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indeed, was he to remain on the nest for several days together, that some eggs were procured by way of experiment that had been undergoing the process of incubation about a fortnight, as it was not wished to tax his patience too greatly. In the course of a week from that time, the chickens were hatched, and afterwards most tenderly nursed and reared by this extraordinary foster-parent. The male of the common fowl will occasionally assist in bringing up young chickens, especially a bird that is beaten by others, but with the exception of the case mentioned in my Gleanings in Natural History (Vol. I. 1st ed. page 113) of the male even sitting on and hatching the eggs, and afterwards taking charge of the young birds, I never remember to have heard of any male bird hatching, or ever altogether bringing up the young from the time of hatching. This may be said even of a species accustomed as many are to share the labours of incubation with the female. For example, the male pigeon, however tenderly he may attend to his young in conjunction with his mate, and even feed and rear them altogether alone when they have attained a certain degree of growth, and he may chance to lose his hen, yet if he lose her when she has eggs, or when the young birds are but lately excluded from the shell, and require almost constant warmth, the male bird will not, in this case, bring them up

however well and constantly he may be fed. Nature has, in fact, pointed out that his time for sitting is during the day. It is well known that the male of all the dove species sits by day, and the female evening, night and morning. Therefore after he has waited beyond a certain period in the evening for his lost mate, he will generally before it is quite dark quietly leave the eggs, or the unfledged young to perish, and take up his usual position for the night apart from the nest. This is, however, not the case with the hen pigeon. She will alone bring up young birds of the tenderest age, thus affording another proof, if any were wanting, of the love and care of females.

It is remarkable that when the hen has her second nest, which is generally the case before the first brood can feed themselves, the main care of them seems to devolve on the paternal bird, and he will then take up his quarters at night with the young, now no longer requiring artificial warmth, and which very young he would have left to their fate had they really required the warmth of his body by night. This plainly shews that his actions are in this case guided by an instinct of nature to fulfil a certain end in partnerIship with his mate, and nothing more. Indeed this instinct probably causes the greatest pleasure, and calls forth the tenderest feelings, and this tendency is common to all the species. The love

however of the hen for her offspring; the oropyn,

στοργή, as I have observed, overcomes even instinct, and although I do not believe she would remain to hatch her eggs after having lost her mate, but will almost immediately seek another, yet if once the young are excluded, she will tend them alone with the most assiduous care if she can but procure food readily. It may also be asserted that in spite of the constant aggressions of other male birds, who well know when the nest is guarded alone by the weaker party in spite of the often assiduous suitors of her kind, who would fain allure her to new cares, she will remain constant to her charge, nor will the widow yield to new allurements until she has faithfully performed her duties with respect to her nestlings, and they are able to procure food for themselves.

I love to record these instances of maternal affection and tenderness. It pervades all nature, from the little pismire which brings up its eggs with so much care to feel the influence of the sun, and conveys them back again out of the reach of the nightly chill, to the tender mother on whose breast we ourselves have nestled, and whose love neither time nor distance ever weakened.

A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill,
The village lads stood melancholy still;
And idle children, wandering to and fro,
As nature guided, took the tone of woe.
CRABBE.

THERE is a certain degree of melancholy pleasure in sauntering in a village church-yard; in reading the "uncouth rhymes,” and in viewing the various methods which have been taken to attest the sorrow of surviving relations. Here the young and old," the infant and suckling child," are all mingled together. The grave of a child has, indeed, something peculiarly affecting in it. So young-so promising-so pretty-(for what is so pretty as a child?) the delight of a fond mother-perhaps her only one-whom she had fostered in her bosom, and yearned over with an affection which only a mother experiences - - to know that its innocent prattle has ceased, and to feel that for some good, and wise, and benevolent purpose it has been nipped in its early bloom, and here fades away — all these reflections intrude themselves on the mind in a country church-yard.

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The graves of the old, indeed,—the "three score years and ten," are viewed with far different sensations. Their race is over-their hour-glass has run itself out—and happy are they if they have made up their account in time.

And then how varied are the scenes to be witnessed in a church-yard. The church-door is open, and there issues forth a bridal party, the bride holding down her head, the mother, perchance, weeping at the loss of her daughter, and the rest merry, and offering their congratulations to the bridegroom. Sometimes a christening is to be seen, the fat and cautious nurse holding an infant in its long white robes, followed by its parents, with the godfathers and godmothers and some intimate friends, who are about to partake of an entertainment to celebrate the ceremony. But the solemn toll of the bell is next heard. The coffin is slowly borne to the church-yard gate. The clergyman meets it, and walks before it into the church, pronouncing those noble sentences beginning" I am the resurrection and the life, "I saith the Lord-I know that my Redeemer liveth -we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out." The coffin is again seen in the church-yard—the grave opens its mouth to receive it-the weeping mourners stand around. Again the voice of the clergyman is heard-" Man that is born of a woman, hath

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