and unaspiring naturalist, pausing at every spot which more especially recalled him to our remembrance. His name, as a naturalist, has gone abroad to the world, and gathered fame he never sought. Perhaps, could he have foreseen the future, this fame would have been less grateful to his gentle and benevolent spirit, than the knowledge that he would leave a memorial in the hearts of his neighbours, which should descend through successive generations, and the children's children of those whom he knew, should look on their excursions to the scene of his scientific labours, as bright eras in their days of enjoyment. That the man who wins golden opinions abroad, is without honour in his own country, is too often true; but we know of at least one happy exception to the rule in White, the naturalist of Selborne.

THE FERN-OWL.

Hark! hark! within the beechen shade,

The clattering castanets I hear;

'Tis the fern-owl's serenade,

In his circuit hovering near.

That whirring sound is dear to me
As strains of gentler melody.

I've heard it when, in by-gone hours,
With friends beloved I wandered far,
Or rested in sweet woodbine bowers,

Till evening sent her silver star.
And then we hailed the gem of night,
And walked with joy beneath its light.
How often have we silent stood,

To listen, chattering bird, to thee;
And lingering, paused beside the wood,
To catch thy rugged symphony;
And thought that in that tranquil shade,
The fern-owl pleasant music made.

With nature's genial love inspired,
Wandering within his green domains,
Thee, Selborne's tuneful sage admired,
And praised thy rude and jarring strains.
And loved at summer's closing day,
To watch thee in the twilight grey.

Within those verdant precincts still,
When summer nights are soft and balm,
Thy note on Selborne's wood-crowned hill,
Is heard in twilight's hour of calm :
But Selborne's sage no more is seen,
Pacing amid the alleys green.

Yet lives he in his pleasant page,
And every fossil, bird and flower,
Around the ruined hermitage,
Or in his own deserted bower,
Becomes a relic rich and rare,
Because it stands recorded there.

He sought, with unambitious aim,

Lone Nature's secret steps to trace ; Nor knew the charm his honoured name Would cast around his native place; Till distant travellers thither bound, Deem that they tread on classic ground.

ORDER PASSERES.

The Whip-poor-Will.

Caprimulgus Vociferus.

WE follow the account of our own caprimulgus, with a sketch of the habits of another singular bird of the same tribe, found in North and South America. For this purpose, we shall have recourse to the volumes of Wilson, the American ornithologist, who thus records the result of his own personal observation of the peculiarity of the Caprimulgus Vociferus :—

"This is a singular and very celebrated species, universally noted over the greater part of the United States, for the loud reiterations of his favourite call in spring; and yet, personally, he is but little known, most people being unable to distinguish this from the other species; and some insisting that they are the same.

On or about the twenty-fifth of April, if the season be not uncommonly cold, the whip-poorwill is first heard in Pennsylvania, in the evening, as the dusk of twilight commences, or in the morning, as soon as dawn has broken. The

notes of this solitary bird, from the ideas which are naturally associated with them, seem like the voice of an old friend, and are listened to by almost all with great interest. At first they issue from some retired part of the woods, the glen, or mountain; in a few evenings, perhaps, we hear them from the adjoining coppice, the garden-fence, the road before the door, and even from the roof of the dwelling-house, long after the family have retired to rest. Some of the more ignorant and superstitious, consider this near approach as foreboding to the family nothing less than misfortune, sickness, or death to some of its members; these visits, however, occur so often without any bad consequences, that this superstitious dread seems rather on the decline.

He is now a regular acquaintance. Every morning and evening his shrill and rapid repetitions are heard from the adjoining woods; and when two or more are calling out at the same time, as is often the case in the pairing season, and at no great distance from each other, the noise, mingling with the echoes from the mountains, is really surprising. Strangers, in parts of the country where these birds are numerous, find it almost impossible for some time to sleep;

while to those long acquainted with them, the sound often serves as a lullaby to assist repose. These notes seem pretty plainly to articulate the words which have been generally applied to them, whip-poor-will, the first and last syllable being uttered with great emphasis, and the whole in about a second to each repetition; but when two or more males meet, their whip-poorwill altercations become much more rapid and incessant, as if each were straining to overpower or silence the other. When near, you often hear an introductory cluck between the notes. At these times, as well as at almost all others, they fly low, not more than a few feet from the surface, skimming about the house, and before the door, alighting on the wood-piles, or settling on the roof. Towards midnight, they generally become silent, unless in clear moonlight, when they are heard with little intermission till morning. During the day, they sit in the most retired, solitary, and deep-shaded parts of the woods, generally on high ground, where they repose in silence. When disturbed, they rise within a few feet, sail low and slowly through the woods, for thirty or forty yards, and generally settle on a low branch, or on the ground. Their sight appears deficient during the day,