familiarity is inherent in him, and not acquired. I am not acquainted with any other wild bird that possesses it.

In Italy this social disposition of his does not guarantee him from destruction by the hand of man. At the bird-market near the Rotunda in Rome, I have counted more than fifty robin-redbreasts lying dead on one stall. "Is it possible," said I to the vender," that you can kill and eat these pretty songsters?" "Yes," said he, with a grin; "and if you will take a dozen of them home for your dinner to-day, you will come back for two dozen to-morrow."

It is the innocent familiarity of this sweet warbler which causes it to be such a favourite with all ranks of people in England. Nobody ever thinks of doing it an injury. injury. "That's poor cock-robin! - don't hurt poor cock-robin," says the nursery maid, when her infant charge would wish to capture it. Mrs. Barbauld has introduced cock-robin into her plaintive story of Pity; and when we study the habits of this bird, and see that his intimacy with us far surpasses that of any other known wild one, we no longer wonder that the author of that pathetic ballad The Children in the Wood should

have singled out the red-breast amongst all the feathered tribe, to do them the last sad act of kindness. They had been barbarously left to perish, and had died of cold and want. Cockrobin found them; and he is described as bringing leaves in his mouth, and covering their dead bodies with them.

"Their pretty lips with black-berries

Were all besmeared and dyed;

And when they saw the darksome night,

They laid them down and cried.

"No burial these pretty babes

Of any man receives,

Till robin-redbreast, painfully,

Did cover them with leaves."

This ballad has something in it peculiarly calculated to touch the finest feelings of the human heart. Perhaps, there is not a village or hamlet in England that has not heard what befel the babes in the wood; and how poor cock-robin did all in his power for them when death had closed their eyes. I wish it were in my power to do only half as much in favour of some other birds, as this well-known ballad of The Children in the Wood has done for poor cock-robin.

WASTE LANDS.

ORNITHOLOGY, when divested of hard names and a crabbed system, is an easy and a pleasant study. Formerly, there were abundant opportunities of enjoying this fascinating pursuit on the common lands which our provident ancestors had set apart for the use of the public in every town and village of England. As these common lands, by a most ill-judged policy, became private property, the field naturalist was robbed of his rights with the rest of his fellow-townsmen. If the present rage for enclosures shall continue to receive the countenance of our Parliament, we may soon bid adieu for ever to the valuable privileges which the waste lands of England have hitherto afforded to the public.

In my own immediate neighbourhood there still remains a spacious common for the public good. It is beautiful in nature's wildest charms. On the lower part of it there is a noble extent of gorse or whins, not "unprofitably gay" to the ardent naturalist; for he has it in his power to come hither and enjoy the sight of

many species of British birds, some of which are not to be found in the enclosed lands of the neighbourhood. As there is now a plan on foot to procure an Act of Parliament for the enclosure of this sweet common, I have caused to be printed, and to be distributed gratis, a few observations to put the public on their guard. The good people of Wakefield have expressed themselves highly satisfied with my feeble attempt to serve their cause.

As natural history is too much interested not to put her veto to the proposed enclosure, I make bold to offer to the public at large my recent little publication, with a faint hope that it may operate in some degree to retard the enclosure of the few commons which still remain to us. Every enclosure of such lands is a serious loss to the field naturalist, who has no land of his own whereon to correct the errors which he will unavoidably imbibe in his researches for information within the precincts of his own closet.

"Wakefield,—once Merry Wakefield!—why art thou so no longer? What envious hand

hath smote thee, and changed thy garland of roses into one of rue and wormwood? Formerly thy fair face must have beamed with many smiles; for thou wert known throughout the land, by the name of Merry Wakefield.'

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"And very merry must have been thy days: for thy merchants were prosperous, thy people happy, and thy prison empty; ay, so empty, that time was when not one single captive could be found within its walls. There was Westgate Common open to thy people and to all the world besides, and the Outwood too; and here it was that thy merry sons and daughters came to dance, and sing, and to drive dull care away. But these once-famed rural haunts for mirth and glee are now no longer thine: the iron hand of private interest fell heavy on them; and they were lost to thee for ever. Oh, how cruel and unjust it was, to sever from thee those delightful walks which the foresight and good sense of our ancestors had apportioned for thy welfare and left at thy command!

All, all is now changed for the worse: and sad and sorrowful have the scenes become, which were once so bright and joyous: and