figures beautifully in his inimitable wood-cuts; giving the very spirit of wildness and freshness to his seaside sketches.

The Gull may occasionally be found far inland, domesticated in old-fashioned gardens, where it is an indulged and amusing habitant, feeding on slugs and worms, and becoming thus a useful assistant to the gardener. In this state it seems entirely to throw off its wild native character, and assumes a sort of mockheroic style, which is often quite ludicrous. We have seen one strutting about the straight alleys of such a garden, with the most formal, yet conscious air imaginable, glancing first to one side, then to the other, evidently aware of your notice, yet pretending to be busied about his own concerns. It was impossible to conceive that this bird, walking "in his dignified way," upon his two stiff little legs, and so full of self-importance, had ever been a free, wild, winged creature, wheeling about and screaming in the storm, or riding gracefully upon the sunshiny waters. His nature had undergone a land-change; he was transformed into the patron of poodles, and the condescending companion of an old black cat. With these creatures, belonging to the same place, he was on very friendly terms, maintaining, nevertheless, an air of superiority over them, which they permitted, either out of pure good-nature, or because their simplicity was imposed upon. They were all frequently fed from the same plate, but the quadrupeds never presumed to put in their noses till the Gull was satisfied, and to his credit it may be told, that he was not insatiable, although a reasonably voracious bird on ordinary occasions.

We saw last summer, also, a Gull well known to northern tourists, which for twenty years has inhabited one of the inner green-courts at Alnwick Castle, and has outlived two or three companions. It is an interesting bird, of a venerable appearance; but, as it has been described in books, more need not be said of it.

In one of the towers of this same Castle, also, we were shown a pair of perfect bird-skeletons, under a glass shade, the history of which is mysterious. They are the skeletons of a pair of jackdaws, which had built in one of the upper towers of the Castle, and had been found in their present state, apparently nestled together. From the account given us by the porter, an intelligent old man, they appeared not to have been discovered in any confined place, where they might have died from starvation, but by their own tower, on the open roof, as if they had been death-stricken side by side.

SUMMER WOODS.

COME ye into the summer-woods;

There entereth no annoy;

All greenly wave the chestnut leaves, And the earth is full of joy.

I cannot tell you half the sights
Of beauty you may see,
The bursts of golden sunshine,

And many a shady tree.

There, lightly swung, in bowery glades,
The honey-suckles twine;
There blooms the rose-red campion,

And the dark-blue columbine.

There grows the four-leaved plant "true love,"
In some dusk woodland spot;
There grows the enchanter's night-shade,
And the wood forget-me-not.
And many a merry bird is there,

Unscared by lawless men;
The blue-winged jay, the wood-pecker,
And the golden-crested wren.

Come down and ye shall see them all,
The timid and the bold;

For their sweet life of pleasantness,
It is not to be told.

And far within that summer-wood,

Among the leaves so green, There flows a little gurgling brook,

The brightest e'er was seen.
There come the little gentle birds,

Without a fear of ill;
Down to the murmuring water's edge,
And freely drink their fill!

And dash about and splash about,

The merry little things;
And look askance with bright black eyes,
And flirt their dripping wings.
I've seen the freakish squirrel drop

Down from their leafy tree,
The little squirrels with the old,-

Great joy it was to me!
And down unto the running brook,
I've seen them nimbly go;
And the bright water seemed to speak

A welcome kind and low.
The nodding plants they bowed their heads,
As if, in heartsome cheer,
They spake unto those little things,

"Tis merry living here!"

Oh, how my heart ran o'er with joy!
I saw that all was good,
And how we might glean up delight
All round us, if we would!
And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there,
Beneath the old wood-shade,
And all day long has work to do,

Nor is, of aught, afraid.

The green shoots grow above their heads
And roots so fresh and fine,

Beneath their feet, nor is there strife

'Mong them for mine and thine.

There is enough for every one,

And they lovingly agree; We might learn a lesson, all of us, Beneath the green-wood tree!

THE MANDRAKE.

THERE once was a garden grand and old,
Its stately walks were trodden by few;
And there, in its driest and deepest mould,
The dark-green, poisonous mandrake grew.
That garden's lord was a learned man,-
It is of an ancient time we tell,-
He was grim and stern, with a visage wan,
And had books which only he could spell.
He had been a monk in his younger days,
They said, and travelled by land and sea,
And now, in his old, ancestral place,

He was come to study in privacy.
A garden it was both large and lone,
And in it was temple, cave and mound;
The trees were with ivy overgrown,

And the depth of its lake no line had found.

Some said that the springs of the lake lay deep Under the fierce volcano's root;

For the water would oft-times curl and leap, When the summer air was calm and mute.

And all along o'er its margin dank

Hung massy branches of evergreen; And among the pebbles upon the bank The playful water-snakes were seen. And yew-trees old, in the alleys dim,

Were cut into dragon-shapes of dread; And in midst of shadow, grotesque and grim, Stood goat-limbed statues of sullen lead.

The garden-beds they were long, and all

With a tangle of flowers were overgrown; And each was screened with an ancient wall, Or parapet low of mossy stone.

And from every crevice and broken ledge
The harebell blue and the wall-flower sprung;
And from the wall, to the water's edge,

Wild masses of tendrilled creepers hung;
For there was a moat outside where slept
Deep waters with slimy moss grown o'er,
And a wall and a tower securely kept

By a ban-dog fierce at a grated door.

This garden's lord was a scholar wise,

A scholar wise, with a learned look; He studied by night the starry skies,

And all day long some ancient book.

There were lords hard by who lived by spoil,
But he did the men of war eschew;
There were lowly serfs who tilled the soil,
But with toiling serfs he had nought to do.

But now and then might with him be seen,
Two other old men with look profound,
Who peered 'mong the leaves of the mandrake green
And lightened with care the soil around.

For the king was sick and of help had need;
Or he had a foe whom art must quell,
So he sent to the learned man with speed
To gather for him a mandrake-spell.

And at night when the moon was at the full,
When the air was still and the stars were out,
Came the three the mandrake root to pull,

With the help of the ban-dog fierce and stout.
Oh, the mandrake-root! and they listened all three,
For awful sounds, and they spoke no word,
And when the owl screeched from the hollow tree,
They said 'twas the mandrake's groan they heard.
And words they muttered, but what none knew,
With motion slow of hand and foot;
Then into the cave the three withdrew,

And carried with them the mandrake root.

They all were scholars of high degree,

So they took the root of the mandrake fell, And cut it and carved it hideously,

And muttered it into a charmèd spell.

Then who had been there, by dawn of day,

Might have seen the two from the grated door Speed forth; and as sure as they went away, The charmed mandrake root they bore.

And the old lord up in his chamber sat,

Blessing himself, sedate and mute,
That he thus could gift the wise and great
With more than gold - the mandrake root.

The reverence attached to the mandrake may be classed among the very oldest of superstitions, for the Hebrews of the patriarchial ages regarded it as a plant of potent influence. The Greeks, who held it in the same estimation, called it after Circe, their celebrated witch, and also after Atropos, the eldest of the three Fates. The Romans adopted the same opinions respecting it, and Pliny relates the ceremonies which were used in obtaining the root.

In the middle ages, when the traditional superstitions of the ancients were grafted upon the popular ignorance, the mandrake was a powerful engine in the hands of the crafty.

It was believed that when the mandrake was taken from the earth, it uttered a dreadful shriek; and that any human being who was presumptuous enough to remove it, was suddenly struck dead. Dogs, therefore, were used for this purpose. The earth was carefully lightened, and the plant fastened to the animal's tail; he was then made to draw it forth, and pay whatever penalty the demon of the plant thought fit to impose upon the disturber of his rest. The pretenders to medical skill in those days made great profit by the little hideous images which they fashioned out of the mandrake root, and sold as charms against

every kind of sickness and misfortune. They were brought over from Germany in the reign of Henry the VIII., under the name of Abrunes, and by the help of certain pretended magical words, the knowledge of which the credulous obtained at a great price, were said to increase whatever money was placed near them. It was believed, also, at that time, that the mandrake was produced from the decaying flesh of malefactors hung upon the gibbet, and was to be found only in such situations. Dr. Turner, who lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth, declares, that he had divers times taken up the roots of the mandrake, but had never found them under the gallows; nor of the form which the pedlars, who sold them in boxes, pretended them to have been. This form was that of an ugly little man, with a long beard hanging down to his feet. Gerard, the herbalist, also, who wrote thirty years later, used many endeavours to convince the world of the impositions practised upon them, and states, that he and his servant frequently dug up the roots without receiving harm, or hearing any shrieks whatever.

The mandrake grows naturally in Spain, Portugal, Italy, and the Levant, and it is also indigenous to China. It was introduced into this country about 1564. It is a handsome plant, and would, in particular situations, be ornamental to our gardens, independent of the strange, old associations connected with it, which would always make it an interesting object. I have seen it, however, only in one garden, that of the King of the Belgians, at Claremont.

"It is," says Mr. Phillips, in his pleasant garden companion, the Flora Historica, from which work the above historical notices of the mandrake have been principally taken, "a species of deadly nightshade, which grows with a long taper root like the parsnip, running three or four feet deep; these roots are frequently forked, which assisted to enable the old quacks to give it the shape of a monster. This plant does not send up a stalk, but, immediately from the crown of the root arises a circle of leaves, which at first stand erect, but when grown to their full size, which is about a foot in length and five inches broad, of an ovate-lanceolate shape, waved at the edges, these spread open and lie on the ground; they are of a dark-green, and give out a fetid smell. About the month of April the flowers come out among the leaves, each on a scape about three inches long; they are of a bell shape with a long tube, and spread out into a five-cleft corolla. The colour is of an herbaceous white, but frequently has a tinge of purple. The flower is succeeded by a globular soft berry, when full grown, as large as a common cherry, but of a yellowish-green colour, when ripe and full of pulp, intermixed with numerous reniform seeds."

If any of my readers should wish to cultivate this plant of "old renown," they should do it by sowing the seed in autumn, soon after it is ripe; as the seed kept till spring seldom produces plants. It should be set in a light, dry soil, and of a good depth, so that the root may not be chilled or obstructed; and care should be taken not to disturb it when it has once obtained a considerable size.

THE HEDGE-HOG. THOU poor little English porcupine, What a harassed and weary life is thine! And thou art a creature meek and mild, That wouldst not harm a sleeping child. Thou scarce can'st stir from thy tree-root, But thy foes are up in hot pursuit; Thou might'st be an asp, or horned snake, Thou poor little martyr of the brake! Thou scarce can'st put out that nose of thine; Thou can'st not show a single spine, But the urchin-rabble are in a rout, With terrier curs to hunt thee out.

The poor Hedgehog! one would think he knew
His foes so many, his friends so few,
For when he comes out, he 's in a fright,
And hurries again to be out of sight.

How unkind the world must seem to him,
Living under the thicket dusk and dim,
And getting his living among the roots,
Of the insects small, and dry hedge-fruits.
How hard it must be, to be kicked about,
If by chance his prickly back peep out;
To be all his days misunderstood,
When he could not harm us if he would!

He's an innocent thing, living under the blame
That he merits not, of an evil name;
He is weak and small, and all he needs,
Lies under the hedge among the weeds.
He robs not man of rest or food,
And all that he asks is quietude;
To be left by him, as a worthless stone,
Under the dry hedge-bank alone!
Oh, poor little English porcupine,
What a troubled and weary life is thine!
I would that my pity thy foes could quell,
For thou art ill-used, and meanest well!

THE CUCKOO.

"PEE! pee! pee!" says the merry Pee-Bird;
And as soon as the children hear it,
"The Cuckoo's a-coming," they say, "for I heard,
Up in his tree the merry Pee-Bird,

And he'll come in three days, or near it!"
The days go on, one, two, three;
And the little bird singeth "pee! pee! pee!"
Then on the morrow, 't is very true,
They hear the note of the old Cuckoo;
Up in the elm-tree, through the day,
Just as in gone years, shouting away;

"Cuckoo," the Cuckoo doth cry, And the little boys mock him as they go by. The wood-pecker laughs to hear the strain, And says "the old fellow is come back again; He sitteth again on the very same tree, And he talks of himself again!-he! he! he!" 137

The stock-doves together begin to coo
When they hear the voice of the old cuckoo;
"Ho! ho!" say they, "he did not find
Those far-away countries quite to his mind,
So he's come again to see what he can do
With sucking the small birds' eggs, coo-coo!"

The black-bird, and throstle, and loud missel-cock,
They sing altogether, the Cuckoo to mock;

I often have heard talk of you, but ne'er saw you before,

And there you 're standing sentinel at the hornetcastle-door!

Well, what a size you are! just like a great wasp

king!

What a solemn buzz you make, now you 're upon the wing!

"Cuckoo!" the Cuckoo shouts still,

"I care not for you, let you rave as you will!" "Cuckoo" the Cuckoo doth cry,

And the little boys mock him as they go by.

'Hark! hark!" sings the chiff-chaff, "hark! hark!" says the lark,

And the white-throats and buntings all twitter "hark! hark!”

The wren and the hedge-sparrow hear it anon, And "hark! hark!" in a moment shouts every one. "Hark! hark! — that's the Cuckoo there, shouting

amain!

sting!

So! so!-Don't be so angry! Why do you come at me With a swoop and with a hum,-Is't a crime to look

at ye?

See where the testy fellow goes whiz into the hole, And brings out from the hollow tree his fellows in a shoal.

Hark! what an awful, hollow boom! How fierce they come! I'd rather

Just quietly step back, and stand from them a little farther.

There, now, the hornet-host is retreating to its den, And so, good Mr. Sentinello! here I am again! Well! how the little angry wretch doth stamp and raise his head,

again!"

"Cuckoo" the Cuckoo shouts still,

"I shall taste of your eggs, let you rave as you will!"

"Cuckoo" the Cuckoo doth cry,

And the little boys mock him as they go by. The water-hens hear it, the rail and the smew, And they say, "Why on land there's a pretty to-do!

Sure the Cuckoo's come back, what else can be the

matter?

The pyes and the jays are all making a clatter!" "Hark! hark!" says the woodcock, "I hear him myself,

Shouting up in the elm-tree, the comical elf!" "Hark! hark!" cries the widgeon," and I hear him

too,

Shouting loudly as ever, that self-same Cuckoo!"

I'll sting you dead!" No, thank you, fierce Sir Hornet, inviting;

that's not at all

But what a pair of shears the rascal has for biting! What a pair of monstrous shears to carry at his head! If wasp or fly come in their gripe, that moment they are dead!

There! bite in two the whip-lash, as we poke it at your chin!

See, how he bites! but it is tough, and again he

hurries in.

Ho! ho! we soon shall have the whole of his vin

dictive race,

With a hurry and a scurry, all flying in our face. To potter in a Hornet's nest, is a proverb old and good,

So it's just as well to take the hint, and retreat into the wood.

ful eyes,

and yellow!

To orchards or to gardens, for plum, and peach, and

pear,

With wasp, fly, ant, and earwig, they'll have a giant's share.

And you, stout Mr. Sentinel, there standing at the door,

Though Homer said in his time, "the hornet's soul all o'er,❞—

You're not so very spiritual, but soon some sunny morning

I may find you in a green-gage, and give you a little warning,

Or feeding in a Windsor pear; or at the juicy stalk Of my Negro-boy, grand dahlia, -too heavy much to walk;

Ay, very much too heavy,-that juicy stem deceives,Makes faint with too much sweet such heavywinged thieves."

Too heavy much to walk,-then, pray, how can you fly?

No, there you'll drop upon the ground, and there you're doomed to die!

The Hornet is an insect that every one has heard of, because the fearful effects of its sting and its fierceness are proverbial; but it is by no means common in many parts of the country. In the midland counties hornets are often talked of, but rarely seen. We have lived in several of the midland counties, and seen a good deal of them, but never saw a hornet there. Since coming to reside in Surrey, we have found plenty of them. They come buzzing into the house, and are almost as common in the garden as wasps themselves, devouring the fruits above-mentioned, and also as voracious of the green, tender bark of the dahlia, as ants are of the juice of the yucca. They peel the young branches with their nippers or shears, as a rabbit peels a young tree; and wasps, and the great blue-bottle and other flies follow in their train, and suck its juice greedily. In common, too, with the wasps, which by their side appear very diminutive insects, they gorge themselves so with the pulp of fruit as to drop heavily on the earth on being suddenly disturbed, and are then easily destroyed. They frequently make their nests in the thatch of cottages and outbuildings, where it is difficult to destroy them, as in such situations, neither fire, sulphur, nor gunpowder can be used, and producing large swarms there, they are dangerous and devouring neighbours.

On Bookham Common, a pleasant wide tract, overgrown with trees, principally oaks, and resembling a forest with its fern and green turfy glades, much more than a common, we found two nests within a few yards of each other, in two hollow trees, where the sentinel, and indeed the whole swarms, behaved themselves as above represented. Whether three of these insects are sufficient to kill a horse, as the old country saying avers, is doubtful; but, from their size, the irritability of their nature, and the appearance of their stings, they are very formidable creatures indeed.

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

GOD might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,

The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine and toil,

And yet have had no flowers. The ore within the mountain mine Requireth none to grow;

Nor doth it need the lotus-flower
To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain; The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow-light,
All fashioned with supremest grace

Upspringing day and night:-
Springing in valleys green and low,

And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness

Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not-
Then wherefore had they birth ?—
To minister delight to man,

To beautify the earth;
To comfort man-to whisper hope,
Whene'er his faith is dim,
For who so careth for the flowers
Will much more care for him!

THE CARRION-CROW.
ON a splintered bough sits the Carrion-crow,
And first he croaks loud and then he croaks low;
Twenties of
Was leafless and barkless as it is now.
years ago that bough

It is on the top of an ancient oak
That the Carrion-crow has perched to croak;
In the gloom of a forest the old oak grows,―
When it was young there's nobody knows.
"Tis but half alive, and up in the air
You may see its branches splintered and bare;
You may see them plain in the cloudy night,
They are so skeleton-like and white.
The old oak trunk is gnarled and grey,
But the wood has rotted all away,
Nothing remains but a cave-like shell,
Where bats, and spiders, and millipedes dwell;