and thought of the wonderful provision which Nature has given to so many of its species, to protect their helpless charge from frequently impending danger. I have repeatedly seen the blackcap chase the greater and blue titmice when intruding on its precincts, with the greatest success. This songster is really a treasure to our groves and thickets. I have heard it pour forth its rich melodious strains for a full half hour, with little intermission, or without moving from its well-selected twig on the summit of some favourite tree or bush. Mr. Yarrell, in his ' History of British Birds,' says with regard to the variations in the song of the blackcap,—" like most other birds that are gifted with great powers of voice, the blackcap is an imitator of the notes of several others, and occasionally detracts from the character of his more natural song by the introduction of variations." This I can verify, for I have often heard the blackcap imitate the lower notes of the blackbird, some notes of the thrush, and others of the robin. Having never yet heard the song of that far-famed songster, the nightingale, a treat which I am anxiously longing for, I think the blackcap makes an excellent substitute, and if it would only tune up its pipes during the dead stillness of midnight, I have little doubt that it would be thought nearly equal to the nightingale. When the female of this bird is sitting, I have noticed that the male becomes more shy and restless, he rambles to the surrounding woods, and his song is more hurried and less sweet, and uttered only for a short time. The blackcap, after the young are able to provide for themselves, is most difficult of approach, and it is only with the greatest caution that the observer is permitted to take a view of this restless bird.—Vivian Walmesley; Westwood House, September 9, 1843.
Anecdotes of a Robin. A young lady was visiting here a short time since, and finding I was fond of studying birds, their habits &c, related to me an anecdote of a robin. I requested her to let me know, on her return home, the particulars more fully and accurately, as the circumstance occurred at the house of one of her friends, at a village near Norwich. I herewith send you a verbatim copy of her account; and if at all suitable for that excellent periodical, 'The Zoologist,' pray make use of it. In her letter to me my friend writes thus:—"I have just seen Miss D., and obtained from her the particulars of the robin story, and find it even more extraordinary than I had imagined, but you may rely on its veracity, for I committed it to paper immediately on my return, lest my memory should prove treacherous. The tale is this. In the spring of this year a robin entered the house, and commenced building a nest over the book-case, in Mr. D.'s study; but as they could not agree on the subject of cleanliness and neatness, she was forced to make her exit, and submit to the destruction of her little nest. The next day, much to the surprise of the family, she made her debut in the drawing-room, deposited an egg on the carpet, and respectfully withdrew; not however with the intention of quitting the house, for she boldly recommenced her work in a bed-room. The servant said she had turned it out several times, and more than once cleaned away the moss &c. which it had brought and deposited on the head of the bed. But no sooner had she quitted the room, than the dear little thing resumed its work; so that at last they were obliged to shut up the room to keep it out. During this time she laid another egg in the drawing-room. She then found her way to the store-room, and there, among the preserving-jars, once more attempted to take up her quarters: here she was soon discovered by her ruthless pursuers, who again bade her avaunt! She obeyed; but for several days she was seen hovering around her favourite haunts, but never again attempted to enter the house. What an example of patience and perseverance, equalling, I think, that of Robert Bruce's