cline. I perceived that the plumage of this swan put on a weather-beaten appearance, and that the bird itself no longer raised the feathers of his wings, as he passed through the water before me. Judging that he was unwell, 1 gave orders that he should be supplied with bread and boiled potatoes. Of these he ate sparingly, and in a day or two he changed his quarters, probably for want of sufficient shelter from the wind. Having found his way down to the stables, he got upon a small fishpond there, out of the reach of storms. From this time he never fended for food, but he continued to take a little white bread now and then from my hand. At last he refused this; and then he left the water for good and all, and sat down on the margin of the pond, with evident signs of near-approaching death. He soon became too weak to support his long neck in an upright position. He nodded, and then tried to recover himself, and then nodded again, and again held up his head; till at last, quite enfeebled and worn out, his head fell gently on the grass, his wings became expanded a trifle or so, and he died whilst I was looking on. This was in the afternoon, and I had every

K

facility of watching his departing hour, for I was attending the masons, some thirty yards from the pond to which the swan had retired. He never even uttered his wonted cry, nor so much as a sound, to indicate what he felt

within.

The silence which this bird maintained to the last, tends to show that the dying song of the swan is nothing but a fable, the origin of which is lost in the shades of antiquity. Its repetition can be of no manner of use, save as a warning to ornithologists not to indulge in the extravagances of romance, a propensity not altogether unknown in these our latter times.

THE WINDHOVER HAWK, AND THE OIL

GLAND.

On my return from Belgium, in the middle of May, 1844, whilst perusing the seventeenth number of the Zoologist, my attention was particularly drawn to the excellent observations of Mr. Bury, relative to the habits of the kestril, or windhover hawk.

I feel myself

under great obligations to this courteous gentleman for the flattering manner in which he has introduced my name. May I entertain the hope that he will not be offended with me, if I venture to disagree with him on one point relative to what he has advanced on the habits of the bird in question?

He has quite satisfied me that the windhover will now and then make a meal on the smaller birds; and this information on his part is very acceptable to me, as I have no opportunity of observing the windhover during the winter months, for it leaves this immediate neighbourhood in October, and seldom returns before the first week in February.

The conclusion of Mr. Bury, as to the use of the oil-gland, is not quite so satisfactory. He says, "And I plainly saw the bird press the nipple with its beak, and rub the matter so expressed on its feathers." This assertion would have put the question at rest for ever in my own mind, and I should willingly have yielded the disputed palm to this intelligent gentleman, had he not subsequently remarked, "I do not mean to say I ever saw the matter expressed."

Now, he ought to have seen the matter expressed. The bird was on his finger, "under a strong light," and this position afforded him the very best opportunity of seeing the matter, which is an opaque and palpable substance, and could not possibly have escaped the notice of so keen an observer as Mr. Bury, had it really been rubbed on the feathers, and even transferred, as he says, from the feathers of the body to those of the head. I can assure him that I have witnessed a favourite parrot press its nipple scores of times, but I could never detect the least moisture on the sides of its bill, nor observe the smallest portion of matter on the feathers which the bird was preening; hence I came to the conclusion that the parrot had pressed the nipple, not to procure the substance which it contained, but merely to gratify itself by producing that pleasing sensation which we ourselves experience when we rub our dry hand over our face.

Again; in most waterfowl, the oil-gland is completely covered with a very thick tuft of down, not moveable at pleasure, like the true feathers. This tuft would prove an insurmountable obstacle to the transfer of matter

from the gland through the medium of the bill. In fine, there are some birds without any gland at all, as I have remarked elsewhere. Providence never does any thing by halves. If the matter from the oil-gland were for the purpose of lubricating the feathers, it would not have been granted by the Creator to one bird, and denied to another. Had such an act of partiality taken place, "it would have been putting one sadly over the head of another."

Some years ago, when I was in hot dispute on this subject with writers in Mr. Loudon's Magazine of Natural History, a thunderstorm provided me with the means of having a very satisfactory view of the oil-gland on the rump of a kestril, or windhover. The poor hawk was sitting upon the branch of a sycamore tree, when the lightning struck it dead to the ground. It was a fine old male bird, and had no outward marks of damage on it. I carefully dissected the oil-gland. Around the base of it there was a circle of down. The shaft of the nipple was quite bare of down or feathers; but the orifice of the nipple was totally concealed by a very dense tuft of down, which had the exact appearance of a camel-hair brush.