ge is
peculiarly white, tender and delicate, in this respect unequaled by
any other American game.

[Illustration: THE AMERICAN ROBIN. (_Turdus Migratorius._)]

This well known bird, and universal favorite, can require but a very
few words at our hands. His unassuming familiarity of manners has
caused him to be immortalized in the Songs for the Nursery, and others
of Mother Goose's collections for the little ones. His nest is
preserved from the rude hands of boyhood by a sort of instinctive
veneration for his well known and long established character, and his
cheerful, zealous singing not unfrequently causes the older sportsman
to take down the armed gun from his shoulder, and suffer the assiduous
songster to enjoy his liberty and life.

The robin is particularly fond of gum-berries, and it is only
necessary for the sportsman to take his stand near one of these trees
when it is covered with fruit, and load and fire his gun. One flock
after another will come to it without intermission during the whole
day.

TO A ROSE-BUD.

Thy leaves are not unfolded yet to the sweet light of love,
Thy bosom now is blushing like the sunset clouds above;
Thy beauteous form is perfect, thy hopes are fair and bright,
Thy dreams are sweet while sleeping in the gentle breeze of night;
And though I know a dew-drop tear hath in thy bosom been,
'Twas only sent to nourish thee, and make thee pure within:
No canker-worm corrodes thy rest, and life is life to thee,
And as the past has ever been so may the future be.
May all thy dreams be realized, thy hopes be not in vain,
Thy life pass calm and sweetly on without a sigh of pain:
And when thy leaves shall droop and fall, as droop and fall they must,
Thy lovely form will then lie low, to mingle with the dust;
And to thy long last resting-place soft winds shall be thy bier,
While the fragrance of thy loving heart will ever linger near;
To me thy memory will come back when I am lone and sad,
And thoughts of thy pure, gentle life shall make my spirit glad.
Ah! lovely rose-bud, well I know that both of us must die,
And when death comes, may I, like you, leave earth without a sigh;
May I, like you, when youth shall fade, still yield the sweet perfume,
The incense of a worthy heart, which age can not consume:
Farewell, farewell, sweet rose-bud, were I but as pure as thee,
My soul would be contented, my