“Oh!” said she, mollified, and smearing them with her apron, “I’m not made of gingerbread!” “But I really cannot have this bird _here_.” “Why, you see, he’s quiet with _you_.” “But, if he is, I cannot be. I was trying to go to sleep; and I shall expect him to scream every moment.” “Oh well, then, I must carry him off.” “Don’t let him peck your arms more than you can help.” “Of course I shan’t,” said she. “He’s really a handsome bird.” “Handsome is that handsome does,” said Phillis, pitying her arms. “Perhaps if I go along with you, offering him something to eat, he may not fly at you.” “Well, you can but try, mum,” said Phillis. So I did try; and directly he felt his perch in motion he flew, not at her, but at me. “Oh, that’ll never do!” says Phillis. “Tell ye what, you radical, I’ll wring your neck for you as soon as think, if you don’t keep quiet. Please, mum, leave ’un alone—you only makes him wus.” And off she went with her screeching enemy, leaving me deeply impressed with her own valour, and my incapability. A man has just called for Mr. Cockatoo, bringing rather a _dry_ note from Miss Burt, saying she was sorry I could not take a kindness as it was meant. * * * * * Early as the sun now rises, the nightingale is awake while yet dark, uttering the sweetest melody. Then a profound pause ensues; which, in half-an-hour or less, is broken by some infinitely inferior songsters; and soon, when the glorious sun uprears himself in the east, a full chorus of larks, linnets, thrushes, blackbirds, redbreasts, titmice, redstarts, and other warblers, pour forth their morning hymn of praise; while the rooks caw on the tall tree-tops, and the wood-pigeon and cuckoo are heard in the distant wood. Yes, I am fond of birds in their own green shades. I am fond, too, of entomology, though not very knowing in it. The change of grubs into butterflies is so striking, that, as Swammerdam says, “We see therein the resurrection painted before our eyes.” Spence and Kirby, in their delightful book, have elicited wondrous facts. How many people see rooks following the plough without knowing why they do so. It is in order to eat the cockchafer grubs which the plough turns up. The cockchafer grub, which remains in its larva state _four years_, preys not only on the roots of grass, but of corn; and will so loosen turf, that it will roll up as if cut with a turfing-spade; so that the rooks do good service in destroying these mischievous little grubs. But insects are not universally mischievous. A fly was once discovered making a lodgment in the principal stem of the early wheat, just above the root, thereby destroying the stem; but the root threw out fresh shoots on every side, and yielded a more abundant crop than in other fields where the insect had not been busy.