The lone Fern-Owl flaps his heavy way

To his dark home, scared at th' approach of day.'

From the Ruined Church.'

An unpublished poem of the late Rev. C. WOLFE.

THE fern-owl (caprimulgus) is the only bird that I am aware of, which is at the same time migratory as well as nocturnal. If there is an exception, it is, I think, in the horned owl (strix otus) which is now supposed by many persons to migrate. It appears on the coast of Suffolk, in considerable numbers, about the time woodcocks first arrive. The fern owl is very impatient of the glare of sunshine; it does not leave its dark retreat till the sun has set, and retires to rest as soon as it rises; it is admirably formed for the purpose of taking insects, from the wideness of its mouth, the stiff vitrissæ at the corner of it, and the serrated nail of the middle toe. Mr. White says that he had a fair opportunity of contemplating the motions of this bird, and what pleased him most was, that he saw it distinctly, more than once, put out its short leg while on the wing, and, by a bend of the head, deliver somewhat into its mouth. He adds, that if it takes any part of its prey with its foot, as he has now the greatest

reason to suppose it does, he no longer wonders at the use of its middle toe, which is curiously furnished with a serrated claw.

The fern-owl is very foolishly supposed by country people to suck goats; hence their name of goat-sucker; and to inflict a disease on calves. This disease is called by farmers the puckeridge', and the bird is known in some places by that appellation. They remain with us about four months, and begin to lay the beginning of July; they make no nest, but lay two oblong eggs beautifully spotted, under a bush, and hatch their young about the sixteenth of that month; they have but one brood, making this country a place for breeding only. These birds generally arrive with us the first or second week in May, provided the evenings are soft and warm, and continue their jarring note for a long space together, without seeming to draw their breath. As this song is a summer incident, the naturalist hears the first return of it with complacency; not from its melody, for it has none, but from the pleasing association of summer ideas raised in the minds of every lover of nature. It comes the nearest to the jarr of the mole cricket (gryllus-gryllotalpa) and has been taken for it. Some have likened the note of this bird to castanets. Like the still note of the quail, and the 'sibilous whisper,' as Mr. White calls it, of the grass-hopper lark, though not loud, yet it is heard

At

at a distance. These birds frequent the same spots, and delight in coverts like the woodcock. I recollect on disturbing two of them from their dark and shady retreat, they appeared to stare about with great astonishment at the glare of light, and allowed me to come close to them as they sat on the trunk of a fallen tree. Nature has provided a plentiful supply of food for them. their first appearing, they fare deliciously on the cock-chaffer, which then comes out of the ground; and all July they feast on the fern-chaffer, which flies during the course of that month; nor have they any competitors in their nightly excursions except the bats, with whom they contend in swiftness for the scarabæi and phalænæ of the evening. Their wings and tail are very long, by means of which they excel in swiftness and sudden evolutions, and mount instantaneously from a level flight, like a sky-rocket. They have a parading way sometimes, flying round their observers, and hanging in the air, during which manœuvres they make their long pliant wings clash over their backs with a loud snap, in the manner, as Mr. White observes, the pigeons called smiters are known to do. Whether this gesture is matter of exultation or menace does not appear.

Instead of being noxious and mischievous, they are the most harmless and useful of birds, destroying the great enemies of vegetation, the sca

rabæi and phalænæ, which, though individually. feeble, yet are of mighty efficacy in their infinite numbers, inflicting on the grass and corn amazing devastations, and stripping whole groves, woods and extensive forests of their foliage at once, so as to make them look as naked as in winter. Fern owls love to frequent oaks, because those trees harbour their favourite food.

When flushed in sunshine, they drop again at once, so as to be in danger of being caught by spaniels; hence the notion of their being foolish birds. They sit on a bare bough when they churr, but I have seen a cock-bird that was very loud on the wing, attended by his hen and two young. An old farmer told me that when returning home late of an evening, he has been sometimes so boldly attacked by the fern owl, that he has been in some degree of fear, deeming it, as many do, venomous; no known bird is so. Thus, impelled by the feeling of natural affection, feeble as it may appear, does this bird repel and intimidate intruders, and by menaces, defends to the best of its power, its callow and helpless young. The Poet of Nature, as he may be justly called, elegantly remarks, that natural affection inspires the most timid of the feathered race with courage, and the most simple with artifice.

'Hence around the head

'Of wandering swain the white wing'd plover wheels
'Her sounding flight, and then directly on

'In long excursion skims the level lawn,

'To tempt him from her nest: the wild duck, hence,
'O'er the rough moss, and o'er the tractless waste
'The heath-hen flutters, pious fraud! to lead
'The hot-pursuing spaniel far astray.'

THOMSON'S SEASONS.

The caprimulgus is known in different parts of England by the names of the dor-hawk, fern-owl, night-hawk, jarr-owl, churn-owl, wheel-bird, puckeridge and night-jarr.

This bird is perhaps one of the most beautiful which appears amongst us; its plumage is varied with white, black, brown and a ferrugineous brown, with numerous transverse lines, and the whole so diversified, 'so beautifully freckled and powdered 'with browns of various hues,' as almost to bid defiance to an accurate description.

The night-jar is found most frequently in solitary and uncultivated places; at least it is in such situations that I have most generally met with it; they are, however, very numerous in the beautiful domain of Bearwood, in Berkshire.