understand, and strictly in accordance with the attention or disregard they have shown to the instruction of their monitor. This round of teaching goes on for nine months, and at the end of this time the bullfinch can sing one, two, and sometimes three different airs, very far more pleasing than those acquired by many young persons by their education.

When a tune is thoroughly learned, the birds retain it for their lives; but in acquiring it at first, very different degrees of capacity are shown. It has been remarked, that the more easily a bird acquires his lesson, the more ready he is to forget it—(think of that, my young masters); but when once a bird of comparative dulness has succeeded in acquiring his task, he seldom forgets it. There is encouragement for you, my worthy plodders!

The attachment shown by these birds for those who educate them would afford a good example for pupils towards their teachers, and it so happens that they always express their sense of pleasure by singing the tune they have been taught, as well as by many endearing ways. Dr. Stanley gave me a touching example of this in a story once told by Sir William Parsons, and I believe verified by that kind and good friend to the feathered and all other races- -I mean Mr. Jesse. Sir William Parsons was himself a great musician, and, when a young man, possessed a piping bullfinch which he had taught to sing "God save the King." On his once going abroad, he consigned the bird to the care of his sister, with a strict injunction to take the greatest care of it. On his return, one of his first visits was to her, when she told him that the poor little bird had been long declining in health, and was at that time very ill. Sir William, full of sorrow, went into the room where the cage was, and opening the

door, put in his hand, and spoke to the bird. The dying favourite opened its eyes, shook its feathers, staggered on his fingers, piped "God save the King," and fell dead.

A sad fate, but not so sad as that of my little pet brood. I nursed them with the tenderest care for several days-enjoyed the hope of their singing "God save the Queen"-but, alas! a cat-I can't say any more-look at the picture!

Robin Goodfellow.

HO was Robin Goodfellow? a youthful friend inquired of me the other day. "A true Robin Goodfellow," I replied, "is one who goes about doing good-who does all the good he can to every one -who finds excuses for faults and frailties

who looks at the bright side of everything-who hopes when others fear-who has confidence when others despair -who makes people happy by good looks, sweet words, and kind offices-who is merry and cheerful, open-hearted, and sincere-who loves his friend and his neighbour, and does not even hate his enemy." Aye, Robin Goodfellow is a brave boy, my young masters! I wish you were all such--such as I have described. But there is a Robin Goodfellow of the old poets, of whom I fancy

you would like to know something too.

He was also a merry

sprite, whose character and achievements will be found in the wellknown lines of Milton's "L'Allegro."

"Tells how the drudging goblin swet
To earn his creame-bowl duly set;
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn
His shadowy flail had thrashed the corn,
That ten day labourers could not end."

But, after all, the old ballad best describes him, which said ballad has no certain accredited author. I have seen it in an ancient blackletter copy in the British Museum, in fine old black-letter, and it is entitled

Che merry pranks of Robin Goodfellow.

I.

From Oberon, in fairye land—

The King of Ghosts and Shadows there

Mad Robin I, at his command,

Am sent to read the night sports here.

What revell rout

Is kept about

In every corner where I go;

I will o'ersee,

And merry be.

And make good sport, with ho! ho! ho!

II.

More swift than lightning I can fly

About this aëry welkin soone,

And in a minute's space descrye

Each thing that's done belowe the moone.
There's not a hag

Or ghost shall wag,

Or ery ware goblins! where I go;

But Robin I

Their feats will spy,

And send them home with ho! ho! ho!

III.

Whene'er such wanderers I meet,

As from their night sports they trudge home,

With counterfeiting voice I greete,

And call them on with me to roame.

Through woods, through lakes,

Through bogs, through brakes.

Or else unseen I with them go,
All in the nicke

To play some tricke

To stay their ill, with ho! oh! oh!