Eastern times., 1855-04-26

turtle is heard in the land.' The trees ,ro
now in their fullest foliage and brightest verdi
ure the woods are gay with the clustered
flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed by
the sweet-brier and the wild rose the mead
ows are enameled with clover-blossoms
while the young apple, the peach, and the
plum, begin to swell, and the cherry to glow,
among the green leaves.
This is the chosen season Of revelry of the
Boblink. He comes amidst the pomp and
fragrance of the season; his life seems all
sensibiiity and enjoyment, all song and sun
shine. He is 10 he found in the soft bosoms
of the freshet and = sweetest meadows; and is
most in song, wien the clover is> in blossom.
He perches on the topmost twig of tree, or
on some long Haunting weed, and as he rises
and sinks with the breeze, pours forth sue
cession of rich tinklng notes crowding one
upon another, like the outpouring melody of
the skylark, and possessing the same raptur-
Gus character. Sometimes he pitches from
the summit Of tree, begins his song as soon
as he gets upon the wing, and futters tremu-
lousy down to the earth, as if overcome with
ecstacy at his own music. Sometimes he is
in pursuit of his paramonr; always in full
song, as if he would win her by his melody !;
and always with the. same appearance of in
toxication and delight.
OF all the birds Of our groves and meadows,
the Boblink was the envy of my boyhood. He
crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and
the sweetest season of the year, when all ma
ture called TO the fields, and the rural feeling
throbbed in every bosom but when l, luckless
urchin was doomed to be mewed up, during
the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood,
schoolroom, it seemed as if the little varlet
mocked at me, as he flew by in full song, and
sought to iaunt me with his happier lot. o,
how enved him. No lessons, no task, no
hateful school; nothing but holiday, irolic,
green fields and fine weather. Had | been
more versed in poetry, | might have addressed
him in the words of Logan TO the cuckoo:
Sweet bird thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear
Thou hast no sorrow in thy note,
No winter in thy year.
Oh could fly, I'd ly with thee;
Wed make on joyful wing.
Our annual visit round the globe,
Companions of the spring.
Further observation and experience have
given me different idea of this little feathered
volup1uary, Which l will venture to impall Nr
the benefit Of my school-boy readers, who may
regard him with the same unqualified envy and
admiration which l once indulged. l have
shown him only as saw him at first, in what
may call the poetical part of his career,
when he in a manner devoted himself 10 ele-
giant pursuits and enjoyments, and was
bird. Of music, and song, and taste, and
sensibility, and refinement. While this lasted
he was sacred from injury: the very school
boy would not fling stone at him, and the
merest rustic would pause to listen to his
strain. But mark the difference As the
year advances, as the clover blossoms disap-
pear, and the spring fades into summer, he
1 n
its: doffs his poetcal suit of black, assumes a
russet dusty garb, and sinks to the gross en-
Joyment of common vulgar birds. His notes
no longer vibrate on the ear he is stufing
which he lately swung and chanted SO melodi-
ously. He has become bon vivant,' a
gourmand ); with him now there is nothing
like the joys of the table, In little while
he grows tired Of plain homely fare, and is of
on astronomical tour in quest of foreign
luxuries. We next hear Of him with myriads
Of his kind, banqueting among the reeds OF
the Delaware, and grown corpulent with good
feeding. He has changed his name in trav-
elling. Bobincon no more--he is the Reed
bird now, the much sought for ttbit of Penn
sylvaeia epicures the rival in unlucky fame
of the ortolan Wherever he goes, pop
pop! pop every rusty firelock in the country
is blazing away. He sees his companion;
falling by thousands around him.
Does he take warning, and reforml Alas
not he Incorrigable epicure Again he
wings his flight. Ths rice swamps of the
south invite him. He gorges himself among
them almost TO bursting he can scarcely fly
for corpuency. He has once more changed
his name, and is now the famous Rice-bird Of
the Carolinas.
Last stage of his career; behold him spitted
with dozens of his corpuent companions, and
served up vaunted dish on the table OF some
southern gastronomer.
Such is the story Of the Boblink; once
spiritual, musical, admired, the Joy of the
meadows. and the favorite bird of spring; fl
nalIv gross little sensualist, who expiates
his sensuaity in the larder. His story con-
tains moral, worthy the attention of little
birds and little boys; warning them TO keep to
those refined and intellectual pursuits, which
raised him to so high pitch of popularity
during the early part of his career but TO
eschew all tendency to that gross and diss-
pated indulgence, which brought this mistaken
little bird TO an untimely end.
Laura Bridgman and her Mother.
From the report of DR.. Holce, Principal Of the
Perkins Institution for the Bind, at Boston.