earth-worms, are under these quickening manures almost purged of them, useful though they are both as bird-food and upper-soil land drainers-and wormcasts in such lands are not now by one tenth so numerous as they were in time past. This has caused a great diminution in food; and when, with a knowledge of that fact, we also remember that in dry seasons this comparatively limited number of grubs almost disappear from the surface of the earth, is it to be wondered at that rooks greedily eat or carry to their young all the eggs and carrion they can hunt up? In dry seasons it is well known they are much more destructive in preserves than when the land remains moist from occasional showers. Should rookeries be kept of a more moderate size than they are in many districts, and at wider distances than they generally are, we believe that the good qualities alone of the birds would be experienced. With the great number of rookeries-many of them of large size, and many in close proximity to each other on the Borders at the present time, we may be certain that every year, more or less, their sable inhabitants will be found "in the pursuit of game without a licence," regardless alike of our respected J.P.'s and Acts of Parliament. Jackdaws are also on the increase in the Border counties, and are, at the present time, very numerous; for although, like their betters, they are known to relish a "poached" egg, and sometimes even a fledgling, they are seldom shot down to any great extent; and they, moreover, annually rear large families, and live to a good old age. For a number of years back, it has been noticed that they, with the exception of those which nest in abbeys, and the like, have been gradually becoming less gregarious; and we are of opinion that, at the present time, more jackdaws associate with rooks, and scour the fields promiscuously with them, than remain in isolated companies. When the great clamorous flocks of rooks are flying overhead, the cry of the jackdaw may always be distinguished. When flying with rook armies, however, they generally keep in the most airy ranks. Formerly these birds, it was believed, nested solely in ruins, precipices, and tree holes, but chiefly in the two former; hence, with an increase in their population, and no increase in the number of their favourite habitations, it is easy, on natural grounds, to account for their fellowship with the rooks—and with rooks they now nest in considerable numbers. In no work on natural history is it noted that jackdaws regularly build open nests on trees, yet in Roxburghshire this is a common occurrence; and the writer has seen many jackdaw nests on trees in rookeries, and has often handled the eggs and young in them. The nests are generally built in the dark foliage of the spruce-fir. Their natural fondness for locality, perhaps, may partly keep them from removing to new districts, in search of the hoary piles they delight to inhabit; for, by simply removing to the woods, they are enabled to remain in the districts in which they were bred. The writer also knows some rabbit burrows, in a somewhat rocky bank on Teviot side, in which these birds nest. A similar nesting place is noted in White's "Selborne." The jackdaw's love of trickery and mischief, when in a domesticated state, need not herein be noted, for most of the readers of this magazine must be familiar with the sayings and doings of these sagacious birds. The following anecdote illustrates the energy and tact of a jackdaw under difficulties : The daw could articulate some words quite distinctly, and it had one phrase which might be considered its favourite, namely, "Caller haddie ;" for whenever it became excited or highly pleased, it gave utterance to this phrase, sometimes in a strange, wild, and varied accent, but always distinct. A talking daw is sure to be a great favourite with all youngsters; and the one in question, named Jack, was always accompanied in his peregrinations about the streets of the town in which he was located, by a band of urchins, whose attentions he seemed to relish, but whose occasionally bleeding fingers shewed that master Jack's rule was, "Hands off, or I'll bite." Jack's thefts from the houses of his master and others were numerous, and at length became of so grave a nature, that sentence of banishment was put into execution against him. To prevent his return, one of his wings was clipped, and he was taken away a distance of three miles, in a pretty close wicker-basket. He was of a prying nature; and, maugre the jolting and turning of the vehicle, would doubtless, in order to make out his whereabout, strain an anxious eye through the small interstices of the basket, but, at most he could see no greater landmark than an occasional gorse bush. After remaining a few days in his new quarters, he disappeared, and could be found nowhere. But on one very dark night, about ten o'clock, a tap was heard at the house door of his former master; it was opened, and, uttering a harsh "Caller haddie," in stalked old Jack, haggard and rumpled, but the light of his eye unquenched. He had walked the whole of the way, but how he knew what road to take must remain a mystery. Ring-doves, or wood-pigeons, are now so numerously and widely spread throughout these realms, that they have become nothing short of a pest; and we do not wonder at proprietors and agriculturists associating, as they at present are, for the purpose of reducing their numbers. The wood-pigeon was believed by many of the writers of last century to be migratory, and we have no doubt whatever but it would migrate at that period. The migrations of the wood-pigeon now, however, must be somewhat like those of the one-feathered bird of a certain noble lord-"all to one side." Wood-pigeons may probably leave the Continent for this country in the early winter; but of this we have little or no evidence, and we have certainly none that they ever return; and the strongest proof of this is the immense increase in their numbers every year. They doubtless are very prolific, and from this it might be alleged that many might migrate, and the birds still increase rapidly; but we do not think any one would assert this who has noticed the great increase they have made within the last ten or fifteen years. We deem it a simple matter to account for the increase in their numbers, and the change in their migrating propensities. During last century, when they crossed and recrossed the Channel annually, we know that, from the state of agriculture in this country at that period, they were necessitated to do so, for then, at some seasons of the year, little or no food existed for them. This is not the case now; for, over and above the protection and food afforded by the greatly-increased breadth of plantations, the mode of agriculture now in operation alone renders this country a sort of paradise for the wood-pigeon. Here is about the style in which it fares during the year. In the winter and early spring, turnips form its principal diet; and when the bulbs happen to get snow-covered, the leaves generally yield a sufficient supply of food. Sometimes in early spring the leaves of turnips, from adverse frosts, soon decay ; and at such times, should snow fall sufficient to cover the bulbs, the wood-pigeon preys on garden vegetables and pine seeds. When in the spring turnips disappear, clover and young wheat form the succeeding article of food, varied by the numerous grubs and weevils that infest or fall from forest trees. The young turnips next appear, and are eagerly devoured; and, by the time the birds get satiated on leaf food, chickweed is ripe, and cereals are getting into ear, and from the time the ears are formed, until the early winter sets in, they have a plentiful supply of most of the kinds of food they relish— grain, clover, turnips, and grubs. The supply of food now offered by this country for these birds, it will be seen, is unlimited; and doubtless the continental wood-pigeons must look on Great Britain much as our poorer countrymen look on New Zealand or Tasmania, as lands of plenty. Another cause of the increase in the number of wood-pigeons, but one, in our opinion, of comparatively small importance, arises from the wholesale manner in which their natural enemies, the egg-eating blackneb and magpies, are shot down in almost every district. MANSE JAMES. Gigantic Elms. The celebrated Chippenham elm at Chippenham Place, Kent, is fifteen feet eight inches in circumference at three feet from the ground. The venerable elm which stands in the garden of Mr Stenhouse, between the brewery and the bridge at Ednam, N. B., is sixty-three feet high, and sixteen feet in circumference three feet from the ground. The height of the trunk to the cleft is eleven feet four inches. The circumference of the north limb, in the thickest part, is eight feet five inches; and of the south limb fourteen feet four inches. This is the more remarkable when we consider that the last named is nearly as large as the trunk. These limbs have been considerably reduced in length; and one of them so far overhung the river Eden some years ago as to require the interference of the saw. It is estimated there is a hundred and eighty cubic feet of timber in the lower division of the trunk alone. This aged elm has more scars upon its body than the oldest campaigner now living; and has been protected in several places with metal plates to arrest the destroying hand of atmospheric agency and ruthless time. The patriarch of the family, however, is the Crawley elm, on the old coach road to Brighton, which measures at the ground three times the circumference of either of the above. THE HAWKSHEAD INN. A TALE OF ONE OF THE TRIBUTARIES OF THE TWEED. BY JOHN HEITON OF DARNICK TOWER, F.R.S.S.A., AUTHOR OF "THE CASTES OF EDINBURGH," &C. "Pity the lads that are free, Pity the lads that are single; For gudesake! tak pity on me, I'm teased nicht and day wi' Jean Pringle. My heart's my ain an' I'm cheery, I'd sleep as sound as a peerie! ERE again, for the twentieth time, at the little inn of Hawkshead, on the edge of that to me the prettiest of all rivers, where I have fished, I may say, all my days -I mean all my fishing days. Like a hungry man to dinner, a traveller too late for the rail, a woman who has been long away from her husband, or a man who has been too long with his wife, I am always in a hurry as I enter the Hawkshead. Nor, when I get in, can I sit on a chair, or lie on a sofa, or stand for two minutes at a time in one place. I am out and in to see about my tea, and how Mrs Wilson and Jenny are getting on with what concerns me; then in and out to ascertain how the river looks-whether good for casting or bobbing; then up and down to know what kind of fish is frying for me, and whether my bedroom has got another green parrot on the mantelpiece, or another Moses among the bulrushes, on the wall. All is hurry and bustle, with nothing to hurry about-which I consider to be about the very sum of human enjoyment. Does childhood come back again after being frightened away and scared out of us by wise saws and modern instances? The moment I see the house I rejuvenate— get among tops, shinty, leap-frog, birds'-nests, apple gardens, gooseberry bushes-and the elasticity and gambols and tricks remain until I see the last wreath of smoke that finds its way over the tops of the trees. Then I get old again in the cares of debtor and creditor, bills, protests, house-expenditure, claims of distressed poverty, aspirations of pride, the demands of fashion,-high civilisation, in short, with all its artificial pleasures and non-artificial pains. On this occasion, my hurry had in some degree exhausted itself. I was getting into something like a calm enjoyment-having just been out for the fourth or fifth time within the space of a quarter of an hour, and satisfied myself that the pikes' pool had the old swirl on the north side—that no one had been cutting away the banks— that the old watering road from the farm to the river was rutted in the old corduroy fashion-that the cross bar of the wooden bridge, which had been washed away ten years before, had not been replaced by some impudent road trustee-that John Wilson's fishing-rod was on the proper part of the wall, and that the usual number of kippers were hanging on the gavel. All was what it should be, and my tea was ready—a fact communicated to me by Jenny, as she cried to me from the door where she stood a little after her call, as if to satisfy me that all was in proper conformity with her also—that is, that she was the same healthful, blooming, cheerful, I may add, pretty girl, she had always appeared to me to be. So like a peach among fruit, a salmon among fishes, a rose among flowers, a goldfinch among birds, a lamb among quadrupeds,—I do not say a Venus among stars, because I am not a poet any more than Jenny is a goddess. "All is right?" I said, as I entered. Everything but Hawkie," returned Jenny. "And what is wrong with her?" asked I. Naething; only she's awa," replied Jenny, with her usual simplicity. "Well, I am sorry for that," I said, and really felt; for many a time I have drunk her milk. Then she seemed so like one of the family, that I feel there's something wanting. "She wasna a guid milker, sir," said Mrs Wilson, as she sat by the side of the window knitting stockings; and Jenny got my chair placed by the kitchen fire-a privilege granted only to me and one or two other anglers. "It couldna be expected," said Jenny, as she turned into a pantry to get something she had forgotten. I was trying to find out the meaning of Jenny's remark, when, on returning, she added with all necessary gravity, "It was her tail, sir, that was wrang―ower short for a guid milker." A small thing makes a man laugh when predisposed, and I was busy amusing my diaphragm, when Mrs Wilson interposed "A short tail makes an empty pail." "And an empty milk-pot," I rejoined, holding up the china quey. "Bless me! I'm surely mad," cried Jenny, as she ran to get a supply of cream. 66 "I know not what that girl's mind is chasing to day!" ejaculated Mrs Wilson; she has been that way all the afternoon. She gave me an apple for an onion-put the binder over the east room bed for the counterpane, and sent a poor traveller east in place of west. I wonder what we shall have next." Jamie Cairncross is to bring hame the new Hawkie frae the Mains o' Kibbock in the gloaming," said Jenny, as she put down the milk. Now, it is certain that Jenny did not intend this remark about Jamie and the new cow, as an answer to Mrs Wilson's somewhat cutting observation; and I question whether even I, with some sharpness in tracing associations, would have noticed the ludicrous connexion, had not I observed a smile on Mrs Wilson's face, which seemed to say that Jamie's coming in the evening was the cause of Jenny's obliviousness. And the simple soul had admitted it-her own mental association having run right ahead into the empty milk |