In these fields, beneath the shelter of what to her is a tall waving forest of close-grown stalks, a shelter which, up to this season, she has found secure from intrusive feet, the partridge has hatched her eggs; and tended her down-clad young without danger and without fear. But suddenly her domain is invaded by an army of ruthless reapers, who, laying low the protecting cover, expose many a half-grown brood, and call forth all the instinctive artifices and ingenious stratagems of the mother, which can never be witnessed without admiration: out she rushes, with a querulous cry, and tumbling over and over, often induces the irresistible impression, even in those who are familiar with the deception, that her wings or her legs are broken, and that it is an easy matter to catch her with the hand. She contrives, however, just to keep beyond the reach of her pursuer-scrambling grotesquely along, until she judges that her young, who are on the alert, taking advantage of the maternal sagacity, have been able to make off for some place of concealment. Then suddenly her whirring wings, put into vigorous action, bear her off to some distant spot, whence, making a rapid circuit on foot, she soon returns to her young charge, and adds her wits to theirs in seeking their continued safety.

But, under other circumstances, the partridge, though a timid bird, has been known to run greater risk in defence of its young. Mr. Selby, in his British Ornithology, relates the following anecdote, for the truth of which he vouches :-"A person engaged in a field had his attention arrested by some objects on the ground, which, on approaching, he found to be two partridgesa male and a female-engaged in battle with a carrion crow so absorbed were they in the issue of the contest,

that they actually held the crow till it was seized and taken from them by the spectator of the scene. Upon search, the young birds, very lately hatched, were found concealed among the grass. It would appear, therefore, that the crow,—a mortal enemy to all kinds of young game,-in attempting to carry off one of these, had been attacked by the parent birds, and with the above singular success."

Instances of birds removing their eggs, in some way not well understood, when they suspect danger, are not infrequent; but few are more interesting than one narrated by Mr. Jesse, of the bird of which we are speaking. It is a beautiful example of rare sagacity and skill, prompted by affection, and brought into requisition by a sudden emergency." A gentleman living near Spilsby, in Lincolnshire, was one day riding over his farm, and superintending his men, who were ploughing a piece of fallow land: he saw a partridge glide off her nest, so near the foot of one of the plough horses, that he thought the eggs must be crushed; this, however, was not the case: but he found that the old bird was on the point of hatching, as several of the eggs were beginning to crack. He saw the old bird return to her nest the instant he left the spot. It was evident that the next round of the plough must bury the eggs and nest in the furrow. His astonishment, therefore, was great when, returning with the plough, he came to the spot, and saw the nest, indeed, but the eggs were gone. An idea struck him that she had removed them; and he found her, before he left the field, sitting under the hedge upon twenty-one eggs, nineteen of which she subsequently hatched. The round of ploughing had occupied about twenty minutes, in which time, probably assisted by the cock bird, she had

removed the twenty-one eggs to a distance of about forty yards."

In the dry and sunny days which so generally prevail in the early part of this month, the coveys of young partridges may be frequently seen, particularly in the morning, rubbing themselves in the loose dusty soil. The object of dusting seems to be, to obtain relief from the torture inflicted on them by numerous parasitic insects by which birds are infested. As the day wanes, the coveys repair to some neighbouring field, where the corn is yet uncut, or, later in the season, to the stubbles, and pick their afternoon meal of grain: after which, the call-note of the partridges is heard, and they all move away together, to the spot selected for the night's repose. It appears that the whole brood arrange themselves in a circle, touching each other, the tails of all being in the centre, and thus, squatting close upon the ground, they pass the night; instinctively taught thus to guard against surprise from every quarter.-Gosse.

LESSON XLVIII.-WE ARE SEVEN.

A simple child

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair,
-Her beauty made me glad.

I

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?”

"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And, wondering, looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we:
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.'

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;

Yet you are seven !—I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we :
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then you are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

'The little maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem ;

And there upon the ground I sit-
I sit and sing to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid:
And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you then," said I,

"If they two are in heaven?"

The little maiden did reply,

"O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead;
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven."

Wordsworth.