THE ROBIN'S PETITION.

THE CAPTIVE FLY.

THE CRICKET.

THE CLOSE OF SUMMER.

(not numbered)

(not numbered)

     GEORGE. And it is at last fixed that we are to go on Thursday to meet my aunt, and Edward, and all of them, and it is quite certain, Mother?

     MRS. TALBOT. As certain as any thing can be that depends on human will and human power; but you know that there is a greater power which governs the world, and without whose permission we are taught, that not even a sparrow falls. Now it may so happen that some occurrence or other, which we can neither foresee nor prevent, may counteract our present intentions, and therefore we ought never to say that any thing is absolutely

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 certain: there is an aphorism, you know, which says, "Man proposes, but God disposes."

     EMILY. I am sure I hope nothing will happen any more to put our journey off. It is near four months since Ella has been away! And we never saw Edward at the last holidays.

     MRS. TALBOT. Well, Emily, I trust a few pleasant weeks passed at the seaside with all those we love, will make us amends for all our disappointments. We shall be there first, however, by more than a week.

     EMILY. To-day is only Friday. It is five days still before we shall set out—and Summer is almost gone.

     MRS. TALBOT. We shall enjoy, therefore, with greater pleasure, the change of scenery. The downs, near the sea, are almost always of a brighter green than such high lands that are more remote from the coast, because the vapour arising from the sea nourishes the short turf.

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     GEORGE. Delightful green downs!—Mother, almost the first thing I remember was going out with you, and while Edward held my hand, trying to run up and down one of the slopes upon the hill. And you sat down on the opposite side, and laughed to see me scramble up; till at last I was able to do it without Edward's help, and I was as proud as possible of my performance.

     MRS. TALBOT. Yes, George, you had then just left off your petticoats, and in your own idea you were already a man, and emulated your elder brother, who was six years old.

     GEORGE. I was not yet three years old, I believe, yet I remember it very well.

     MRS. TALBOT. Early impressions long remain, even when more recent events, if of no great consequence, are obliterated. I, who have passed so many more years since my infancy, have a very perfect recollection of what happened when I was only three or four years old, while I have for

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 gotten a great many things that have occurred within these few years; and I have observed that very old people often talk of their lives in their early youth, yet seem to have little remembrance of what they saw last year.

     GEORGE. That is very odd, I think.

     MRS. TALBOT. It is easily accounted for; but not to enter into this enquiry at present, I must tell you, that your aunt has sent you something to amuse you and Emily, knowing how tedious you would think the days that are yet to pass before we meet.

     EMILY. Oh, how good she is! Let us see the something, Mamma. It is a Tale or a Poem, I know.

     MRS. TALBOT. You may call it both. It is the history of a bird. I told your aunt in one of my letters, that animals, and insects, and plants, had been celebrated in the verses of our book, but that it was not yet enriched with one bird. She has therefore sent you an account of a

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 favourite Robin, and added a little Poem, which I am sure you will be pleased with. George shall read it. There have been so many verses written about this bird, which used to be held sacred to the household gods, that it was not very easy to give these any novelty. But the subject of them was highly interesting.—This is what your aunt says.

     "Two years ago, towards the close of the month of August, a Robin frequented the drawing-room at B. and became in the course of the Winter so tame, that as soon as the windows were open in the morning he used to come in, and seemed to consider it as his domicile, tho' he always roosted among the shrubs near the window. On being called, he readily made his appearance, and used to sit and sing at the back of a chair, or on the piano forte. He was a constant attendant at the breakfast table, and expected to be fed like a domestic animal; for when we went out for a few

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 days, he resorted to the offices, and followed the servants into the larder. My pretty Robin, however, was a very Turk in disposition, and would suffer no Brother near the Throne; for he drove away, with every mark of resentment, any of his compatriots, who during the hard weather showed any inclination to share the advantages he had appropriated to himself; of which indeed he seemed to feel all the value, for as Winter advanced, he became so familiar as to sit and sing on my daughter's shoulder, and appeared to have totally lost all apprehensions of a wild bird. If he chose to go out at all, instead of beating himself against the window, he sat on the edge of the frame until it was opened for him; or taking an opportunity when the door was open, he flew through the green-house or through the passages, till he found his way out. He was a great favourite as well in the kitchen, as in the parlour: and it was with general

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 regret, that early in the Spring he was missed, and never returned.—Had he retired to build, as Robins are said to do, in the woods and copses, he would not have gone far from the house, around which there were so many thickets and shrubs, and where it is probable he was bred. It is therefore most likely, that being so tame and fearless, he was destroyed by a cat.

     "I might have written his Elegy for Emily, but I thought it would be less imitative of verses of the same description, to Sparrows and Canary-birds, and Robins, if I introduced him such as he would have been on our first acquaintance, had that acquaintance been begun in such hard weather, as usually drives the smaller birds, but particularly the Robin, to the shelter and food afforded in and about the habitation of Man.—My composition is therefore called"—

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THE ROBIN'S PETITION.

"A SUPPLANT to your window comes,
"Who trusts your faith and fears no guile,
"He claims admittance for your crumbs,
"And reads his passport in your smile.

"For cold and cheerless is the day,
"And he has sought the hedges round;
"No berry hangs upon the spray,
"Nor worm nor ant-egg can be found.

"Secure his suit will be preferr'd,
"No fears his slender feet deter;
"For sacred is the household bird
"That wears the scarlet stomacher."

Lucy the prayer assenting heard,
The feather'd suppliant flew to her,
And fondly cherish'd was the bird,
That wears the scarlet stomacher.

Embolden'd then, he'd fearless perch
Her netting or her work among,
For crumbs among her drawings search,
And add his music to her song;

And warbling on her snowy arm,
Or half entangled in her hair,
Seemed conscious of the double charm
Of freedom, and protection there.

A graver

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A graver moralist, who used
From all some lesson to infer,
Thus said, as on the bird she mused,
Pluming his scarlet stomacher—

"Where are his gay companions now,
"Who sung so merrily in Spring?
"Some shivering on the leafless bough,
"With ruffled plume, and drooping wing.

"Some in the hollow of a cave,
"Consign'd to temporary death;
"And some beneath the sluggish wave
"Await reviving nature's breath.

"The migrant tribes are fled away,
"To skies were insect myriads swarm,
"They vanish with the Summer day,
"Nor bide the bitter northern storm.

"But still is this sweet minstrel heard,
"While lours December dark and drear,
"The social, chearful, household bird,
"That wears the scarlet stomacher.

"And thus in life's propitious hour,
"Approving flatterers round us sport,
"But if the faithless prospect lour,
"They the more happy fly to court.

"Then

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"Then let us to the selfish herd
"Of fortune's parasites prefer,
"The friend like this, our Winter bird,
"That wears the scarlet stomacher."

     GEORGE. That is in my opinion the prettiest of all our poems.—I shall be impatient to transcribe it, tho' I do not quite understand what is meant by the scarlet stomacher.

     MRS. TALBOT. It is an old fashioned expression, used by an old fashioned poet, Dr. Donne, in celebrating the robin.—But it needs explaining to you, because it is an article of dress no longer in use. It means a piece of silk, or other material, formed to the shape, and covered with ribbands, or lace, or jewels. I have seen such among the wardrobe of a good old lady who had hoarded up many of the ornaments of her youth, and who used to descant with great eloquence on the elegance of stomachers, robeings, and double ruffles; and was, I believe, firmly persuaded, that

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 the world was degenerated since those ornaments had given place to the modern fashions, which she thinks so preposterous. But to return to our Winter friend—the robin, you know, sings at seasons when every other bird is silent, and even the chirping and clamorous sparrow is little heard. But his song is not confined to the more melancholy fall of the leaf, or the dreary season of Winter.—Throughout the year he sings, but his weaker voice is lost in the chorus that fills the copses and hedgerows before Mid-summer; when the wood-lark, the linnet, the thrush, the blackbird, seem to vie with each other, while the nightingale, like the robin, is only heard at night, in the greatest perfection, because his voice is in the day time often drowned in the songs of other choristers.

     GEORGE. And now we hear hardly any of them, except the robin—most of them are already silent.

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     MRS. TALBOT. Towards the end of July that always happens. August, the present month, is said, by an accurate observer of nature, to be one of the most silent in the year, for later, a few birds renew their notes, just as there are a few faint flowers, that blow when the bloom of Summer beauty is gone.

     EMILY. Alas! they are almost all gone now!—I could not to-day find roses to fill even one flower-pot. I was going to gather the blossoms of a tall pink, and white bell-shaped flower in the lower shrubbery, the name of which I do not know; but I found that in many of the flowers there were dead flies.

     MRS. TALBOT. It is the Apocynum, or tutsan leaved dog's-bane.—I did not recollect that it was likely to now to be in bloom, or I should have looked at it.

     GEORGE. Show it me, Emily, when we go for our walk.

     MRS. TALBOT. It is one among some other flowers, that has the singular property of catching insects.

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     GEORGE. Yes! you remember, Mother, we were shown one at Mr. Roberts's, which caught flies by mean of teeth set on each side of the leaf, just like the trap, or gin, which I have seen the men use in the stable, or farm yard, to catch rats. And the leaf seemed to have a spring within it, for when a fly settled upon it, the jagged teeth set on each side of the leaf closed and crushed the poor insect.

     MRS. TALBOT. That is a very different plant; it comes from the swamps of North America, and has received the name of Dionæa muscipula, or Venus's fly-trap; it is white, and without any great share of beauty—You should tell you sister, George, that Dione is one of the many names given to the imaginary deity, Venus, the goddess of beauty.

     GEORGE. I tried to explain some parts of the heathen mythology the other day, when we were looking at those beautiful prints in the fine edition of Virgil; but Emily said she was sure it was so wicked that she would not listen to it.

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     MRS. TALBOT. We must, however, find some method to make our Emily acquainted with these mythological fables, or rather allegories; because without some knowledge of them, many books cannot be understood, nor can we comprehend or enjoy those beautiful works of art, that represent the beings with which the ancients peopled the heavens and earth. We should not disdain to acquaint ourselves with the deities acknowledged by some of the wisest and greatest of mankind, and whose existence Cato and Cicero made a part of that faith which they professed, although we know there is only one God, the father of light and life, and the creator of the universe. But at present let us return to our plant, the Apocynum.—There is a drawing of it in the botanic garden, and an account of the manner of its catching flies—which is, however, more correctly explained, I believe, in number 280 of Curtis's Botanical Magazine, where there is a much better drawing of this

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 plant, "the Apocynum Androsæmifolium, or tutsan leaved dog's bane."

     The author of "les Etudes de la Nature", who saw this plant in the royal botanic garden at Paris, where it has long been cultivated, speaks of it as another Dione; but, except in its quality of catching insects, it has no resemblance to the plant so called, and is quite of a different species. The one receiving the flies on the foliole, or part of the leaf armed with spines; while this, the Apocynum, takes them in its cup, or flower; partly by the construction of the anthers in which the insects get entangled, and partly by the viscid quality of the honey-like substance that attracts them. This curious Apocynum, which is not so common as it might be made, since it is raised without much trouble, and will thrive in the open air, has given occasion to a little Poem, which I am gong to read to you.

     EMILY. Oh, thank you, Mamma!—

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 I wish sometimes that I could write Poems as you and my aunt do, on all sorts of subjects, but especially flowers and plants.

     MRS. TALBOT. There are many persons who doubt whether it be a desirable faculty or no.—However, as it cannot perhaps be acquired, I shall be quite content, Emily, if you learn to describe these subjects of natural history, elegantly and accurately with your pencil, and if you will take as much pains to excell in that art, as may not interfere with other more necessary, because more useful acquirements. But now your brother will read the poem. Come, George, it is not new to you.

     GEORGE. No, Mother, I remember having once heard it.

THE CAPTIVE FLY.

SEDUCED by idle change and luxury,
See in vain struggles the expiring fly,
He perishes! for lo, in evil hour,
He rushed to taste of yonder garish flower,

Which

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Which in young beauty's loveliest colours drest,
Conceals destruction in her treacherous breast,
While round the roseate chalice odours breathe,
And lure the wanderer to voluptuous death.

Ill-fated vagrant! did no instinct cry,
Shun the sweet mischief?—No experienc'd fly
Bid thee of this fair smiling fiend beware,
And say, the false Apocynum is there?
Ah wherefore quit for this Circean draught
The Bean's ambrosial flower, with incense fraught,
Or where with promise rich, Fragaria spreads
Her spangling blossoms on her leafy beds;
Could thy wild flight no softer blooms detain?
And tower'd the Lilac's purple groups in vain?
Or waving showers of golden blossoms, where
Laburnum's pensile tassels float in air,
When thou within those topaz keels might creep
Secure, and rock'd by lulling winds to sleep.

But now no more for thee shall June unclose
Her spicy Clove-pink, and her damask Rose;
Not for thy food shall swell the downy Peach,
Nor Raspberries blush beneath the embowering Beech,
In efforts vain thy fragile wings are torn,
Sharp with distress resounds thy small shrill horn,
While thy gay happy comrades hear thy cry,
Yet heed thee not, and careless frolic by,
Till thou, sad victim, every struggle o'er,
Despairing sink, and feel thy fate no more.

An

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An insect lost should thus the muse bewail?
Ah no! but 'tis the moral points the tale
From the mild friend, who seeks with candid truth
To show its errors to presumptuous Youth;
From the fond caution of parental care,
Whose watchful love detects the hidden snare,
How do the Young reject, with proud disdain,
Wisdom's firm voice, and Reason's prudent rein,
And urge on pleasure bent, the impetuous way,
Heedless of all but of the present day,
Then while false meteor-lights their steps entice,
They taste, they drink, the empoisoned cup of vice;
Till misery follows; and too late they mourn,
Lost in the fatal gulph, from whence there's no return.

     GEORGE. Now I like that better than any other.

     EMILY. And I like it very well—extremely well, only it is rather too grave.

     MRS. TALBOT. Tell me, Emily, should you not have preferred the history of some bird, for birds, I find, are at present very much the fashion with you, as boys say of their sports at school? Should you not have preferred an elegy or an eulogium on a bullfinch, to this somewhat serious po

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 etical lamentation over a fly, ending with so serious a moral?

     EMILY. To say the truth, my mamsy, I should.

     MRS. TALBOT. Well! I have a bird or two hatching for you, but they are not yet in a state to make a figure in our Museum of animals. Let us have recourse therefore to some expedient to fill up out time, if not our book. Come, read to me Cowper's translation of Vincent Bourne's verses "to the Cricket," in which, tho' it is something like sacrilege to change a word of his, you will see I have made a few alterations. George can write out the last poem, while we read this.

THE CRICKET.

LITTLE inmate full of mirth,
Chirping on my humble hearth,
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song most soft and sweet,
In return thou shalt receive
Such a song as I can give.

Though

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Though in voice and shape they be
Form'd as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest Grasshopper that are;
Theirs is but a Summer song,
Thine endures the Winter long,
Unimpair'd, and shrill and clear,
Melody throughout the year.

Neither night nor dawn of day
Puts a period to thy lay.
Then Insect! let thy simple song
Chear the Winter evening long,
While secure from every storm,
In my cottage snug and warm,
Thou shalt my merry minstrel be,
And I delight to shelter thee.

     EMILY. I don't love crickets much, Mamma—they are not pretty—and I remember when we called once at poor old Dame Beech's cottage, she complained that ever since the boys had killed her cat, the crickets over-run her so that they spoiled every thing.

     MRS. TALBOT. You know you saved a kitten for her, and I dare say she has no more crickets now than she wishes to have.

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     EMILY. Why should she wish to have any? I should not suppose she has as much taste as the Poet had for their music.

     MRS. TALBOT. Perhaps not; but you may remember when we were talking of these insects one morning, while Mary Ambrose was in the room helping me to measure some linen, she said it was "counted" to use her expression, "very bad luck indeed when the Crickets all went away from an house"—and this superstition is, I believe, still very general among the cottagers.

     EMILY. What nonsense!

     MRS. TALBOT. I never could hear any reason assigned for this prejudice; and indeed reason has nothing to do wish such sort of notions, that are handed down from one uninformed person to another. I believe the fact is, that at certain seasons of the year these insects go into the fields, and assume in some degree the habits of the Gryllus Campertris, or field cricket, which we were speaking of a little while ago.

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     GEORGE. And which are heard particularly loud now, Mother. Last night I listened a long time to the mole cricket and the common cricket, and was surprised at the loudness of their noise.

     MRS. TALBOT. It is generally so in hot and dry weather. In the warmer countries of Europe, Italy, Spain, and the South of France, these cicada or cicala make such a clamourous chirping of an evening that it is very disagreeable; and they are less pleasant to hear, because they are such devourers of the green leaves, as to disfigure the country, and are besides very prejudicial.

     EMILY. Indeed if we were not going to the sea side so soon, I should perhaps, Mamma, be a little apt to do that which you have often said nobody ought to do.

     MRS. TALBOT. Indeed?—And pray what is that?

     EMILY. Be discontented with the weather, Mamma, and murmur at the heat and the dust—and wish it was Spring or

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 Summer, or even Winter, rather than this hot dull parched up Autumn.

     MRS. TALBOT. How foolish to murmur at the revolutions of the seasons, and how much worse than foolish to dislike the period when, in the harvest, God gives to the industry of man, the support he has worked for throughout the year.

     EMILY. I know it, Mamma, and I don't mean to murmur, only there are so few flowers, the grass is so burnt, and the roads and lanes so dusty, that it is not pleasant.

     MRS. TALBOT. I allow that the beauty of the country is greatly injured, yet it is only in very hot summers that in England the verdure of the fields is so entirely gone as we now see it.—Sometimes, as in the year 1799, perpetual rain renders the country in August as green as it usually is in May.—But the effect of this is far from desirable. I then saw from one of the Sussex hills many hundred acres of wheat, and other grain, covered

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 with water.—The rives overflowed, and swept away the produce of whole farms; and the sad consequence was, a scarcity of bread, amounting almost to famine; a deprivation most severely felt, particularly among the poor, who, tho' assisted by subscription, were unable to purchase enough for the support of their families, so that sickness soon followed, and a long train of evils.—Let us, therefore, learn to thank God for this fine weather, and let us see with pleasure and gratitude the last load of wheat carried by, dressed with boughs by the little peasant boys, who are mounted upon it, hallooing and rejoicing, while the men and women who have been employed in reaping, binding, and carrying it, are enjoying by anticipation the harvest supper; and look forward with still more satisfaction, to the certainty of having bread for their children during the ensuing winter.

     GEORGE. And that sight, Emily, we may enjoy this evening, for I have been

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 in the last field, helping a little, and Master Oakbridge says he shall finish his wheat by five o'clock, and desired me to come and see them pitch the last load.

     MRS. TALBOT. Well, go, my Emily, with your brother; I shall have some papers and books to look out, and some directions to give about what I would have done in my absence from home, but I will meet you on your return from your walk.

     EMILY. I will go, Mamma, certainly; but—

     MRS. TALBOT. But what?

     EMILY. Why only, Mamma, you know I cannot do any good in pitching the wheat as George can—and it is so hot, I had rather stay with you.

     MRS. TALBOT. Do as you please, I only meant your amusement.

     GEORGE. Mother, I should like to see the harvest in France.

     MRS. TALBOT. So should I have done once, George.

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     GEORGE. But you have seen it?

     MRS. TALBOT. Never.—Tell me, however, what makes you think the harvest there a spectacle, (to use the phrase of that country for all sorts of sights) so particularly desirable?

     GEORGE. Because they at once collect the three articles which are named in Scripture, as being necessary to the life of man; corn, wine, and oil.

     MRS. TALBOT. I admire your reason.—But the fact is not exactly so.—The corn in the northern provinces of France, la récolte, le moisson, is not gathered much, if at all, earlier than our in England; and there are no olive trees in those provinces, and very few grapes; I mean comparatively.—There are more, and better grapes than in England, but the wine is little worth, and very little of it is made. The peasantry of Normandy are content with le bon cidre; and it is indeed excellent.

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     GEORGE. But in the southern provinces?

     MRS. TALBOT. In some of those, as in the Limosin, there is very little corn, the poorer classes being very much indebted to the woods for their support.

     GEORGE. To the woods?

     MRS. TALBOT. Yes, they are fed by a bread, or paste, made of what we call Spanish chesnuts, which I am assured is no contemptible substitute. The wheat they have, however, is ripe much earlier than with us.—The olives are a late harvest; and the grapes of which wine is made, are never gathered till after the first frosts.—The colour of the wine depends on the simplest circumstances, as whether the dew is on or off the grapes when they are carried to the press. But I have not time now, my dear children, to tell you the little, that books have told me on these matters; one day or other, perhaps, if ever France should be tranquil, and at peace with us, you may wit

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 ness they joyous scene of the vintage, la Vendange, in that delicious country.

     GEORGE. The olive tree, I think you told me, was not at all beautiful.

     MRS. TALBOT. I believe it is neither beautiful individually as a tree, or when grouped; it is grey, and pale like the willow, but without the silver lined leaves or flexible branches of that aquatic.—The most beautiful things are not always the most useful. The history of the olive tree is worthy, however, of farther investigation, and we must enquire into it more at leisure. And now, while you, Emily, go after dinner to your plants, and give your charge to old David to take care of them, George will go to the harvest field; and busy as I am, I will try a sort of impromptu on the subject of our discourse; this autumnal heat which offends you so much.

     GEORGE. Come then, Emily, the sooner we go the better.

     EMILY returning. Well, my dear

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 Mamma, have you in the midst of your packing composed these verses?

     MRS. TALBOT. I have.—They may perhaps want some polishing, for they are literally an extempore composition, and here comes George to read them.

     GEORGE. And have you done the stanzas so soon, Mother?

     MRS. TALBOT. Read them.

THE CLOSE OF SUMMER.

FAREWELL ye banks, where late the primrose growing,
Among fresh leaves its pallid stars display'd,
And the ground-ivy's balmy flowers blowing,
Trail'd their festoons along the grassy shade.

Farewell! to richer scenes and Summer pleasures,
Hedge-rows, engarlanded with many a wreath,
Where the wild roses hang their blushing treasures,
And to the evening gale the woodbines breathe.

Farewell! the meadows, where such various showers
Of beauty lurked, among the fragrant hay;

Where

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Where orchis bloomed with freak'd and spotted flowers,
And lychnis blushing like the new born day.

The burning dog-star, and the insatiate mower,
Have swept or wither'd all this floral pride;
And mullein's now, or bugloss' lingering flower,
Scare cheer the green lane's parched and dusty side.

His busy sickle now the months-man wielding,
Close are the light and fragile poppies shorn,
And while the golden ears their stores are yielding,
The azure corn-flowers fall among the corn.

The woods are silent too, where loudly flinging
Wild notes of rapture to the western gale,
A thousand birds their hymns of joy were singing,
And bade the enchanting hours of Spring time hail!

The stock-dove now is heard, in plaintive measure,
The cricket shrill, and wether's drowsy bell,
But to the sounds and scents of vernal pleasure,
Music and dewy airs, a long farewell!
Yet tho' no beauteous wreaths adorn the season,
Nor birds sing blythe, nor sweets the winds diffuse,
This riper period, like the age of reason,
Tho' stript of loveliness, is rich in use.

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     EMILY. These will be a great acquisition to our book, but there are some things mentioned in the lines I do not quite understand. I know, I believe, all the flowers; but what is a monthsman?

     GEORGE. One who is hired by the farmer, to work for him for a month, during harvest; for which time the men have in proportion more wages, than at any other time of the year.

     EMILY. Well, I understand that; but what kind of birds are stock-doves?

     MRS. TALBOT. There are in this country, two or three sorts of wild pigeons and doves.—One is the ring-pigeon, which is called in Scotland the cushat; it seems to be continually confounded with the ring-dove that is often brought from Spain, and the opposite coast of Africa, tho' they do not at all resemble each other. The most common is the stock-dove, or wood-pigeon, which you hear make a pleasant, but somewhat melancholy noise during the summer, and par

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 ticularly towards its close; but in September they leave their woodland retreats, and are heard no more till the following March, when they return to build in this country.—And now you may amuse yourselves as you please an hour or two, for I am obliged to attend to a person, who comes to me on business, which before I leave home must be settled.