Chapter 8

_Mrs. B._ Most willingly, my dear Louisa. This is the largest of the British _hirundines_, and makes its appearance much later in the season than the others I have mentioned; being seldom seen before the last week in April, or the first week in May. It is by no means so skilful an architect as the two species I have already noticed. Making no crust or shell to its nest, it forms it of dry grass and features, very rudely put together, and constructing it in some dark corner of a castle, tower, or steeple; this species cannot, therefore, be so narrowly watched as the others, which build more openly. They are almost constantly on the wing, never settling, either on the ground, on the roofs of houses, or in trees, as is the case with the other species. The female lays only two eggs, which are milk-white, long, and peaked at the small end. It is a very lively bird, rising early and retiring to rest late, and is observed, in the height of summer, to be on the wing sixteen hours a day. Like the martin, they are no songsters, having only one harsh, screaming note, which, however, I cannot consider disagreeable. It is never heard but in the most lovely summer weather, and, consequently, the sound occasions in my mind a pleasing association of ideas, which I like to indulge. If by any accident they settle upon the ground, they find great difficulty in rising, on account of the shortness of their legs and the length of their wings: neither can they walk conveniently, they only crawl along.

_Louisa_. They seem, in many respects different in their habits from the other species you have mentioned, mamma: how may we distinguish them by their outward appearance?

_Mrs. B_. The peculiar formation of the foot plainly discriminates them, for it is so disposed, as to carry all its four toes forward; which clearly accounts for the difficulty it finds in walking. As they arrive later, so they retire sooner than the others, being seldom seen after the middle of August. Are you not tired, my children, with my long account of these birds?

"Oh no, dear mamma: pray tell us something about sand-martins too," exclaimed each of the children; "we shall then be able to distinguish each of the four species of British _hirundines_."

Mrs. Bernard assured them, she would willingly comply with their request, as far as she was able to do it: "but," added she, "it is difficult to gain full and exact information respecting the lives and habits of these little birds, which are extremely wild by nature, disclaiming all domestic attachments, and haunting heaths and commons, far from the resorts of man. They are very fond of water, and are never known to abound but near vast pools or rivers. They form their nests in a manner totally different from the varieties I have mentioned; boring a round hole in the sand, in a serpenting direction, and about two feet deep. At the further end of this burrow, they form their rude nest; consisting of fine grass and feathers, laid together with very little art. It is wonderful to observe what arduous undertakings perseverance will accomplish. One would suppose it almost impossible that this feeble bird, with its soft bill and tender claws, should be able to bore a stubborn sand-bank, without injury. Sand-martins are much smaller than any other species of _hirundines_, and also differ from them in colour, being what is termed mouse-colour, instead of black. They fly also in a peculiar manner, by jerks, somewhat resembling a butterfly. They are by no means so common as the other species; for there are few towns or large villages that do not abound with house-martins; few churches, towers, or steeples, but what are haunted by swifts; scarcely a cottage chimney that has not its swallow; whilst the bank-martins, scattered here and there, live a sequestered life, in sand-hills and in the banks of rivers."

_Ferdinand_. Do they sing, mamma?

_Mrs. B._ No, my dear; they are particularly mute, only making a little harsh noise when any person approaches their nest. They lay from four to six white eggs, and breed twice in the season.

_Louisa_. Have you any thing more to tell us on this amusing subject, my dear mother?

_Mrs. B._ No, my dear: I believe I have now told you most of the important particulars respecting these curious little birds. But I have an account in my pocket-book, which I extracted from a book I was reading last week--"Bingley's Animal Biography:" I will read that to you, if you please. It is respecting a foreign species of _hirundines_, called the esculent martin.

The children all united in begging to hear this account; upon which Mrs. Bernard took it from her pocket, and read the following extract:

"The esculent martin is said to less in size than the wren. The bill is thick; the upper parts of the body brown, and the under parts white. The tail is forked, and each feather is tipped with white. The legs are brown.

"The nest of this bird is excessively curious, and composed of such materials, that it is not only eatable, but is considered one of the greatest dainties that the Asiatic epicures possess. It generally weighs about half an ounce, and is, in shape, like half a lemon; or, as some say, like a saucer with one side flatted, which adheres to the rock. The texture is somewhat like isinglass, or rather more like fine gum-dragon; and the several layers of the matter it is composed of, are very apparent; being fabricated from repeated parcels of a soft slimy substance, in the same manner as the common martins form theirs of mud. Authors differ much as to the materials of which it is composed: some suppose it to consist of sea-worms, of the mollusca kind; others, of a kind of cuttle-fish, or a glutinous sea-plast called agal-agal. It has also been supposed, that the swallows rob other birds of their eggs, and, after breaking the shells, apply the white of them to that purpose.

"The best sorts of nests, which are perfectly free from dirt, are dissolved in broths, in order to thicken them, and are said to give them an exquisite flavour. They are soaked in water to soften, then pulled to pices, and, after being mixed with ginseng, are put into the body of a fowl. The whole is then stewed in a pot, with a sufficient quantity of water, and left on the coals all night. The following morning it is ready to be eaten."

"Pray, mamma, what is _ginseng?_ I never heard of it before," said Louisa.

_Mrs. B._ It is the root of a small plant, growing in China, Tartary, and likewise in some parts of North America, particularly Canada and Pennsylvania, from whence considerable quantities have lately been brought over here. Amongst the Chinese, it is esteemed a medicine of extraordinary value.

"A medicine! mamma," exclaimed Louisa; "I thought you said they put it into the stuffing of their fowl!"

"And so they do, my dear," returned Mrs. Bernard, "it is by no means of an unpleasant taste, as it has a mucilaginous sweetness, approaching to that of liquorice, accompanied with an agreeable bitterness, and a slight aromatic warmth, with little or no smell."

_Louisa._ Thank you mamma. Now will you go on with your account?

_Mrs. B._ "The nests of which I was speaking, are found in vast numbers in many islands of the Eastern Archipelago. The best kind sell in China, from one thousand to fifteen hundred dollars the picle, a weight of about twenty-five pounds. The black and dirty ones only sell for twenty dollars.

"Sir George Staunton, in his Embassy to China, says: 'These nests are a considerable object of traffic among the Javanese, and many are employed in it from their infancy. The birds having spent near two months in preparing their nests, usually lay two eggs, which are hatched in about fifteen days. When the young birds become fledged, it is thought time to seize upon their nests, which is done regularly three times a year, and is effected by means of ladders of bamboo and reeds, by which the people descend into the caverns; but when these are very deep, rope-ladders are preferred. This operation is attended with much danger, and several lose their lives in the attempt. The inhabitants of the mountains generally employed in it, begin always by sacrificing a buffalo; a custom which is constantly observed by the Javanese, on the eve of every extraordinary undertaking. They also pronounce some prayers, anoint themselves with sweet-scented oils, and smoke the entrance of the cavern with gum- benjamin. Near some of these caverns, a tutular goddess is worshipped, whose priest burns incense, and lays his protecting hand on every person intending to descend. A flambeau is carefully prepared at the same time, with a gum which exudes from a tree growing in the vicinity, and is not easily extinguished by fixed air, or subterraneous vapours.'"

The children were delighted with this account, and thanked their mother for the amusement and instructions she had kindly afforded them. They each determined, before the following spring, to provide themselves with a book, for the purpose of keeping a diary, and noticing the different objects that might engage their attention. They had been so much interested by their mother's conversation, that the beauties of the surrounding scenery had almost passed unnoticed. She now directed their attention to the fine open country that lay behind them. A beautiful little copse they were just entering, quite charmed Emily, who was a great admirer of rural scenery. "The autumnal tints add to the riches of the foliage, and improve our present prospect, my dear mother," said she, "but make us fear that a very few weeks will deprive us of our pleasure."

"That is very true, Emily," added Louisa, "but we shall have new pleasures in the place of those we love. Think of the delightful winter evenings which we always so much enjoy. I really scarcely know what season to prefer. Spring is very charming; in summer too we have many pleasures; and, at this moment, I feel as if a morning walk in autumn were the best of all."

Mrs. Bernard smiled at the cheerful vivacity of Louisa, and recommended to each of the children the cultivation of a contented disposition, which knows how to derive comfort from circumstances in themselves unpromising.

At this moment they turned into a little glen, and were delighted with the rural appearance of a cottage, shaded by lofty trees. They approached its humble door, which stood open, and beheld a young cottager, who was singing at her spinning-wheel, and too much engaged by her occupation to notice their approach. Mrs. Bernard drew back a few paces, and whispered to Emily the following lines, which this sweet scene recalled to her mind:

"E'en from the straw-roof'd cot, the note of joy Flows full and frequent, as the village fair, Whose little wants the busy hour employ, Chaunting some rural ditty, soothes her care.

"Verse softens toil, however rude the sound; She feels no biting pang the while she sings, Nor, as she turns the giddy wheel around, Revolves the sad vicissitude of things."

Then, again approaching the cottage, she accosted the young girl, who, with a modest blush, arose from her wheel, and hastily pushing it on one side, invited her unexpected visitors to take a seat, and rest themselves after their walk.

Pleased with their reception, Mrs. Bernard accepted her invitation; and, upon entering into conversation with the young cottager, became more and more interested in her favour. There was that modest reserve in her manner, which is particularly pleasing in youth.

In answer to Mrs. Bernard's questions, she informed her, that she was, in very early life, left an orphan; having lost both her parents before she had attained her third year. Since which time, she had been indebted to an aged grandmother for protection and support.

"We have both worked hard for our livelihood," said Mary, (for that was the young cottager's name,) "and, thank Heaven, we have never wanted the _necessaries_ of life; _more_ we have never wished for. My grandmother weeds in the squire's garden hard by, and I earn a trifle at my wheel."

Just as Mary had said these words, they perceived an old woman approaching. She was leaning on the arm of a fine, healthy-looking youth. A deeper blush, which at this moment dyed the cheeks of the pretty young cottager, told a tale she would wittingly have concealed.

"Is that your grandmother, Mary?" enquired Mrs. Bernard.

_Mary_. Yes, Madam.

_Mrs. B._ And the young man is your brother, I suppose?

"No, Ma'am," said Mary, blushing still more deeply: "I have no brother. That is Henry, our neighbour Farmer Wilson's son; and he is always very kind to my grandmother."

By this time, the old woman had reached the cottage door, and was introduced by Mary to her new guests. The young man made a rustic bow and retired.

Mrs. Bernard soon entered into conversation with the old woman, and was not less pleased with her, than she had before been with her grand- daughter. There was an air of cheerful content in her countenance, which bespoke that all was peace within, and prepossessed you more completely in her favour than any words could have done.

After some conversation, the old woman, turning to her grand-daughter, said: "The ladies will perhaps eat an apple, Mary."

Mary instantly left the cottage to gather some; and her grandmother took that opportunity of passing upon the good girl, a well-merited eulogium. "She is my greatest comfort, Madam," said she; "and I may truly say. from the day she was born, she never willingly gave me a single moment's uneasiness. To be sure, I do feel very anxious about her at times; particularly since she and Henry have taken such a fancy to each other. Times are so hard, Ma'am, and money so scarce, that I dare not consent to their marrying. And yet it grieves me to the heart to keep them asunder; for he is as good as she herself, and almost as dear to me."

Mrs. Bernard enquired what means Henry had of supporting a wife, and found he was the younger son of a small farmer in the neighbourhood, who had a large family to establish in the world, and very little to accomplish it with.

Mary's return at this moment, with a basket of fresh-gathered apples, interrupted the conversation; and the children, after regaling themselves with her little offering, took their leave, and, accompanied by their mother, bent their steps towards home.

Ferdinand, who was a child of great observation, seldom proceeded far without discovering some object to interest his attention. He had remained a considerable distance behind his mother, exploring the hedges for some new flower or insect that he had not before examined, when his attention was attracted by a wasp, which, having seized a fly almost as large as himself, was endeavouring to carry the prize to his nest; but the wind blowing in a contrary direction, acted so forcibly upon the extended wings of the fly, that the poor wasp, with all his efforts, could make no progress. Ferdinand was anxious to see how he would act in this difficulty, and called his mother and sisters, to smile with them at the insect's perplexity. In a few minutes, the wasp alighted upon the ground, and, with the most persevering industry, sawed off, with his teeth, the two wings of the fly, and then flew away with the body, in triump, to his young ones.

"Well done, wasp," cried Ferdinand; "you do deserve that meal, however. But is it not a wonderful instance of sagacity, mamma? Who would expect it in an insect! Do you suppose it knew this by instinct?"

"We are led to believe, my love," repied Mrs. Bernard, "that man alone acts by the higher principle of reason; but I have met with many instances of sagacity in the brute creation, which almost puzzle me, when I ascribe their actions merely to instinct:

Remembrance and reflection -- how allied! What thin partitions sense from thought divide!"

"It is astonishing how completely some animals will accommodate themselves to circumstances. I will relate to you an anecdote which a friend of mine told me a few weeks ago."

"Pray do, dear mamma," said Ferdinand; "I quite enjoy an anecdote. I suppose it is true?"

"Yes, my dear, it is quite true," returned Mrs. Bernard: "the gentleman of whom I spoke, has a little monkey, which frequently affords him much amusement, by his sagacious, imitative tricks. As he was one day sitting near the pen in which the monkey was confined, he observed him making many ineffectual efforts to regain a nut which had rolled beyond his reach. After several vain attempts, he took up a stick, and with this he endeavoured to draw it towards him, but still without success. Baffled, but not discouraged, he proceeded to select a second stick, from a bundle that lay beside him, measuring it against the one he had before found useless. With this longer twing he set himself again to his task. This proving aslo insufficient, he adopted the same plan in the selection of a third, and so on; always discarding the shortest, til he found one that was long enough to touch the nut. But this increased his difficulty, by rolling it to a still greater distance. Upon this he sat himself in a contemplative posture for a few minutes, as if considering what was best to be done in this emergency; when, hastily turning over the whole bundle of sticks he made choice of one of considerable length, and hooked at the end, by means of which he, with much apparent delight, accrued his prize."

"Well, that was a most capital contrivance," said Ferdinand; "and it puts me in mind of a clever plan which I saw our own dog, Brush, adopt yesterday. A bone that was thrown him, fell, like the monkey's nut, beyond the reach of his chain, and, finding he could not obtain it by means of his fore paws, he turned round, and throwing out his hinder legs, readily reached it, and drew it to his kennel."

Just as Ferdinand had concluded his story of Brush, his attention was caught by a beautiful dragon-fly, which flitted above his head. He hastily threw up his handkerchief, and took the insect prisoner.

"It is rather late in the season, is it not, mamma, to see these insects abroad?" said he, carefully unfolding his handkerchief, and discovering his prize. "Do look what a beautiful crature. Do they sting, pray?"

"No, my dear, but they bit sometimes, rather fiercely. Their bite, however, is perfectly harmless, therefore you need not look so much alarmed, Ferdinand. Examine its eyes. You perceive they are very large and prominent, covering almost the whole head. As it seeks its food flying in the air, this seems a very necessary provision. By means of these eyes, it can see in almost every direction at the same instant. Dragon-flies are extremely voracious, and are the greatest tyrants of the insect tribe. When we think them idly and innocently flitting about in the cheerful sunshine, they are, in fact, only hovering up and down to seize their prey."

"Which are the insects upon which they particularly feed, mamma?" enquired Ferdinand.

_Mrs. B There is none, how large soever, that they will not attack and devour. The blue fly, the bee, the wasp, and the hornet, are their constant prey; and even your favourite butterfly is often caught, and treated without mercy. Their appetite seems to know no bounds; and they have been seen to devour three times their own size, in the space of a single hour.

"Oh, the greedy creatures; I cannot forgive them for destroying the pretty butterflies," said Ferdinand: "to wasps and hornets they are perfectly welcome. Are they produced from eggs, like other insects, pray, mamma?"

"Yes, my dear: the female deposits her eggs in the water, where they remain some time, apparently without life or motion. The form they first assume, is that of a worm with six legs, much resembling the dragon-fly in its winged state, the wings being as yet concealed within a sheath peculiar to this animal."

"What do they feed upon in this state, pray, mamma?" enquired Louisa.

"Upon the soft mud and glutinous earthy substances that are found at the bottom," replied her mother.

"Pray, mamma, how long do they continue in their reptile state?" said Emily.

"For a whole year, my dear," returned her mother. "When they parepare to change to their flying state, they move out of the water to a dry place; such as into grass, to pieces of wood, stone, or any thing else they may meet with. There they firmly fix their sharp claws, and, for a short time, continue quite immovable. It has been observed, that the skin first opens on the head and back, and out of this aperture they exhibit their real head and eyes, and at length their six legs; whilst the hollow and empty skin remains firmly fixed in its place. After this the creature creeps forward by degrees; drawing, first its wings, and then its body, out of the skin; it then sits at rest for some time. The wings, which were moist and folded together, now begin to expand. The body is likewise insensibly extended, until all the limbs have attained their proper size. The insect cannot at first make use of its new wings, and is, therefore, obliged to remain stationary until its limbs are dried by the air. It soon, however, begins to enter upon a more noble life than it had before led at the bottom of the brook; and from creeping slowly, and living accidentally, it now wings the air, adorning the fields with beauty, and expanding the most lively colours to the sun."

"Well, my pretty fly," said Ferdinand, "you have afforded me much amusement, and now I will release you from your captivity." So saying, he opened his handkerchief, and gave his prisoner liberty.

In a few minutes they reached home, highly pleased with their morning's ramble.

CONVERSATON IX.

Mr. Bernard having dined from home, the children had not, till they met round the tea-table in the evening, an opportunity of telling him how pleasantly they had spent their morning, and how much information their mother had given them respecting the habits of the swallow tribes. "But even now," added Edward, "I do not feel quite satisfied with regard to their migration. Pray, papa, what is your opinion upon that subject?"

_Mr. B._ I am decidedly of opinion that they do migrate, my dear. The internal structure of such animals as continue during winter in a torpid state, is peculiar: both the formation of the stomach, and the organs of respiration, differ from such as are constantly in a state of activity and vigour. Mr. John Hunter, one of our most celebrated English anatomists, dissected several of these birds, but did not find them in any respect different from the other tribes; from which he concludes the accounts of their turpitude to be erroneous. Now, although I feel no doubt myself, that such instances have occurred, yet I by no means believe them to be frequent. Indeed, a particular friend of mine, a skilful navigator, tells me he has not infrequently seen, when many hundreds of miles distant from shore, large flights of these birds; and that his ship has often afforded the poor little travellers a most seasonable resting-place, in their toilsome journeys.

"Oh, well papa," said Edward, "if a friend of yours has really seen them, I can believe they do migrate; but I do not like to give up an enquiry, till my mind is satisfied upon a subject."

_Mr. B_. Within certain restrictions, your resolution is good, Edward; but if you can believe nothing but what I, or some friend of mine, can attest from our own observation, your incredulity will deprive you of much valuable information. The great advantage of reading is, that it enables us to gain instruction from the observation of others, on subjects beyond the reach of our own experience.

_Edward._ Very true, papa: but do you not think that many authors make mistakes, and put things in books that are not facts?