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by uninterested. He whistles for the dog; Cæsar starts up, wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt chicken, and the hen hurries about with hanging wings and bristled feathers, clucking to protect its injured brood. The barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a passing wheelbarrow, follow, with great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by his master, though of considerable length, fully and faithfully. He runs over the quivering of the canary and the clear whistlings of the Virginia nightingale or red-bird, with such superior execution and effect, that the mortified songsters feel their own inferiority and become altogether silent; while he seems to triumph in their defeat by redoubling his exertions.

This excessive fondness for variety, however, in the opinion of some, injures his song. His elevated imitations of the brown thrush are frequently interrupted by the crowing of cocks; and the warblings of the blue bird, which he exquisitely manages, are mingled with the screaming of swallows or the cackling of hens; amidst the simple melody of the robin we are suddenly surprised by the shrill reiterations of the whip-poor-will; while the notes of the blue jay, martin, and twenty others succeed with such imposing reality, that we look round for the originals, and discover, with astonishment, that the sole performer in this singular concert is the admirable bird now before us.

During this exhibition of his powers he spreads his wings, expands his tail, and throws himself about in all the ecstasy of enthusiasm, seeming not only to sing, but to dance, keeping time to the measure of his own music. Both in his native and domesticated state, during the solemn stillness of the night, as soon as the moon rises in silent majesty, he begins his delightful solo, and serenades us the livelong night with a full display of his vocal powers, making the whole neighbourhood ring with his inimitable melody.

Wilson.

AUTUMN IN AMERICA.

IN those parts of America which answer to the medium climates of Europe, and when Autumn has a decided character of her own, the season is indeed a noble one. Rich in bounty ripening the blended fruits of two hemispheres, beauty is also her inalienable dower. Clear skies and cheerful breezes are more frequent throughout her course than storms and clouds. Fogs are rare indeed. Mild, balmy airs seem to delight in attending her steps, while the soft haze of the Indian summer is gathered, like a choice veil, about her brows, throwing a charm of its own over every feature. The grain harvest has been given to Summer; of all its treasures, she preserves alone the fragrant buckwheat and the golden maize. The nobler fruits are all hers-the finer peaches and plums, the choicest apples, pears, and grapes. The homely but precious root harvest belongs to her-winter stores for man and his herds. And now, when the year is drawing to a close, when the blessings of the earth have been gathered and stored, when every tree and plant have borne their fruits, when every field has yielded its produce, why should the sun shine brightly now? What has he more to ripen for us at this late day?

At this very period, when the annual labors of the husbandman are drawing to a close, when the first light frosts ripen the wild grapes in the woods, and open the husk of the hickory nuts, bringing the latest fruits of the year to maturity, these are the days when, here and there in the groves, you will find a maple tree whose leaves are touched with the gayest colors; those are the heralds which announce the approach of a brilliant pageant; the moment chosen by Autumn to keep the great harvest home of America is at hand. In a few days comes another and a sharper

frost, and the whole face of the country is changed; we enjoy, with wonder and delight, a natural spectacle, great and beautiful beyond the reach of any human means.

We are naturally accustomed to associate the idea of verdure with foliage-leaves should surely be green. But now we gaze in wonder as we behold colors so brilliant and so varied hung upon every tree. Tints that you have admired among the darker tulips, and roses, and richer lilies and dahlias of the flower garden; colors that have pleased your eye among the fine silks and wools of a lady's delicate embroidery; dyes that the shopman shows off with complacency among his cashmeres and velvets; hues reserved by the artist for his proudest works,—these we now see fluttering in the leaves of old oaks and liquid ambers, chestnuts, and maples.

We behold the green woods becoming one mass of rich and varied coloring. It would seem as though Autumn, in honor of this high holiday, had collected together all the past glories of the past year, adding them to her own; she borrows the gay colors that have been lying during the summer months among the flowers, in the fruits, upon the plumage of the bird, on the wings of the butterfly, and working them together in broad and glowing masses, she throws them over the forest to grace her triumph; like some great festival of an Italian city, where the people bring rich tapestries and hang them in their streets; where they unlock chests of heirlooms, and bring to light brilliant draperies, which they suspend from their windows and balconies, to gleam in the sunshine. Miss Cooper.

THE TORRID ZONE.

FROM the time we entered the torrid zone, we were never weary of admiring, at night, the beauty of the southern sky, which, as we advanced to the south, opened new constellations to our view. We feel an indescribable sensation when, on approaching the equator, and particularly on passing from one hemisphere to the other, we see those stars which we have contemplated from our infancy, progressively sink, and finally disappear. Nothing awakens in the traveller a livelier remembrance of the immense distance by which he is separated from his country than the aspect of an unknown firmament.

The grouping of the stars of the first magnitude, some scattered clouds, rivalling in splendor the milky way, and tracts of space remarkable for their extreme blackness, give a peculiar physiognomy to the southern sky. This sight fills with admiration even those who, uninstructed in the several branches of physical science, feel the same emotion of delight in the contemplation of the heavenly vault as in the view of a beautiful landscape or a majestic site. A traveller needs not be a botanist to recognise the torrid zone by the mere aspect of its vegetation. Without having acquired any notions of astronomy - without any acquaintance with the celestial charts of Flamstead and De la Caille, he feels he is not in Europe when he sees the immense constellation of the ship, or the phosphorescent clouds of Magellan, arise on the horizon. The heavens and the earth everything in the equinoctial regions-present an exotic character.

The lower regions of the air were loaded with vapors for some days. We saw the Southern Cross on the 4th of July, in the sixteenth degree of latitude. It was strongly inclined, and appeared from time to time between the clouds, the

centre of which, furrowed by uncondensed lightnings, reflected a silvery light.

If a traveller may be permitted to speak of his personal emotions, I shall add, that on that night I experienced the realisation of one of the dreams of my early youth.

When we begin to fix our eyes on geographical maps, and to read the narratives of navigators, we feel for certain countries and climates a sort of predilection which we know not how to account for at a more advanced period of life.

These impressions, however, exercise a considerable influence over our determinations; and, from a sort of instinct, we endeavour to connect ourselves with objects on which the mind has long been fixed as by a secret charm. At a period when I studied the heavens, not with the intention of devoting myself to astronomy, but only to acquire a knowledge of the stars, I was disturbed by a feeling unknown to those who are devoted to sedentary life. It was painful to me to renounce the hope of beholding the constellations near the south pole. Impatient to rove in the equinoctial regions, I could not raise my eyes to the starry firmament without thinking of the Southern Cross.

The pleasure we felt on discovering it was warmly shared by those of the crew who had visited the colonies. In the solitude of the seas we hail a star as a friend from whom we have long been separated. The Portuguese and the Spaniards are peculiarly susceptible of this feeling: a religious sentiment attaches them to a constellation the form of which recalls the sign of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the New World.

The two great stars which mark the summit and the foot of the Cross having nearly the same right ascension, it follows that the constellation is almost perpendicular at the moment when it passes the meridian. This circumstance is known to the people of every nation situated beyond the tropics, or in the southern hemisphere. It has been observed at what hour of the night, in different seasons, the Cross is erect or

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