the language of birds as Mackenzie is. By the language of birds, we do not mean their song, for song is no more the ordinary speech of birds, though most people think it is, than it is the ordinary speech of men. Mackenzie, it is true, can imitate the songs of our different species of warblers with great taste and exactness, but when we say that he is conversant with the language of birds, we mean not their song, but their little notes, abrupt chirpings, and faint whisperings, indicative to the initiated of the particular thought or motif at the moment predominant in the feathered breast, whether love or terror, or mere apprehension of danger, or envy, or rivalry, or combativeness, or notes of warning, or call of invitation to its kind--all these, and for every separate species, Mackenzie imitates with such consummate skill, exactness, and dexterity, that he not only deceives an ordinary listener when off his guard--he has more than once deceived us, though familiar with birds and bird-notes all our life--but he deceives the very birds themselves, as we have often witnessed with no little admiration and delight. That much of this imitatory work is done ventriloquistically renders it all the more effective, as well as more difficult of attainment by others of the fraternity ambitious of catching and cultivating on their own behalf so desirable a gift. This knowledge of bird language is, of course, of great value to him as a bird-catcher, and accounts for his success at seasons seemingly the most inopportune, and in localities the most unlikely, that an ordinary bird-catcher would probably search in vain for a single specimen of goldfinch or aberdevine, linnet or redpole, or anything else in the shape of a valuable song-bird. In passing and repassing our place, this wonderful bird-man, as our servant girl styles him, always calls with such bird news and rare specimens as he thinks most likely to interest us. The other day he came in a state of great excitement to inform us that just as he had got several siskins on his limed twigs, a bird--not a hawk of any kind, he was certain--dashed out of a copse at hand, pounced upon one of the siskins, and bore it off and away before his very eyes, ere he could do anything--so sudden and unexpected was the attack--to prevent it! Momentary as was his glimpse of it, however, Mackenzie's quick and practised eye enabled him to take in the marauder's predominant colouring, its shape and size, and mode of flight; and on describing these to us, we at once exclaimed, a butcher-bird--a shrike! The description could apply to no other British bird-killer that we could think of; and that we were right we have no more doubt than if we had the culprit already in our cabinet. Mackenzie was in a rage. "You are right, sir; it must have been a butcher-bird, for now I recollect having once seen a specimen in Ayrshire. I'm bound, however, to lay salt on yon chap's