verse, and tends to preserve the balance of organic being, and, removed whence (as is somewhere well remarked by Mudie), a plant or animal is little else than a "disjointed fragment." Systematists, with few exceptions, err most grossly in imagining that allied species have been created in direct reference to each other (as members of a sort of cabinet system of even proportions) rather than to the localities they indigenously frequent, to the office each was ordained to fulfil in the universal, or adaptive, system. One would have supposed that the various facts which geology has brought to light would have sufficed to undeceive them in this particular. It cannot be too often repeated, that, upon whatever plan a species may be organised, its true relation (the reason for its existence at all) is solely connected with its indigenous locality: else, why should so many thousand species have ceased to be, the particular circumstances under which they were appointed to live no longer requiring their presence? To expect, indeed, for a single moment, that, in any isolated class or division of organisms, a perfect system of another kind could obtain, harmonising in all points, and true in the detail to any particular number, appears to me (even supposing that none of the species were now extinct, and that we knew all that are at present existing), primâ facie, a manifest illusion. Species are distributed over the earth, wherever the most scanty means of subsistence for them are to be found; and their organisation is always beautifully and wonderfully adapted for obtaining it under whatever circumstances it may exist just, therefore, as the surface varies, so do its productions and its inhabitants; and there is no locality, or, apparently, even vegetable production, so peculiar, but species are found upon it especially organised to find their subsistence chiefly or wholly there. The very underground lake has its own peculiar inhabitants; for the wondrous Pròteus there revels in regions of everlasting night of course happy in its existence as the bird that cleaves the free air, or as the lion that exults in his conquering prowess. Ponder this well; and it is clear, that upon these grounds alone all quinary imaginings must at once fall to the ground. : The more deeply, indeed, I consider the quinary theory (now advocated by so many talented naturalists) in all its bearings, the less consistent does it appear to me with reason and common sense; the more thoroughly am I convinced of its utter fancifulness and misleading tendency. Nothing in this world is without its particular and definite use, which observation, in time, generally contrives to discover: but what utility could there be, what purpose could be effected, by separate and distinct races of beings, created obviously in direct relation to particular localities, being distributed into even groups of a limited number, like the celebrated groves of Blenheim," nodding at each other?" If the quinary system be universal, as some would have, pervading all creation, how is it that the stars and planets do not revolve in groups of five? Or why even do not animals mostly produce their young by fives, or multiples of five? The absurdity is, indeed, too great to be dwelt on. If we examine, too, the writings of even the most eminent advocates of this strange theory, we continually meet (as might be expected) with divisions apparently made for mere dividing sake, that the requisite number of groups might be filled up; and, on the other hand, with examples equally glaring of the most dissimilar forms being brought under one general head, that the same particular number should not be exceeded. Thus, in Mr. Selby's in many respects very valuable and useful" British Ornithology," while the closely allied linnets and siskins are placed in separate subfamilies, between the types of which no supergeneric character of the least importance can be descried, we find the buntings actually arranged in a subfamily of which the larks are typical; and, in another division, of like value, among his Sylviadæ, four genera (Pàrus, Accéntor, Setóphaga, and Calamophilus) grouped together, which have hardly a single character in unison that is not common to the whole Dentiróstres, and which, certainly, are but very distantly allied. To adduce additional instances must be superflous: a system which can admit of such very arbitrary arrangements can have but a faint title indeed to be designated the "only natural one." It is unnecessary now any longer to detain the attention of the reader by further prefatory observations; nor would it be worth while here to offer any remarks on the progress of plumification, the which might be better introduced as occasion may require; but I shall forthwith proceed to point out what I conceive to be of very great importance towards the classification of birds according to their true affinities, the different changes of plumage and appearance to which various groups of them are subject, confining myself, for the most part, to those upon which I can speak quite positively, from having myself had opportunities of witnessing them. On this enquiry there is, indeed, hardly any guide to go by, but direct personal observation; for though, in the books the greater number of these changes of appearance in the feathered race have been often mentioned, it is seldom that the precise manner in which they are brought about is stated; and the term "vernal moult" has been, in general, so very vaguely applied (sometimes indicating an actual shedding and renovation of the feathers themselves, and sometimes merely the seasonal wearing off of their winter edgings), that I have thought it best to decline altogether availing myself of their assistance. I may just premise, however, before commencing, that, independently of moulting, there are two principal modes by which a great alteration in the appearance of the feathers of birds is, in some cases, gradually brought about; namely, a direct change of colour in the feathers themselves, and the gradual shedding, in spring (as has already been spoken of), of their extreme tips, which are frequently of a different and more dingy colour than that part of the feather which becomes exposed to view when these have disappeared. A familiar and beautiful illustration of both these changes is furnished by the breast plumage of a male of the common, or song, linnet (Linària cannábina). The coloured portion of these feathers, in winter, is of a brownish red; and they are tipped with deciduous dusky edgings. In the spring, the latter gradually wear off, and the dark maroon changes to a bright crimson.* The same plumage which the ptarmigan acquires in autumn becomes, in winter, white, and in spring gradually re-assumes somewhat its former colour, but a still deeper one. † Variations in general appearance, however, induced by a change of colour in the feathers themselves, are of compara tively rather unusual occurrence. (To be continued.) ART. II. Notes on the Habits of the Stormcock, or Mistletoe "Te, dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum, For thee, sweet mate, for thee he pour'd his lay, It is a pleasing and ingenious way to account for the song in birds, by supposing that it is given to them by Nature, in order that they may enliven the female during the lonely task of incubation. At that interesting season of the year, one * Curiously enough, however, the song linnet's changes of tint do not, to the slightest extent, ever take place in captivity. + Inspection of a considerable number of ptarmigans, at different seasons, induces me to dissent from the general opinion, that the time of moulting in these birds is confined to no particular period. VOL. IX. No. 64. HH might really imagine that the song of the male is absolutely uxorious; and, in truth, it may be, for aught I know to the contrary. No cow ever chewed her cud more deliberately than I have weighed this matter in my own mind; and, after all, I am not one jot the wiser. My speculations in April have all been shivered to atoms in November, and I am left in the midst of uncertainty. To-day, I hear a male bird singing close to the bush where his female is on her nest; and five months hence I shall hear a male bird sing, in apparent ecstasy, when the chilling season of the year peremptorily forbids the female to make any preparations for the nursery. Baffled at every point, I sometimes peevishly ask myself, Why should natare have made a provision in the male blackbird, in order that he may soothe his incubating female, and have denied that provision to my favourite the carrion crow? And then I answer my own question, by whispering to myself, that the she carrion may possibly experience wonderful delight in listening to the hoarse croaking of her partner; just as the old Scotchwoman did when she used to gaze at the carbuncle on her husband's nose. In a word, I know nothing, absolutely nothing, about the song in birds. The raven will whistle you a tune so true and pleasing, that you feel quite enchanted with his performance; whilst his congener, the carrion crow, notwithstanding all your pains to instruct him, will remain as unmusical as Paddy's fiddle, which was dumb for want of catgut. We listen with delight to the many species of male birds which make the groves resound with their melody; and we cannot imagine why the females so seldom venture an attempt at song; for we know that with us both ladies and gentlemen are full of fine sounds. Wherever a Braham is heard, there is sure to be a Billington not far off. However, should it be the case, in ornithology, that Nature has ordered the male to sing his female to repose, there are some exceptions to the supposed general rule. I may adduce the stormcock by way of example; for he warbles nearly the year throughout. I have often heard him pour forth his wild and plaintive notes in the months of August, October, November, and December; and in every following month, until the sun has entered into Cancer, at which period, he seems to unstring his lyre for a few weeks. Towards the close of December, his song is particularly charming; and it becomes more frequent as the new year advances. I remember well (indeed, I noted down the circumstance), that, on December 21. 1827, his carol was remarkably attractive. He warbled incessantly from the top of a lofty elm, just as the poor from a neighbouring village were receiving corn under it, in me mory of St. Thomas the Apostle. In the olden time, it was a common practice throughout the land to distribute corn to the needy on the day in which the festival of this glorious saint is kept. At present, the good dole seems fast approaching to its latter end. Probably in a few years more it will fall a victim to the times, and be trodden underfoot in the modern march of intellect. This bird, though usually known by the name of the mistletoe thrush in many parts of England, is invariably called the stormcock by all the lower orders in our neighbourhood: not that it delights in storms more than in fine weather, but that Nature has taught it to pour forth its melody at a time of the year when the bleak winds of winter roar through the leafless trees. Should, however, a few days of calm and warmth succeed to the chilling blast, then the stormcock is heard to sing, if anything, more sweetly than before. The stormcock is a decided inhabitant of trees, except sometimes when in quest of food; for at that time he may be seen on the ground, and in berry-bearing shrubs. But in shrubs I have never been able to find his nest, which is generally placed either in the forked branches of the forest trees, or in those of the larger fruit trees, sometimes very high up, and sometimes within 5 ft. of the ground. The outside of the nest is composed of dried grass, to which is added a little green moss; whilst the inside contains a lining of dried grass alone, on which the female commonly lays five eggs, speckled over with chocolate-coloured spots of a lighter and a darker shade on a greyish-green ground. During the period of the breeding season, the habits of the stormcock undergo a noted change. At other times of the year, except in cherry time, and when the seeds of the different species of the service tree are ripe, this bird carefully avoids the haunts of man; but no sooner does the time arrive in which it has to make its nest, than it draws near to our habitations with the utmost confidence, and forms its nest in places the most exposed to our view. There both male and female protect their charge with matchless courage. On the approach of an enemy, you immediately hear their singular cry, which somewhat resembles the sound produced by striking the teeth of a comb smartly with your finger; and you see the parent birds dashing incessantly at the crow, the cat, or the magpie, until they clear the coast. This year, there is a stormcock's nest within fifteen yards of the place where the masons are at work. Our tame magpie, which is allowed its freedom, and the use of its wings, seized the female, some days ago, and brought her close to the masons. The male bird |