse.

The ostrich is chiefly valued for the feathers of its wings and tail, which are used as ornaments of dress, and in their unprepared state often sell for £16 per pound weight. The young reader may remember that the crest of the Prince of Wales is formed of three ostrich feathers, with the motto, Ich dien, or "I serve." The origin of this is said to be as follows:-The king of Bohemia, who was slain at the battle of Cressy, in the year 1346, wore this crest and motto. These were assumed by his conqueror, Edward, the Prince of Wales, and have been worn ever since by the heir to the British crown.

Mr. Moffat, in his work, "Missionary Labours in South Africa," describes the method of the Bushmen in hunting ostriches. A native, dressed with the skin and feathers of one of these birds, makes a good representation of a living ostrich. His legs being whitened, he approaches a flock of ostriches. The "human bird" mimics the real bird by pecking on the ground and shaking his feathers: he now trots, and then walks, until he gets within bow-shot, when he discharges a poisoned arrow, which he has concealed, and generally succeeds in taking his prey.

3.-SONGS OF BIRDS

It is remarkable that scarcely any large bird is known to sing. Nearly all the minstrels of the woods are little creatures, from whose throats we could scarcely expect the torrent of melody with which they make the woods resound.

In Britain the songs of birds are chiefly heard in spring and early summer.

"Then how each bough a silver music yields!
The lusty throstle, early nightingale,

Accord in tune, though varying in their tale;
The chirping swallow, called forth by the sun,
And crested lark their airy courses run;
The yellow bees the air with music fill;
The finches carol, and the turtles bill."

Nothing can be more delightful than, in the freshness and loveliness of spring, to walk in the country, and listen to the gay minstrels as they carol their sweet songs; to hear the wild linnet, the song-thrush, and the blackbird, in their native woods; or to listen to the sky-lark, as it soars aloft to the sky, singing its song of liberty.

"Ah! who that hears thee carol free
Those jocund notes of liberty,

And sees thee independent soar

With gladsome wing the blue sky o'er,
In wiry cage would thee restrain,
To pant for liberty in vain;

And see thee 'gainst thy prison grate
Thy little wings indignant beat,

And peck and flutter round and round
Thy narrow, lonely, hated bound,
And yet not ope thy prison door,

To give thee liberty once more?
None! none! but he whose vicious eye
The charms of Nature can't enjoy;
Who dozes those sweet hours away
When thou beginn'st thy merry lay;
And 'cause his lazy limbs refuse
To tread the meadows' morning dews,
And there thy early wild notes hear,
He keeps thee lonely prisoner.

Not such am I, sweet warbler; no!
For should thy strains as sweetly flow,
As sweetly flow, as gaily sound
Within thy prison's wiry bound,

As when thou soar'st with lover's pride,
And pour'st thy wild notes far and wide,
Yet still, deprived of every scene,—
The yellow lawn, the meadow green,
The hawthorn bush besprent with dew,
The skyey lake, the mountain blue,—
Not half the charms thou'dst have for me
As ranging wide at liberty."

4.-BRITISH SONG-BIRDS-THE ROBIN.

ART thou the bird whom man loves best,
The sweet bird with the scarlet breast,-

Our little English Robin,

The bird that comes about our doors
When autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the 'Peter' of Norway boors,

Their Thomas' in Finland,

And Russia far inland

The bird that by some name or other

All men who know thee call thee brother?

Wordsworth.

Nearly every country has its robin, though the robins of America, Australia, and other regions, are entirely different birds from the English robin.

The English robin, that favourite of children, associated in their minds with the touching ballad of "The Babes in the Wood," is a well known song-bird, and remarkable for the familiarity with which in winter it approaches the dwellings of man. When the frost becomes severe, and the snow covers the ground, he will approach a house, and, by his little coaxing ways and fearless confidence, win the regard of the dwellers within,-sometimes even tapping at the window and begging admission.

"Half afraid, he first

Against the window beats; then brisk alights
On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the floor,

Eyes all the smiling family askance,

And pecks and starts, and wonders where he is;
Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs

Attract his slender feet."

The red-breast seeks an asylum with us and becomes a partaker of our bounty in a season of severity and want;

but the moment it can provide for itself, away it flies to the woods and shades.

In spring it retires to the woods, where, with its mate, it prepares for the accommodation of its family. The nest, constructed of moss and dried leaves, intermixed with hair and lined with feathers, is placed near the ground, and sometimes in old buildings, but always artfully concealed. While the female is busy with household affairs, the male sits at no great distance from the nest, and makes the woods resound with his enlivening strains. As soon as the young are able to provide for themselves, the nest is forsaken, and the robins again approach the dwellings of man.

While such birds as the nightingale and the swallow leave Britain in the winter, the red-breast continues with us during the entire year, and even in winter it is frequently heard warbling its cheerful song.

"And thou, sweet warbler, with rosy breast,
Art thou still content in thine home to rest?
Have no birds woo'd thee to join their band,
With fairy tales of some far-off land,—

Of roses that bloom o'er the foaming seas,
Of scented myrtles, and tall palm-trees?

We love thee, sweet robin, thou'rt fond and true,
And winter friends are ever few."

THE RED-BREAST AND SWALLOW.

The swallows, at the close of day,
When autumn shone with fainter ray,
Around the chimney circling flew,
Ere yet they bade a long adieu