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and remain impressed upon the memory ever afterwards-so very marked and peculiar are both his tone and execution. He sings seldom, generally towards evening, and is very shy. About sunset you may, by a happy chance, hear his note from the thickest part of a deep grove, and by making your way carefully through the trees, find him perched in the centre of an enormous white pine, so dark as to shut out the light of day here in total solitude, and unsuspicious of any intruding listener, he will chant a few slow, solemn and singularly varied tones, more like those of a flute, or a church organ, than any melody of the woods. These tones are musical in a very high degree, clear, deliberate, and regulated by pauses of considerable length. I know not any songster of our groves, whose performances are more striking or effective than the singular chants of this bird; their full, deep and impressive sounds, the solemn slowness with which they are uttered, the dark solitude of the spot, still darker from the gathering shades of evening, all combine in producing an effect similar to that of the sound of a pealing anthem, through the "long-drawn aisle and fretted vault" of a Gothic cathedral.

Let us stop a moment to contemplate this monarch oak, rearing his mighty form in lonely grandeur over the dwarfish tribes of cedar and juniper around him. The veteran of the forest towers proudly over their diminutive heads, but his pride is the pride of desolation. His gnarled and naked body has been rent by the winter tempest, and he flings abroad his giant arms, no more, alas! to shake their glistening foliage in the breeze, but blasted with lightning and stretching their bare and blackened forks unsheltered into the scorching sky. A flight of ill-omened CROWS, whose funeral garb and hoarse scream form a fit accompaniment to this image of ruin, are perched upon the scathed limbs, or wheeling in the air overhead, croaking forth their harsh and discordant caw. A thousand winters have beat against that lonely trunk, but its firm and deep-set roots held with immoveable grasp the stony bowels of the earth; the vigor and brawn of youth were in those knotty branches, and the lord of the woods bore the driving of a thousand winters against his brow unmoved, and saw a thousand snows melt from the mountain tops with firm-set foot and unriven joints. The red deer bounded along the glades under his shadow, and the war-whoop of the painted savage rung in the breeze that swept through his leafy locks.

Leaving the pine forest, it may be remarked, that there are fewer singing birds to be found here than in other woods; the Sylvias and Fly-catchers rarely frequent them; and beside those already enumerated, we shall hear hardly any other note than that of the TowHEEBUNTING, Sometimes called Chewink, or Ground-robin. This is an innocent and rather pretty sort of bird, of tame and familiar habits, building a nest in the ground at the foot of a pine tree, and always keeping near the earth, scratching among the bushes, or, in its highest excursions, ascending the lowest branches of a cedar or stunted pine. In scrambling among the thickets you may almost tread upon the female as she sits upon her nest; on being alarmed, she will run a few yards, hop into a low branch, and begin a quick, emphatic and rather melancholy cry, towhée, towhée," repeated at short intervals. Oftentimes in a warm day, when unmolested and in perfect quiet, they will


take their stations among the branches, a short distance from each other, and repeat and answer the same note for half an hour together; this concert, though rather monotonous and plaintive, is not unpleasing. There is another very different and sprightly note uttered by this bird, so dissimilar, indeed, to the former, that one has a difficulty in believing it to proceed from the same organs that sent forth those deep and guttural tones.

From the summit of that distant tree the loud clear whistle of the ROBIN announces that the sun is hastening downward; and as the air grows cool, and the glare of day diminishes, his note increases in emphasis and rapidity, till the whole neighborhood rings with the music. Who is a stranger to the sweet and cheerful voice of this favorite bird, or to his innocent and familiar manners? It may be not amiss to remark that this is not the Robin Redbreast of Europe, which is a bird about half his size, but closely resembling him in manners.

This time of the day is also the hour commonly chosen for the vocal performances of another songster, who, on account of the lateness of the hour in which he is generally heard, is, I find, called by our country people, the Nightingale,—an appellation which he certainly does not merit for the melody of his notes, although his vocal exhibitions are some of the most singular to our ears that the whole forest offers. This bird, whose proper name is the TAWNY-THRUSH, has a remarkably strong, deep, blowing voice, hardly musical, but considerably varied, and which may be likened somewhat to the hollow rolling sound made by blowing into the muzzle of a gun-barrel. When heard in the stillness of the evening, and among the thick woods, where, in fact, they almost always keep, the effect is very striking and impressive. They may sometimes be heard during the day, when besides the peculiar whistle, just described, they more commonly utter a single short and sharp cry. But they are more fond of the evening, and about half an hour after sunset you may take your stand at the skirt of a grove, and hear them call to one another among the dark shadows of the trees, in a full and emphatic voice, sometimes harsh and husky, and at others mellowed and tuned into a warble, not unmusical. One individual calls out-" Hwy tréoo, tréoo, tráoo, tráoo;" in a few seconds another replies-" Til lil lil, til lil lil,"—and this musical colloquy is kept up for half an hour, or more; there are certainly few notes that sound more curiously.

This Thrush is by no means a rare bird; the woods round Boston are full of them. They are seen for a few days in the Southern States, as they pass northwardly, but they breed only in these parts. Their nests are always low, commonly close to the ground, in a stunted bush, or on a pile of sticks. Their plumage so exactly resembles the color of a dead leaf, that when in search of nests a person may pass round and over them without making any discovery. The bird seems to be instinctively aware of this circumstance, and trusts to her color for concealment. When sitting on her nest, she will suffer any one to pass within a foot of her station without moving a feather.

Gentle reader and companion! the day is done. The sun is sinking behind the dark blue mountains in the west, and a great wall of leaden-colored shadow comes heaving up from the gray ocean, far off in the opposite heaven. Look now at the glorious pageant of a sum

mer sunset ! The western sky is glowing with gold and purple, and yon gorgeous company of clouds, that gather and hang around the bright track of the sinking orb, seem like blood-red banners waving over an immense curtain of green and glowing flame. A heap of dense masses are dappling the long vista of glory beyond, while their fringed edges are lighted into transparent fire by the sea of flame streaming up behind them. While we gaze, the magical scene changes. The deep crimson of the tufted folds in the cloudy canopy, and the dazzling gleam of that glancing ocean of light, pass into fainter hues; the sparkling sky abates its fires, and the sheet of red flame wanes into a mild yellow. The purple tints have sunk into gray, and the last faint rays of the sun decline into the thin and silvery tinge of twilight.

[From the German of Schiller.]

Do I not hear the small door move?

Has not the quick bolt sharply rung?
No! 't is the wind's low-murmured sigh-

The poplar trees among.

Weave, O thou grove! a green-leaved roof with care!
O'er thee soft Beauty's rays shall soon be stealing-
Ye boughs, build up a shadowy arbor there,

With friendly night her secret haunt concealing-
Wake, all ye columns of caressing air!

The roses lingering in her cheeks revealing-
When, with light-glancing steps, her tender feet
Bear their bright burden to Love's happy seat.

Hush is not there something fleeting
Through yonder thicket swift away?
No! 't is a startled bird that left

The copse wherein it lay.

Put out thy torch, O day! thou spiritual night,

With thy kind silence come, and round us hover-
Spread out thy gauze of red and purple light,

Above the secret boughs that give us cover;
When the listener's ear is nigh, Joy takes her flight,

And tell-tale day is hated by the lover ;-
Evening alone, when heaven is calm above,
Can be the trusty confidant of Love.

Do I not hear a gentle voice
Upon my ear in whispers break?
No! 't is the note of some white swan,
Borne on the silvery lake.

Music swells all around me-at my feet

Fountains sound sweetly as their tide is flowing;
The blooming flowers, which airs with kisses greet,
Sway droopingly,-all life with joy is glowing.
The grape, the peach, that, from its green retreat
Behind the leaves, its rosy cheek is showing,
Invite my taste-and fragrant breezes now
Drink the hot moisture from my burning brow.

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THE New-England Magazine, number one, "with the compliments of the editors!" Who would have thought that ever Jedidiah Joyless, of East-Timothy, Mass. would have come to that, or rather, that that would ever have come to him. Here I have been town-clerk and postmaster, I will not tell how long-being a single man-but never before did I receive the compliments of an editor. In vain have my fellowcitizens delighted to honor me with official dignities; as vainly have I discharged, with diligent patriotism, the various duties which devolved upon me as an officer of my native town, and a functionary in one of the most important departments of the national confederacy. In vain did I write after my name Esq." and "P. M.;" the conductors of the press, either from ignorance or envy, observed as obstinate a silence, as deathlike a stillness, in relation to myself and my productions as if my name had never been recorded in the baptismal register, or signed to a way-bill! Once, only, was I noticed with a flattering expression of the estimation in which my services were held by my fellow-citizens. It was when the hand of Reform passed like the besom of destruction over our devoted village; when it swept like a hurricane over the venerable walls of the social edifice, shaking them from turret to foundation-stones, upsetting the time-consecrated pillars of the republic, and consigning the postmaster and the plenipotentiary to one common catastrophe! Then it was, that, like Sampson, I girded my loins, smote the Philistine, and fell buried in the ruins of the polit

ical fabric. But my fate was not unnoticed, nor my public services unrequited; for the editor of the Observer and Telegraph, a valuable paper, published weekly on a medium sheet, price one dollar per annum, at East-Timothy, observed that the finger of persecution was upon me, and made signal of the same with telegraphic accuracy, in the following remarkable language, which I had the satisfaction of seeing quoted by most of the patriotic papers in the Union; "He was a most valuable officer, and enjoyed the esteem of all parties." Guess my mortification, however, when, in a subsequent paper, I found my late office spoken of in such flippant and irreverent terms as these; "It is a paltry concern, worth about eight dollars and thirty-seven cents per annum, which had gone a begging, until the late amiable and inoffensive incumbent kindly consented to discharge the duties." I was mortified to the quick, by this unkind requital, and incontinently caused a town-meeting to be called, and, having mounted the rostrum, pronounced my political valedictory. In this production I followed the most approved models, ancient and modern. Having touched lightly upon the darkness and barbarism in which the world was involved, in the age immediately preceding the revival of letters, and spoken of the discovery of Columbus, and the injustice done that great man, by giving the name of another to this continent; I adverted to the persecutions of our forefathers, their removal from the land of their birth, the landing at Plymouth, and the subsequent rise of this republic. Then I touched upon the value of our republican form of gov ernment, and dwelt upon the blood and treasure expended in resisting the oppressions of the mother country, who, in reference to the color of her regimentals, and the crimsoned hands of her myrmidons, I ventured to pronounce the identical scarlet abomination spoken of in the good book. Next I spoke of reform, which led me to point out the difference between Martin Luther and General Jackson, and between the Popish Church and the Post-Office Department. Speaking of the latter led me back again to the revival of letters; I commented on the literary character of our country, and, after showing forth the manner in which we had been vilified, by the hireling scribblers of the scarlet king, I adverted to the awful absence of grammatical accuracy, in the compositions of some of our public functionaries, and hinted at the ruin which might fall upon our beloved country, from such dreadful corruptions of the vernacular. Finally, I came to speak of my own case, and of the ingratitude of republics, and after confessing that I had no more right to complain, than had Aristides, and many other just men, whom I named in order, announced my determination to withdraw, forever, from the torturous path of ambition, to renounce the gaudy bauble, office, and to spend the remainder of my days in retirement, reflection, and literary labors.

It was probably to this production, which I caused to be printed in a neat pamphlet, and circulated among my friends, that I owe the notice of the erudite editors of the New-England Magazine; for the former productions of my pen have been most ungenerously concealed from the public eye, and doomed to oblivion. For years have I been a regular contributor to our town newspaper. I have emulated the fame of Addison, and coveted the distinction of Scott. My essays have been various and voluminous, my stories have been singularly

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