to him, saying something,-his name probably, or it might have been only giving a cry or sob, but it was something at least by which he knew, even before he looked up, that it was she, and before she reached him he had started up and sprung at her, catching her by the throat, and shaking her with the fury of a savage beast. The turnkey, rushing to her help, had to strike him twice with all the weight of a strong arm before he loosed his hold of her.

She had only moaned out once or twice, "Father! Father!" As the turnkey held her back from him, the miserable old man shouted,

"Take her away! I'll murder her if she comes near me! D'ye hear, I'll murder her if she comes within sight o' me again!"

She went away, she could do nothing more there. Almost without a word she left the prison and went back home, and closed the door upon herself in her own house.

Throughout a month, until her father's trial came on, she never crossed the threshold of that house again, except at intervals of five or six days to walk the long four miles to the prison gates, and ask there for tidings of the old man. She had a faint hope that he might relent and express a wish to see her again, but he never did. The rest of her time she passed in entire solitude, speaking to no human being, occupying herself as she could by going mechanically about her household work. One or two neighbours at the beginning of her trouble came to her with offers of assistance and sympathy, but she only thanked them, she accepted nothing from them. She passed a month in this manner, and in that month her dark hair became streaked with grey.

Her father had been confined for nearly five weeks when his trial came on. The assizes were held in the same town in which he had been confined, and on the day appointed for his trial, at early morning when the sun had barely risen, Priscilla left the house.

It was

still early when she reached the court, but she stood at the doors till they were open, and entered with the crowd that had gathered round. Screened from recognition by a thick veil, she made her way as near to the bar as she could press.

The trial began at ten o'clock. Quite still, with the marble face even behind its veil showing scarcely a change upon it, she sat from its commencement to its close,-sat quite still, while slowly every hope was taken from her.

She had clung to the thought that, true though she did not doubt the charge was, they might not be able to prove it; they

The secret

proved it in almost every detail. had been buried for more than twenty years, and they dug it up out of its grave as if it had been set there yesterday. Unflinchingly, fact by fact, they proved it, gathering back out of the very earth the blood that had been shed upon it.

She sat there and listened to it all: there was no respite given her, there was no moment when hope stole back upon her; steady as the coming on of night so did the darkness close about her, and the shadow of the advancing misery grow deeper and deeper to the end.

The old man stood in the dock throughout the whole trial, leaning his arms upon the rail before him, with his face half raised, and a look upon it in which fear was stronger than ferocity. There was something vacant in its aspect, too, as if the solitary days and nights that he had passed had touched his brain. He never attempted to speak, scarcely to move : the crafty bleared eyes, with the light almost out of them now, stared for the most part straight before him, and only now and then, as a new witness entered the box, moved for a moment aside to look at him.

It was ended at last, and the judge had risen to sum up. But for a moment before he began to speak there was a slight movement on the front benches where the audience sat, and a woman rose up and pressed forward. She had her eyes fixed on the judge's face, and as she came forward she said something— what it was could not be heard at first; but she struggled and said it again-this time audibly. It was only these words,

"He is such an old man.'

But she repeated it again, after she had said it aloud once.

"He is such an old man-such an old man," she said, looking wildly in the judge's face. Her veil was up then, and few who saw her face at that moment ever forgot it afterwards.

"And it was I who brought him here!" she cried rapidly, breaking into a sort of cry before the officers, who had come hastily forward, could force her back. "I could have saved him, and I didn't. My lord, I am his daughter! Dan Skeeton wanted me to marry him. If I had done it he would have held his peace; and I refused. I couldn't do it! Oh! my lord, he is an old man! Don't hang him! Oh! for God's sake don't hang him, and bring his blood upon my head!"

They took her by force and carried her away, while a murmur rose through the court, and the blood stirred in some hearts. Then the judge rose again, and began his address. Half an hour afterwards the jury had retired,

and before another hour had passed they had brought in their verdict-Guilty, but recommended to mercy. Then the judge put on the black cap, and passed sentence on him. He had sat with his head buried in his hands during the absence of the jury; when they came back and spoke their verdict he leaped up with a sudden wild-beast yell of terror, the only sound that had come from him all day. But it seemed to be only a momentary awakening of his old ferocious nature. Almost instantly he subsided again, and stood gazing with a vacant stare into the judge's face as he pronounced the sentence. Then he let himself be led out quietly.

They had taken Priscilla into an ante-room through which he would pass on his way back to prison. Some one had told her the verdict when it was announced, and her heart attached itself, with a ray of hope that was strong enough to sustain her, to its recommendation of mercy. She came to him now as they led him out of court, and cried to him as she came

near,

"Father, speak one word to me!" He looked in her face, and said slowly, "I'm not yer father. Ye're an old woman; ye're not Pris, though ye have a look o' her." "Hush! hush! he's wandering a little. He's been doing it once or twice lately," one of the men at his side said quickly.

But Priscilla had burst into terrible tears. It was best so, perhaps; yet this was as the drop that made her cup run over.

Without a word she followed after him as he passed on. They let her do it, and she entered into the prison with him.

"You'd better not stay alone with him," the turnkey said to her, remembering their last meeting on the day he was committed; but she answered quietly, "I am not afraid;" and stayed.

They had laid him down on his bed, and she went and sat beside him. He was muttering to himself in a wandering, childish way. She took his hand in hers, and bending over him, began presently to cry to him,

"Father, father, tell me that you know me. Father, say a kind word to me, for my heart is breaking!"

But he did not answer her or notice her for a long time. She did not even know if he was conscious of her presence till once, as she was stooping over him, and the tears she shed so seldom were falling on his face, he looked up to her, vacantly at first, then with a faint apparent effort at recollection, and at last he spoke.

it of the fierce brutality with which he had spoken to her last. The blot in his memory

had effaced his recollection of all the recent past; and the woman, with a great cry, that was half anguish and half thanksgiving, fell on his neck, and through her sobs she kissed him for the first time that her lips had touched his for long long years.

They did not hang Gregory Hutchinson. He never more than partially recovered his right mind again. About all connected with his trial his memory, as long as he lived, remained dark. He varied a good deal in his mood. Sometimes he would be sullen and fierce, but his ordinary state was one of quiet, vacant harmlessness, and by degrees his fits of rage grew more and more rare, till at last they ceased entirely. He was removed to an asylum for insane criminals, and there Priscilla was allowed to visit him at regular intervals; but he manifested neither pleasure nor anger at sight of her: all resentment against her had, with the memory of its cause, passed away. He lived for a number of years, till Priscilla's erect figure had begun to bend, and the streaked hair had become wholly grey. Then at last one day they found him lying in ¦ his bed dead.

His death snapped the last cord that bound Priscilla to any other living soul. From that time until the end of her days she lived alone -a woman who felt that the world looked on her as one with something darker even than a Cain's mark on her brow. But to her loneliness and to her sorrow there was added, at least in her own heart, no sting of remorse. She did not accuse herself for what she had done: she never lived to repent that she had not bought her father's life with the price of her own soul.

THE JACKDAW AND RAVEN. Then Jackdaw seeks The hiddon shelter of some hollow tree, And with the neighbouring twigs Constructs a safe retreat.

amusing bird, lively and active, and when tamed is affectionate and intelligent. As a proof of this I may mention that a respectable person resides near me at Brighton, who is too ill to leave her house, but for eighteen years past has had for her companion a tame jackdaw, which performs some curious feats. For instance, when asked to shake hands with any one, it invariably gives its right foot, but only to a right hand. Nothing can induce it to give its right foot to a left hand, although repeatedly told to do so, and even if threatened it is not done. When told to die, it throws itself on its back, closes its claws as birds do when dead, gives three dying croaks, and then puts on the semblance of death. If any one touches the work on the table belonging to his mistress, it attacks them with much anger. It opens and shuts its cage with great facility when told to do so, and is, in fact, a curious instance of a little bird becoming an agreeable companion, for so it is to its owner, who has enjoyed its society, as I have already mentioned, for eighteen years.

Jackdaws build their nests in odd placessometimes in rabbit-holes, and not unfrequently in hollow trees, near to a rookery, and join the rooks in their daily excursions. They will also build their nests amongst the stones of Stonehenge. They settle, as I have often seen them, on the backs of sheep, either in search of insects or to pluck wool for their nests. When once paired they are supposed to remain faithful to each other for the remainder of their lives. These birds are easily tamed and may be taught to talk. I had one some years ago, which was so tame that it was generally introduced on the table with the dessert, and amused himself with looking at everything on it. He did not attend much to the bottle of port, but if the sherry was put near him he pecked at the bottle, probably from seeing a reflection of himself in it, and showed much anger. He one day escaped from the house, and got under a large Portugal laurel bush. Here he enjoyed his liberty so much that, although he would come close to me when I called him, I never could catch him, and he seemed to enjoy my attempts to capture him. I supplied him with food for some time, till the breeding season arrived, when he took his departure, and I never saw him afterwards.

Perhaps the most extraordinary nest built by jackdaws was in the spiral tower of the chapel of Eton College. In one of the openings in the tower, made for the admission of light, a pair of jackdaws built their nest. The ledge, however, of this aperture was so narrow that the nest leaned on one side towards the steps.

In this dilemma they had recourse to

an extraordinary expedient. They proceeded to make a pillar of sticks, beginning on that identical step which alone would give them the precise slope which was necessary for the support of the nest. It was the eighth step below the aperture for admitting light, and from it the pillar of sticks was raised to a height of exactly ten feet. The nest then rested partly on the top of it, and was perfectly secure. The quantity of sticks and other materials used in forming this pillar was enormous. Many persons went to see it, myself amongst the number.

As the raven is entirely extinct in many parts of England, some notice of him may not be unacceptable. This sable and ominous bird was long regarded by superstitious persons as a harbinger of evil, its croak foretelling death to the person who heard it if alone. A proof of this came under my own knowledge some years ago. A gardener, who worked in the Cumberland Gardens in Windsor Great Park, was alarmed one day by seeing a raven fly close to him, and heard him utter his doleful cry as he passed by him. He went to his cottage, mentioned what had occurred, and said that he should not live much longer. This was the case, and I verily believe that he fell a victim to his superstitious apprehensions, for he was a hale, hearty man.

Pliny relates a singular instance of ingenuity employed by the raven to quench his thirst. He had observed water near the bottom of a narrow necked vessel, to reach which he is said to have thrown in pebbles, one at a time, until he raised the water within his reach. Ravens have also been known to carry up shell-fish into the air and droping them on rocks, for the purpose of breaking them, in order to obtain their contents.

Ravens are sociable birds, and in my youth I have seen them attached to the stables of inns, where they amused the guests by their familiarity and boldness. They would very frequently steal and hide things, especially any dropped money, as if they were aware of the value of it, but they almost invariably deposited the money so found in the same place.

The raven sometimes inhabits high rocks upon the sea-coast, and also frequents very lofty trees, in the forked branches of which he builds his nest. It is formed of sticks, and lined with hair and wool. I was once a witness to an interesting fight between a pair of ravens and a pair of herons. There was, and I hope still is, a fine heronry on the tops of some unusually high beech trees near Sand Pit Gate in the Great Park at Windsor. One day, accompanied by a friend, I was sur

ravens.

prised on approaching the heronry at hearing deep and loud croaks, which I knew came from Two of those birds were evidently intent on appropriating to themselves a heron's nest, built on the top of one of the tallest beech trees. The herons defended their nest with great courage, uttering shrieks and distressed cries. When in the air, they evidently endeavoured to keep above the ravens, that they might descend upon and attack them with their sharp beaks. The ravens would seem to be aware of this, for they avoided all such attacks and made some unsuccessful ones in return. Finding, at last, that they would not succeed in their object, they flew away, and although I repeatedly visited the heronry, I never saw a raven there afterwards. These, however, were the last ravens I have seen; with this exception, I have of late years seen only one other, and that was in the neighbourhood of Selborne, where I was reminded of Gilbert White's very interesting account of the pair of those birds, which had built their nests and reared their young for so many years on the raven's oak tree, as it was generally called, at that place. There are many interesting associations connected with this bird. It is frequently mentioned in our Bible history, as employed by the Almighty as the caterers of food, and of its young being under the immediate care of the Great Creator. It has been immortalised by Shakespeare, and referred to by Addison, Dryden, and Young, and indeed by many of our poets. It is still connected with the history of the superstitions of this country. We may fancy some one exclaiming, if he should hear (which is very doubtful now) the harsh croak of a raven

That raven, on the left hand oak,
Curse on his ill-betiding croak,
Bodes me no good.

Mr. Waterton, who always wrote well and to the purpose, says of a pet raven he brought up, that of all known birds, there is none to be found so docile, so clever, and so amusing, as the raven. This pet, he assures us, was as playful as a kitten. He showed vast aptitude in learning to talk, and he was so correct an imitator of sounds that he would sing with great distinctness, truth and humour. When what may be called domesticated at a house, the raven was generally observed to attach himself chiefly to the cook. In doing this, he showed his discrimination and good sense, for the cook in all probability pandered to his appetite for good bits of meat.

Perhaps there is no bird which shows finer symmetry than the raven. All his proportions are beautiful; his glossy plumage is very

On several parts a several praise bestow,
The ruby lips, and well-proportioned nose-
The snowy skin, the raven-glossy hair-
The dimpled cheek, &c.

Ravens, unlike the rook, jackdaw, and starling, do not congregate in any numbers. They may be called solitary birds, more than a pair of them being seldom seen in the same locality. Where he may now be found, his aërial flights, his wonderful modulation of voice, and his lone aspect, render him an interesting bird. Let us hope that the few which remain in this country will be carefully preserved. EDWARD JESSE.

CHERRY BLOSSOM.

the stream,

CHERRY-BLOSSOM, wildly growing, 'mid the coppice of Show'ring snow-flakes all around me as I sit beneath and dream

Of the time that erst I roved here, with a maiden by my side,

And we sent thy silver petals floating downward on the tide.

Do thy mossy stems remember all we said and did that day?

How, when I would have her listen, childlike, she would laugh and play;

Snatching from its nest the blue-bell, shaking cones from off the firs,

Wasting Nature's precious treasures in that wilful mood of hers?

When she saw me vext and sorry, sweet one! how she softened down;

Smoothed me gently, stroked me kindly, chased away my ugly frown.

Lovingly I took her finger, on it drew a troth-plight ring,

Then, delighted, watched how coyly she caressed the glitt'ring thing.

Cherry-blossom, yes, you saw her hide her face upon my breast,

Sweetly blushing, gently weeping, seeking there her place of rest;

And you shed a veil around her, bridal veil so dazzling bright,

Covering all her golden tresses with a wreath of purest white.