These birds build their nests chiefly on the pine, or holly, with dried sticks thrown rudely together; and the eggs, which may frequently be seen through the bottom of the nest, are larger than those of the domestic Pigeon. Mr. Montague bred up a curious assemblage of birds, which lived together in perfect amity; it consisted of a common pigeon, a ringdove, a white owl, and a sparrowhawk; the ringdove was master of the whole. [Illustration: THE STOCKDOVE. (_Columba ænas._)] “The Stockdove, recluse, with her mate, Conceals her fond bliss in the grove, And murmuring seems to repeat, That May is the mother of love.” CUNNINGHAM. THIS bird is called the Stockdove, because it builds in the stocks of trees which have been headed down, and are become thick and bristly; and not, as some have supposed, because it is the stock, or original, from which all the tame pigeons have sprung. Sometimes these birds lay their eggs in deserted rabbit-warrens, on the sod, without making any nest. The colour of the Stockdove is generally of a deep slate or lead tint, with rings of black about the feathers. While the beech woods were suffered to cover large tracts of ground, these birds used to haunt them in myriads, frequently extending above a mile in length, as they went out in the morning to feed. They are still found in considerable quantities in many parts of England, but never in Scotland, forming their nests in the hollows of trees; not like the ringdove, on boughs. Their murmuring strains, or cooings, in the morning and at dusk, are highly pleasing, and throw an agreeable melancholy on the solitude of the grove. The poet of the Seasons expresses this in the following lines, with a beautiful instance of imitative harmony: “---- the Stockdove breathes A melancholy murmur through the whole.” _Spring._ Wordsworth also gives a pleasing description of the mournful cooing of these birds: “I heard a Stockdove sing or say His homely tale this very day; His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come at by the breeze; He did not cease; but cooed and cooed; And somewhat pensively he wooed; He sang of love with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending; Of serious faith and inward glee, That was the song--the song for me.” [Illustration: THE ROCKDOVE. (_Columba livia._)]