In 1760 Linnaeus named the largest species Paradisea apoda (the footless Paradise bird). At that time no perfect specimen had been seen in Europe, and it was many years afterward when it was discovered that the feet had been cut off and buried at the foot of the tree from which they were killed by the superstitious natives as a propitiation to the gods. Wallace, who was the first scientific observer, writer, and collector of these birds, and who spent eight years on the islands studying their natural history, speaks of the males of the great Birds of Paradise assembling together to dance on huge trees in the forest, which have wide-spreading branches and large but scattered leaves, giving a clear space for the birds to play and exhibit their plumes. From twelve to twenty individuals make up one of these parties. They raise up their wings, stretch out their necks and elevate their exquisite plumes, keeping them in a continual vibration. Between whiles they fly across from branch to branch in great excitement, so that the whole tree is filled with waving plumes in every variety of attitude and motion. The natives take advantage of this habit and climb up and build a blind or hiding place in a tree that has been frequented by the birds for dancing. In the top of this blind is a small opening, and before day-light, a native with his bow and arrow, conceals himself, and when the birds assemble he deftly shoots them with his blunt-pointed arrows. The great demand for the plumage of Birds of Paradise for decorative purposes is causing their destruction at a rapid rate, and this caprice of a passing fashion will soon place one of the most beautiful denizens of our earth in the same category as the great Auk and Dodo.--_Cincinnati Commercial-Gazette._ ---- TO A NIGHTINGALE. ---- As it fell upon a day, In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade, Which a grove of myrtles made; Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Leaned her breast up--till a thorn; And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; Teru, teru, by and by; That, to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs, so lively shewn, Made me think upon mine own. Ah!--thought I--thou mourn'st in vain; None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee; Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee; King Pandion, he is dead; All thy friends are lapped in lead; All thy fellow-birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing! --RICHARD BARNFIELD. Old English Poet. ---- THE ROSEATE SPOONBILL. ----