to awe him into silence!' says our correspondent; and we reiterate the aspiration. What is the 'dickey dear' of the London pet, to the conversation of our feathered protegé? The last time we were permitted to see him, was a day or two before his owner, in no amiable mood, had sent him into the country. Our good Friend had began to be so overrun with curious spectators, even to the annoying incumbrance of his premises with carriages, that he found it difficult to feed his songsters, and to sift and winnow his seeds. 'Good morning!' said Mino, with an irresistible cock of the eye, as we entered. Regarding us for a moment with a more serious look, as if fearful of having mistaken his man, he inquired, with evident trepidation, 'What's your name?' As we were about to answer, he recognised us as an old friend, and called out, arching his glossy neck, as he turned toward an adjoining apartment, 'Uncle John!—Uncle John! somebody's in the store!' And he added, in a self-accusing tone, 'That's a ve-ry ex-tra-or-dinary bird!'—meaning, doubtless, that it was very odd and stupid in him to make such a ridiculous blunder. And as we came away—after conversing with him for some time, during which he once or twice desired us to 'whistle, whistle!' thinking probably that a pleasant air might serve to rouse his spirits—he leaned over from his perch, and with a dewy eye, murmured mournfully, 'Poor Mino!—Good morning! good morning!' He evidently had a presentiment that we should never meet again; but seemed at the same time anxious that the pain inspired by his forebodings should be confined to his own bosom. Hence the pleasant parting salutation, that followed so quickly upon his prophetic exclamation; and, as if to remove all doubt of his cheerfulness and repose of spirit, he began to whistle the lively air of 'High Betty Martin.' 'So it was that we departed, and saw him no more.'
We are often reminded of these forcible and pathetic lines, by the great number of elegiac stanzas, which are transmitted to us from almost every section of the country; some upon distinguished men, who have filled a large space in the domestic circle, and in society; some upon the happy, the beautiful, and the young, who have gone down, in their bloom, to darkness and the worm; and some upon friends who sleep in the noiseless bed of rest, beyond the compassion of those who, when they were alive, could only weep for, and never help, them. How touching, how mournful, are these tributes! There is one now before us, from 'M. D.,' which sent moisture to the eye in the perusal; although they contain literary faults, which bar their publicity. The writer evidently feels the spirit of the motto he has chosen:
