e air is repeated, until, one by one,
the birds begin to imitate what they hear. Directly they do this, light
is admitted, and they have a little food given to them. By this means
the birds learn to think of the tune and their dinners at the same
time, and directly they hear the organ will begin to whistle. They are
then turned over to the care of boys, whose sole business it is to go on
with their education, each boy having a separate bird placed under his
charge, and he plays away from morning to night, or as long as the birds
can pay attention, during which time their first teacher, or feeder,
goes his rounds, scolding or rewarding his feathered scholars by signs
and modes which he has taught them to understand, until they become so
perfect, and the tune, whatever it may be, so imprinted on their memory,
that they will pipe it for the remainder of their lives."

Bullfinches that are perfect in their song, are worth a great deal of
money. Both the male and female sing, but the colours of the male are
the brightest. These birds, however, in confinement, lose their
brilliancy of hue, and, from growing duskier and duskier, sometimes
become entirely black, as if putting on mourning for their lost liberty.
The same change has been observed in a bird which lost its mate to whom
it had been tenderly attached. It is principally for its power of
imitation and memory that this bird is prized. His wild notes, when
loud, are not particularly sweet, but at times are very soft and
plaintive.

I will conclude with a pretty and affecting little story of a piping
bullfinch that once belonged to Sir William Parsons. When young he was a
great musician, and had taught his bullfinch to sing "God Save the
King." On going abroad, he committed his feathered friend to the care of
his sister, with many injunctions to be watchful of its health and
happiness.

On his return she told him the little bird had seemed pining away, and
was then very ill. Grieved to hear this news, Sir William went at once
to the room where it was kept, and, putting his hand into the cage,
called the little creature. It knew the voice of the dear master for
whom it had so pined and, opening its eyes and shaking its disordered
feathers, as if to do him honour, staggered on to his finger, piped "God
Save the King," and then fell dead.

THE ALBATROSS.

This is the largest of all sea-birds, and you are not very likely to
make acquaintance with him except in a