begins to sit upon her eggs. In like manner the male singing-bird
commences his song when the pair are making ready to build their
nest. While his mate is sitting, his song reminds her of his presence,
and inspires her with a feeling of security and content, during the
period of her confinement. As soon as the young are hatched, they
begin to learn his voice and grow accustomed to it, and when they fly
from the nest they are prevented by the sound of it from wandering and
getting bewildered. If they happen to fly beyond certain bounds, the
song of the male parent warns them of their distance, and causes them
to turn and draw near the place from which it seems to issue. Thus the
song of the male bird, always uttered within a certain circumference,
of which the nest is the centre, becomes a kind of sentinel voice, to
keep the young birds within prudent limits.

It is not easy to explain why a larger proportion of the birds that
occupy trees should be destitute of song, except on the supposition
that in such elevated situations the young are more easily guided by
sight than by hearing. Still there are many songsters which are
dressed in brilliant plumage, and of these we have some examples among
our native birds. These, however, are evident exceptions to the
general fact, and we may trace a plain analogy in this respect between
birds and insects. The musical insects are, we believe, invariably
destitute of brilliant plumage. Butterflies and moths do not sing; the
music of insects comes chiefly from the plainly-dressed locust and
grasshopper tribes.




OUR TALKS WITH UNCLE JOHN.