The Naturalist's Diary.

For March, 1830.

The stormy March has come at last,

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies';
I hear the rushing of the blast

That through the snowy valley flies,

Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild stormy month! in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me:

For thou to northern lands again

The gay and glorious sun dost bring ;
And thou hast joined the gentle train,
And wear'st the gentle name of spring.

And, in thy reign of blast and storm,
Smiles many a long bright sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills,

And the full springs, from frost set free,
That, brightly leaping down the hills,
Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides
Of wintry storms the sullen threat;
But, in thy sternest frown, abides
A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,

Seems of a brighter world than ours.

BRYANT.

This month brings us to the first day of spring. Surely our days are swifter than the post who is sent on messages of express. With the word spring we connect all that is fertile and delightful, fragrant and exhilarating. But Nature has ordained that the transition from the bleakness of winter to the

gentleness of spring, shall be so gradual, as to be unperceived. The seasons melt into one another. We now feel the harsh winds of boisterous winter, and see the shattered forest and the ravaged vale. At the enlivening touch of softer winds, these snows will dissolve, and soon the hills will lift up their green tops to the sky. But all is gradual. In the vast economy of nature, the winter with its frosts is as necessary as spring with its blossoms, or summer with its heat.-At this moment all things are still drooping; the aspect is wild and unpromising; the sky is obscured with clouds, and the atmosphere loaded with vapours. A dense fog conceals the morning sun-his warmth is feeble at his meridian, and not an herb has felt his life-giving energy. The state we now experience is most salutary. If the air was soon to become mild, swarms of insects would appear to devour the seed sown, and the plants ready to bud-the blossoms would be nipped by untimely frosts and the harvest destroyed. The rough and disagreeable weather of March puts the whole vegetable creation into the only fit condition for receiving the warmth of spring.—What night is to the weary man, winter is to the exhausted year. It is the time of nature's repose. Through the many preceding months, nature had been labouring for the good of man. Like an anxious foster parent, it had supplied his revolving wants, and wearied by its efforts asked a space of repose. But it reposes only to gain new strength for another effort; and asks man to rest with the same view.-Winter throws over the fields its white mantle, to make them a safe-keeping repository for the embryo seed and the tender roots. It has its storms which are most beneficial. They drive the needed vapours, the sulphurous particles, the nutritive salts and other substances, from one region to another. The seeds which are indigenous in one territory, are

happily transported, perhaps, on the wings of the destructive whirlwind, to another far distant.

"Thou vital-giving parent of earth's bloom,
And beautifier of dead winter, hail!

At thine approach all slumbering things exhale
The breath of life; and from their prison'd tomb,
Where they had gather'd beauty in their gloom,
The warrior insects flutter in gilt mail.

The wild birds seek their voices, and oft try
Preluding strains of simple melody.

And when the fragrance of the blooming pea
Is on the night wind, what an extacy

Of song the lonely nightingale out-pours!
And the waves gently chide the stubborn shores,
Fearful lest they disturb one living thing
Worshiping nature at the shrine of spring."

Many birds now begin to appear on the budding branches; among which will be found the nightingale, willow-wren, redstart, blackcap, and lesser field-lark. Mr. Jennings in his Ornithology, has the following lines written in March, 1810.

TO A WREN,

Which for many years built her nest behind an ash tree that overhung his garden.

Little warbler! long hast thou

Perch'd beneath yon spreading bough;

Sung beneath yon ivied tree,

Thy mossy nest I yearly see,
Safe from all thy peace annoys→→→
Claws of cats or cruel boys.
We often hear thy chit, chat, song
Call thy tiny brood along ;
While, in her nest, or on a spray,
The throstle charms us with her lay!

Little warbler? cheerful wren!

The spring-time's come, and thou again,
Little warbler! thou like me,

Delights't in home and harmless glee;

What of peace is to be found,

Circles all thy dwelling round;

Here with love beneath the shade,

Thy tranquil happiness is made;

With thy tiny, faithful mate,

Here meet'st resign'd the frowns of fate.

While prouder birds fly high or far,
Or mix them in the strife of war,-
Or, restless, all the world through range,
And restless, still delight in change,
Thou mak'st thy home a place of rest,
Affection, love, and that is best!

Then welcome, welcome, faithful wren!
Thrice welcome to thy home again!

The missel-thrush, or storm-cock, may be now heard singing before rain and during stormy weather. The owl may also be heard screeching through the air in the midst of a dreary night; preying on bats or small birds, or robbing fish-ponds; as they are fond of feeding their young with fish; and the house-sparrow may be seen hovering about the domiciles of man. In the New Year's Gift for 1830, there is an affecting appeal in favour of

THE HOUSE SPARROW.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

He doth follow us

Touch not the little sparrow, who doth build
His home so near us.
From spot to spot, amidst the turbulent town,
And ne'er deserts us. To all other birds
The woods suffice, the rivers, the sweet fields,
And nature in her aspect mute and fair;
But he doth herd with man. Blithe servant! live,
Feed, and grow cheerful! On my window's ledge
I'll leave thee every morning some fit food.
In payment of thy service.-Doth he serve?-
Ay, serves and teaches. His familiar voice,
His look of love, his sure fidelity,

Bids us be gentle with so small a friend;
And much we learn from acts of gentleness.
Doth he not teach ?-Ay, and doth serve us too,

Who clears our homes from many a noisome thing,
Insect or reptile; and when we do mark

With what nice care he builds his nest, and guards
His offspring from all harm, and how he goes,
A persevering, bold adventurer,

'Midst hostile tribes, twenty times big as he,
Skill, perseverance, courage, parent's love,-
In all these acts we see, and may do well,
In our own lives, perhaps, when need doth ask,
To imitate the little household bird.

Untiring follower! what doth chain thee here;
What bonds 'tween thee and man! Thy food the same
As theirs who wing the woods,-thy voice as wild,
Thy wants, thy power the same; we nothing do
To serve thee, and few love thee; yet thou hang'st
About our dwellings, like some humble friend,
Whom custom and kind thoughts do link to us,
And no neglect can banish.

So, long live

The household sparrow! may he thrive for ever!
For ever twitter forth his morning song,

A brief, but sweet domestic melody!

Long may he live! and he who aims to kill

Our small companion, let him think how he

Would feel if great men spurned him from their hearths,

Or tyrant doomed him, who had done no wrong,

To pains or sudden death. Then let him think,

And he will spare the little trustful bird;

And his one act of clemency will teach
His heart a lesson that shall widen it,

For nothing makes so bright the soul, as when
Pity doth temper wisdom.

The face of nature begins to assume a pleasing appearance; and in the words of the poet, we welcome the season that opens to us the budding charms of Flora.

Oh! come, sweet spring, and fill the world
Again with all thy lovely bloom;

Let wild-wing'd tempests far be hurl'd
To winter's deep and dreary tomb.

Give to the brook its lucid charms;
Give to the grove its warbling throng;
Give to the flowers their spicy balms;
And waken nature's general song;

And give to man, what oft he wants,
A heart of gratitude and love,
For all the God of nature grants;
His merits, oh! how far above!

Dear spring? I love thy calm, bright hours,
Full of a soft and sweet control;

For they revive my dormant pow'rs,
And lift to heav'n my humble soul.

J. M. Lacey.