The blujay haz no song--they kant sing even “From Greenland’s Icy Mountains;” but i must sa that a flok ov them, flying amung the evergreens on a kold winter’s morning, are hi colored and eazy tew look at. It iz hard work for me to say a harsh word aginst the birds, but when i write their history it iz a duty i owe tew posterity not to lie. THE QUAIL. The quail iz a game bird, about one size bigger than the robin, and so sudden that they hum when they fly. They hav no song, but whissell for musik; the tune iz solitary and sad. They are shot on the wing, and a man may be good in arithmetick, fust rate at parseing, and even be able tew preach acceptably, but if he hain’t studdied quail on the wing, he might az well shoot at a streak ov lightning in the sky az at a quail on the go. Briled quail, properly supported with jellys, toast, and a champane Charlie, iz just the most diffikult thing, in mi humble opinyun, to beat in the whole history ov vittles and sumthing tew drink. I am no gourmand, for i kan eat bred and milk five days out ov seven, and smak mi lips after i git thru, but if i am asked to eat briled quail by a friend, with judishious accompanyments, i blush at fust, then bow mi hed, and then smile sweet acquiescence--in other words, I always quail before such a request. THE PATRIDGE. The patridge iz also a game bird. Their game iz tew drum on a log in the spring ov the year, and keep both eyes open, watching the sportsmen. Patridges are shot on the wing, and are az easy to miss az a ghost iz. It iz phun enuff to see the old bird hide her yung brood when danger iz near. This must be seen, it kant be described and make enny boddy beleave it. The patridge, grouse, and pheasant are cousins, and either one ov them straddle a gridiron natural enuff tew hav bin born thare. Take a couple of yung patridges and pot them down, and serve up with the right kind ov a chorus, and they beat the ham sandwich yu buy in the Camden and Amboy Railroad 87 1-2 per cent. I have eat theze lamentabel Nu Jersey ham sandwich, and must sa that i prefer a couple ov bass wood chips, soaked in mustard water, and stuk together with Spalding’s glue. THE WOODKOK. The woodkok iz one ov them kind ov birds who kan git up from the ground with about az much whizz, and about az bizzy az a fire-kracker, and fly away az krooked az a kork-skrew. They feed on low, wet lands, and only eat the most delikate things. They run their tungs down into the soft earth, and gather tender juices and tiny phood. They hav a long, slender bill, and a rich brown plumage, and when they lite on the ground yu lose sight ov them az quick az yu do ov a drop ov water when it falls into a mill pond. The fust thing yu generally see ov a woodkok iz a _whizz_, and the last thing a _whurr_. How so many ov them are killed on the wing iz a mistery to me, for it iz a quicker job than snatching pennys oph a red-hot stove.