of the stunted thorns and alders just without the wood, deep within whose bosom was

"The mossy fount which no sun sees,
Girdled in by leafy trees,"

that supplied the crystal current of its peaceful existence. He scorned alike the company of the chattering jay and the cooing dove, and rested not by the tall elms where the rooks held noisy council, because he loved quiet and solitude, rarely associating with his own kinsfolk. In spots seldom disturbed by a passing footstep might he be seen, basking in the sunshine, with his gorgeous plumes outspread; the whirr of his wings breaks the silence, ever and anon; but seldom except at pairing time do you hear his husky crow; then, indeed, as William Howitt says, when

then he becomes a bold, noisy, quarrelsome fellow; no longer shy and retiring, but confident and obtrusive, he struts and crows in the open glade, sending forth his love calls and invitations, and defying any rival who might be inclined to intrude within the space of which he has for the time constituted himself lord and master. But the proud look and bearing, which seem to say, "I am monarch of all I survey!" is soon changed for the skulking and timorous aspect, and the hidling, cautious habits which generally characterize the bird. Yet for all that, as we said before, what a glorious bird it is! and how well the rich tints of its plumage harmonize with those of the autumnal woodlands! And this reminds us of a beautiful picture of pheasant life at this season, given by Thomas Miller, in his "Beauties of the Country," which we think our readers will like to look upon again, even though it should be familiar to them.

"What a lordly creature a pheasant looks, moving along the grassy glade of a wood, now erecting his head as if to listen, while perchance a sunbeam falls upon his burnished neck, then stooping to pick up a fallen acorn, the long plumes of his tail swaying in the wind like silken pennons, or alarmed by the rustling of the long reeds, plunging among the underwood, or flapping his way to the ivied arm of a tree! How beautiful appears a flock of these birds, feeding upon the wild wood-fruits in some sequestered path, which is seldom trodden by any foot saving their own! What terrible havoc the murderous gun makes of their splendid feathers, scattering their gold and crimson and purple plumes upon the wind, and drawing down the bright scarlet rim that encircles the deep shining eyes which the filmy darkness covers! The sound of their voices, too, calling to each other from the distant thickets, harmonizes well with the silence of the scene. Then to come upon them unawares when they are squatting among the tangled grass and plants, and see them spring up, and with a loud noise, whirr through the woven branches to some more secret covert, is a beautiful and striking sight, especially in the month of October, when every motion of their strong wings scatters a shower of golden leaves to the ground."

Will our readers bear with us, if we endeavour to extend this piece of nature painting, so as to include a few more incidents of pheasant life, whose greatest perils commence in the season here described. When the golden-leaved September has whistled out his merry tune over the hilltops, and the broad round hunter's moon has shone full upon the cleared stubble field, and the hedges festooned with the feathery clematis ; when the barns and rick-yards are full, and the squirrel and dormouse are beginning to store acorns and hazel nuts for the coming winter, then

"See from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,

And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.'

But far better for him had he remained hidden in the leafy covert, for

"Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,

Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.

Ah, what avail his glossy varying dyes,

His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes;
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,

His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?"

In vain will the frightened bird now attempt to escape; enemies are on every side of him; and crouch as close as he may, they will discover his hiding place; the keen-scented pointer will indicate his whereabouts. Now he lurks deep in the tangled underwood, and deems himself secure from all his foes, while far and wide through the woodlands on every side of them the frequent bang-bang gives fearful note of the work of destruction. Faint and more faint these sounds of danger now become, until at length they cease altogether, or are only heard in the far distance; while close around all is silence, broken only by the caw of the fieldward-flying rook, the croak of the raven upon the naked branch of the lightning-stricken tree, or the soft coo-coo of the dove. The squirrel descends the rugged bole to gambol awhile. in the ferny knolls, amid the twisted roots of the giant oaks; and up from its home in the warren comes the grey rabbit, and sits cleaning its furry face in the sunshine, which finds its way through the lofty canopy above. All at once, however, it utters a sharp cry, and darts off, for from the thicket creeps forth a red-eyed weasel, and the bark of a skulking fox breaks unpleasantly upon the ear. Up from his ground covert springs the pheasant, and seeks safety amid the branches of the elm, where he crouches close, sending out wary glances on every side from the loopholes of his retreat. Again is heard a shot; and then, closer still, a cheer, and a shrill whistle-a fluttering of wings, a dashing rustling sound; a wounded bird, as swiftly as its drooping wing will allow, runs across the glade, followed closely by a spotted retriever, which seizes and bears it away in its mouth. Footsteps approach; a pause, a cold sharp click; the eager snuffing of a dog, and now the steady pointer stands in view, fixed and rigid as though turned to stone, and

"The pheasant startles from the brake,

With all his gaudy plumes outspread ;
The sportsman, surer aim to take,
Crouches mid fern and bracken red,
Or steals along from brush to tree,
Silent, and slow, and cautiously."

Again the death-shot rings through the wood, and the shooter passes on, rejoicing in the acquisition of a second year's cock, a noble fellow, whose weight cannot he much short of four pounds, with a tail like an embroidered pennon. But here we must stop for the present, promising to return to the subject next month, when we shall enter more fully into the natural history of the glorious king of the British preserves, to whom, one who signs himself" Valdarno," in " Time's Telescope,' dedicates this sonnet

"Close by the borders of the fringed lake,

And on the oak's expanding bough, is seen
What time the leaves the passing zephyrs shake,
And sweetly murmur through the sylvan scene,
The gaudy pheasant, rich with varying dyes,
That fade alternate, and alternate glow,
Receiving now his colours from the skies,

And now reflecting back the watery bow;
He flaps his wings, erects his spotted crest;
His flaming eyes dart forth a piercing ray;
He swells the lovely plumage of his breast,

And glares in wonder on the orient day.
Ah! what avail such heavenly plumes as thine,
When dogs and sportsmen in thy ruin join?"

A DAY'S FISHING ON LOUGHNAMINNA, COUNTY CLARE.

ACCOMPANIED BY FITZ-H.

BY MICK.

'Tis a charming morn in the month of May;

The birds on each tree are singing away,

And the whole face of Nature looks smiling and gay!

How in the world shall we spend the day?

"Go fish!" methinks I hear you say.

Well, since such is your wish,

I'll go to fish!

"Tom-get ready the tackling;
Let's go to the lake:

We'll give 'em a hackling,

And no mistake!

And don't forget something to eat by the way!
What pleasure is sweet

If we've nothing to eat?

Bring plenty of prog,

And whisky for grog;

And be quick, for we've got no time to delay!"

By the clear lake's side

Our rods are tied ;

With flies our books are well supplied;

And we've only to choose

Those which we'll use.

The day's become dark, and the clouds hang down, So I think I'll first try a fiery brown.

Come, shove off the boat;

We're fairly afloat

All right fore and aft-for the sport all agog;
So now, Fitz, here's at you-first blood for a hog!

To be ready to strike if a trout should rise.
But in vain we watch;

Not a fish can we catch.

We've passed twice round the lake;
Not one have we stirred-

Not so much as a break

Can be anywhere heard!

The wind, too, has fallen; the lake is dead,
And the rain hangs heavily overhead.

"Come, Fitz, we had better go in from the rain,
When the shower is over we'll try 'em again.
Bring the flask and the basket along with you in:
Make haste, or you're sure to be wet to the skin!"

On the verdant turf, 'neath the tall cliff's shade,
Behold our luncheon quickly laid.

Before us is spread

Some ducks and bread,

And some slices of excellent ham for a whetter (as Nipperkin says), and the other etceteras.

*

Now leave we Fitz to play the trout,
And just let us see what Mick's about.
He has not yet

Got a single rise;

And he thinks it bet

ter change his flies.

So he mounts a hare's ear and yellow instead
Of his tail-fly, which before was red.
Well done!-that's it!

To the trout:

At the very first cast!
By Jove, he's hit

A trout at last;

"Sir, I've asked a few friends to dinner to day,
And hope you'll join us-now do, pray!"
"Come, Tom, get the landing-net-quick, make haste!
'Tis a splendid day; I've no time to waste,
And he's only a small one."
"By Jingo! 'tis all gone!
Fish and all !" exclaimed Fitz.
"And my line smashed to bits!
Oh, Mick!" "Don't bother!

Get ready another!

An evening so fine there was never for killing!

By the way, Fitz, I'll trouble you now for that shilling!"

"Come, Fitz, 'tis late;

'Twould be folly to wait.

I'm sure it can't be far from eight.

"Tis useless to talk,

We've two miles to walk;

And, to tell you the truth, I'd like something to eat :
'Tis more than six hours since I tasted a morsel,

And, faith! I can hardly imagine a worse ill!
Well, now we may as well count the trout;
Do you, Tom, come here and throw them out
Of the locker. Make haste! What are you about?
Mr. H―― has already wound up his line.

Be-dad!

Not bad!

Three dozen and nine !”