Till,-what a lovely nest he found!
With five so pretty eggs!

With joy he snatched the nest away,
And to his father ran-

Oh father! such a prize to-day
I've found for Mary Anne !
How lovely green those speckled eggs,
How nicely wove this nest,
And such a charming bunch of seggs,
She'll scarce know which is best!

His father gave an angry look,
And told him to go back,
Till, like an aspen Georgie shook,
Because he'd lost the track.
"How dare you, sir, remove that nest,
And take those pretty eggs?

You'll break the little warbler's breast,-
Replace them 'mongst the seggs!

"Dost thou not know that birds can feel
When robbed of eggs or young?
With pangs would make a giant reel,
Like Shakespeare's beetle,1 wrung.

The God above will punish boys
Who naughty are and cruel,
Ordaining Satan to rejoice,

When burning them for fuel."

Spoke twenty-six,-in truth sincere,

While little Georgie shook,

And wept all night in downright fear,

Because the eggs he took;

But, sixty-two enlightened came,

And with it, George, the man,

While Science, with Dame Nature's page,

Quite open-handed ran.

A Cabinet had George prepared,

With trays, blow-pipes, complete,

The expression of Shakespeare, that "The poor beetle feels a pang as great as when a giant dies," is scarcely in conformity with fact, as it is well known that the lower animals do not feel so much as those of higher organization. But in this our great poet simply used his poetical license.

Where clean-blown eggs their places shared
With shells so rare and neat.

He, too, a sire had now become,
Had three fine prattling boys,
And many a pleasant walk from home,
Collecting eggs like toys.

Full many a time with glee they went,
In summer days for eggs,

And many happy hours were spent,
In searching 'mongst the seggs.
His youngest boy-a Georgie too,—
More peering than the rest,
Fast to his sire with pleasure flew,
And bore aloft a nest.

"Well done, my boy!" his father cried,
"Five rare sedge-warbler's eggs;
A lucky dog you are who spied
This nest amongst the seggs.

When we get home a prize I'll give—
A book, a knife, or toy,

For, love of Nature,-while we live,
Is best for man and boy."

Thus, here we see a sin with one,

A virtue is with others,

For Science is Religion's son,

And Knowledge makes them brothers.

This little truth great lessons teach

Of Charity to all,

The bigot's sense can nonsense preach,

As Eve made Adam fall.

In the summer of 1862 there was a perfect rage in egg-collecting for the study of zoology. It was no uncommon thing to see parents or tutors with a number of boys going out on a bird-nesting, egg-hunting expedition, -harrying every nest they came across. But I remember distinctly the feelings I had when I harried my first nest,-it was a yellow "yowt's" (i.e. yellowhammer's). I was about eight years old. I mind yet the queer, half-afraid, half-curious feelings when I went out nearly two miles with a little companion, and took the eggs from the side of a burn. I brought them home in my cap. My mother was very angry, and told me how sinful it was, how wicked,--and all the rest of it, -how the old birds would be crying, etc.; it preyed so much on my young mind that I went all the way back and placed them in the nest again. But, since I have lived longer in the world, I have not only taken eggs-but many a pleasant ramble I have had with my boys looking for nests for my collection. But yet, I must say, that the first impression still clings to me, I cannot throw it off, and never take eggs if I can help it, and always feel a certain degree of compunction in taking them.

INDEPENDENCE.

"An honest man's the noblest work of God."-Pope.
"To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her,
And gather gear by every wile
That's justified by honour.
No, for to hide it in a hedge
Nor for a train attendant,
But for the glorious privilege

Of being INDEPENDENT!"—Burns.

"The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man's the gowd for a' that."-Ibid.

WHAT

"HAT, my lords, is it that is great?— Where's the greatness lies in riches? Is it the chance of birth in high estate? Or weight of silken purses?

Is it greatness to be born a prince?

Or degradation in a beggar's son? For who can change the dice-like chance Of birth or honour, ere the honour's won?

Then why does yon young pup of wealth
Go swaggering by with pompous air?
While better men move on in stealth,
Or fear to hear that lordling swear.

But better days are yet in store—
Respected yet shall genius be,
When riches shall be all no more,

But only wealth in worth shall be.

No more the rich are viewed with awe,
As Lords were wont to be;

In Buonaparte, the world, it saw

The hand which tore down mummery.

The old, established notions, gross,—
Of King's and Pope's Divinity,

He thrust aside with giant force

And showed them poor humanity!