THE shape of this bird, which is the original stock of our domestic Pigeons, is well known, and the plumage of the wild birds is exactly similar to that of the commonest kind seen in our dove-cots--bluish-grey, with black bands across the wings. In its wild state it inhabits the cavities of high rocks and cliffs on the sea coast, where it is found abundantly in our own country. The female Pigeon lays two eggs at a time, which produce generally a male and a female. It is pleasing to see how eager the male is to sit upon the eggs, in order that his mate may rest and feed herself. The young ones, when hatched, are fed from the crop of the mother, who has the power of forcing up the half-digested peas which she has swallowed to give them to her young. The young ones, open-mouthed, receive this tribute of affection, and are thus fed three times a day. There are upwards of twenty varieties of the domestic Pigeon, and of these the carriers are the most celebrated. They obtain their name from being sometimes employed to convey letters or small packets from one place to another. The rapidity of their flight is very wonderful. Lithgow assures us that one of them will carry a letter from Babylon to Aleppo (which, to a man, is usually thirty days’ journey) in forty-eight hours. To measure their speed with some degree of exactness, a gentleman, many years ago, on a trifling wager, sent a Carrier Pigeon from London, by the coach, to a friend at Bury St. Edmunds, and along with it a note, desiring that the Pigeon, two days after its arrival there, might be thrown up precisely when the town clock struck nine in the morning. This was accordingly done, and the Pigeon arrived in London at half-past eleven o’clock on the same morning, having flown seventy-two miles in two hours and a half. An instance of still greater speed is mentioned by Mr. Yarrell, in which a Carrier flew from Rouen to Ghent, a hundred and fifty miles in a straight line, in one hour and a half. From the instant of its liberation, its flight is directed through the clouds, at a great height, to its home. By an instinct altogether inconceivable, it darts onward, in a straight line, to the very spot whence it was taken, but how it can direct its flight so exactly will probably for ever remain unknown to us. “Led by what chart, transports the timid Dove, The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love? Say through the clouds what compass points her flight? Monarchs have gazed, and nations blessed the sight. Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise, Eclipse her native shades, her native skies:-- ’Tis vain! through ether’s pathless wilds she goes, And lights at last where all her cares repose. Sweet bird, thy truth shall Harlem’s walls attest, And unborn ages consecrate thy nest.” ROGERS.