such a pest. Alas! these poor starlings had merely resorted to it for shelter and protection, and were in no way responsible for the fragments of eggshells which were strewed upon the floor: these fragments were the work of deep-designing knaves, and not of the harmless starling. The rat and the weasel were the real destroyers; but they had done the deed of mischief in the dark, unseen and unsuspected; while the stranger-starlings were taken, condemned, and executed, for having been found in a place built for other tenants of a more profitable description.

After the closest examination of the form and economy of the starling, you will be at a loss to produce any proof of its being an egg-sucker. If it really sucks the eggs of pigeons, it would equally suck the eggs of other birds; and, those eggs not being concealed in the dark recesses of the pigeoncot, but exposed in open nests on the ground, and often in the leafless bushes of the hedge, this fact would afford to the inquisitive naturalist innumerable opportunities of detecting the bird in its depredations. Now who has ever seen the starling in the absolute act of plundering a nest? It builds its nest here in company with the ringdove, the robin, the greenfinch, the wagtail, the jackdaw, the chaffinch, and the owl; but it never touches their eggs. Indeed, if it were in the habit of annoying its immediate neighbours upon so tender a point as that of sucking their eggs, there would soon be hue and cry against it; nor would the uproar cease until the victor had driven away the vanquished. So certain am I that the starling never sucks the eggs of other birds, that, when I see him approach the dovecot, I often say to him, "Go in, poor bird, and take thy rest in peace. Not a servant of mine shall surprise thee or hurt a feather of thy head. Thou dost not come for eggs, but for protection; and this most freely will I give thee. I will be thy friend, in spite of all the world has said against thee; and here at least thou shalt find a place of safety for thyself and little ones. Thy innocence and usefulness demand this at my hands."

The starling is gregarious; and I am satisfied in my own mind that the congregated masses of this bird are only dissolved at the vernal equinox because they have not sufficient opportunities afforded them of places wherein to build their nests. If those opportunities were offered them, we should see them breeding here in multitudes as numerous as the rook. They require a place for their nest well protected from the external air. The inside of the roof of a house, a deep hole in a tower, or in the decayed trunk or branch of a tree, are places admirably adapted for the incubation of the starling; and he will always resort to them, provided he be unmolested. The same may be said of the jackdaw.

in the holes made for the pigeons. These poor birds, together with the owl, had to suffer persecution from wanton, ignorant servants, until I proclaimed perpetual peace in their favour, and ordered, I may say, the temple of Janus to be shut, never more to be opened during my time.

in the old ivy-tower over the gateway, I conjecHaving been successful in establishing the owl tured, from what I had observed of the habits of the starling, that I could be equally successful in persuading a greater number of these pretty, lively birds to pass the summer with me. I made twenty-four holes in the old ruin; and in the spring of this year I had twenty-four starlings' nests. There seemed to be a good deal of squabbling about the possession of the holes, till, at last, might overcame right. The congregated numbers suddenly disappeared, no doubt with the intention of finding breeding quarters elsewhere; and the remaining four-and-twenty pairs hatched and reared their young; causing, I fear, the barnowls, their next-door neighbours in the tower, many a sleepless day by their unwelcome and incessant chatterings.

ful the starling is in selecting a place for its incuOn the one hand, when we consider how carebation sheltered from the storm, and, on the other, when we look around us, and see how many old houses have been pulled down where these birds found a refuge, and when we reflect how modern luxury, and the still more baneful turf, have forced many a country squire to fell his aged oaks, his ash trees, and his sycamores, which afforded the starling a retreat, it will not require the eyes of Argus to enable naturalists to discern the true cause why such numbers of assembled starlings take their leave of us in early spring.

This year seven pairs of jackdaws, twenty-four pairs of starlings, four pairs of ringdoves, the barnowl, the blackbird, the robin, the redstart, the house-sparrow, and chaffinch have had their nests in the old ivy-tower. The barn-owl has had two broods; and, while I am writing this, there are half-fledged young ones in the nest. As far as I can learn, there has been no plundering of the eggs of this community on the part of the starlings.

The

Nostell Priory, and return with them after daybreak. The starlings retire to a dense plantation of spruce, fir, and beech trees, and in the morning come to the ivy-tower to warble their wild notes, even when the frosts set in. These birds are now in their winter garb, which they assumed at the autumnal equinox, much duller, and of a more greyish white appearance, than that which they

had in the summer. I cannot find that naturalists have noticed this change.

The starling seems to be well aware of the peaceful and inoffensive manners of the windhover. This hawk rears its young in a crow's old nest, within two hundred yards of the ivy-tower; still the starlings betray no fears when the windhover passes to and fro; but they become terribly agitated on the approach of the sparrowhawk. I often see this bold destroyer glide in lowly flight across the lake, and strike a starling and carry it off, amid the shrieks and uproar of the inhabitants of the tower and sycamore trees.

The starling shall always have a friend in me: I admire it for its fine shape and lovely plumage, I protect it for its wild and varied song, and I defend it for its innocence.

MARY THORNTON, THE HAPPY BLIND
WOMAN.
No. II.

(Concluded from No. 609, page 256.)

ONE fine spring morning I walked to Elm End, to visit a young woman who was dangerously ill. From her cottage I proceeded to Mary Thornton's, where I was always a welcome visitor. I found its inmates, as usual, working away busily: Mary's sweet face was as calm and peaceful as ever; but on Alice's countenance I saw traces of care quite unusual to her. I asked the cause, and her mother replied, with a smile

"Why, sir, to tell you the truth, John's going to be married; and Alice has been fretting about it."

"His wages will be a serious loss to you," I

said.

"Sure they will, sir; but what can I say? William left his home to marry me when he was younger than John is; and Rachel Meyrick's a tidy saving girl, so I don't like to say a word against the wedding. Besides, sir, they've known one another from the cradle, as I might say; and it seems a'most just as if the Lord had ordered it."

"If you think so," I replied, "of course it is your duty to submit in silence; but I almost wonder at John's wishing to leave you."

Mary laughed and said, "O, sir, I don't know; I suppose it is all natural like; and I dare say as John does not think about leaving of us so much, as of getting a home for Rachel; for you see, sir, she's left very lonesome now her grandmother is dead. Sure enough, we shall be put upon shifts, sir, when winter time comes; but, after finding all these many years how the Lord has cared for us, 'twould be sadly ungrateful not to trust to him now."

Alice shook her head mournfully, and the big tears rolled down her cheeks, as she said, "I am afraid, sir, I am very ungrateful; for I cannot feel as mother does. I do not know what we shall do when we have lost John's wages."

"Prayer, Alice," I said, "is your only resource; you must pray for a trustful spirit, and be assured in God's own good time that he will give it to you. But why," I asked, "cannot John and Rachel live with you?"

"Why, sir," Mary answered, "I'm sure we'd all be willing to live together; but you see, sir, our cottage (though, thank God, it is neat and comfortable) is very small: upstairs we've only the room where William and I sleep, and the little one out of it where Alice sleeps, and Susan when she's home from service; and I'm sure we couldn't put up ever such a small bed in either of them, for John always lay on a mattrass on the floor against our bed."

"Well, Mary," I said, "I am sure you feel that all that God ordains is for the best, whether it be joy or sorrow; and, at all events, whatever befall you, you will always have one great comfort in your trustful spirits and firm faith."

"Ah, sir," Mary exclaimed, "you think better of me than I deserve; you don't know what bad thoughts come into my mind sometimes. But, thank God, I've good spirits, and they bear me up wonderfully; but I'm ashamed of talking of my troubles, when I'm so much better off than some, as deserve so much better than I."

I thought, as Mary said this, that, if any one could deserve any good thing, it would be she. However, I did not say so; but, blessing her in my heart, I turned to Alice, and asked her if she felt stronger and better now that the cold weather was gone.

"Thank you, sir," she replied, "I wouldn't complain, but I've felt very sadly sometimes lately; but I a'most think there's more amiss with my mind than my body."

"How so?" I added.

Why, sir, I cannot help fretting: I'm afraid as father will overwork himself when John's gone; but I know it's very sinful."

"Cast thy burden upon the Lord; for he careth for thee, Alice," I replied. "Seek your Saviour in prayer, and be assured he will be found of you. Ask, and ye shall have a heart that fears no evil, knowing who is its guide and keeper, and that his rod and his staff shall comfort and support you."

I then took from my pocket good bishop Wilson's prayers and meditations; and, marking those I thought most applicable to Alice, I put it into her hand, and took my leave.

On the following Sunday John and Rachel's banns were asked in church, and in the course of a month they were married. For some time, by the strenuous and united efforts of the three remaining members of the little family, there was no apparent alteration in the outward circumstances of the Thorntons; but they were to be tried as it were seven times in the fires of affliction, and the day of their visitation was near at hand.

Not long after John Thornton's marriage I was one morning sitting writing letters in my study, when my servant told me that "the blind woman and her daughter from Elm End were waiting to speak to me." I instantly rose and went to them, when I found that they had come to ask me for a ticket to enable Thornton to apply for advice and medicine at the dispensary. Mary looked grave and somewhat sorrowful, and Alice in vain tried to stop the tears which flowed freely, when her mother said—

"William has been very ailing for a long time, sir: he was always very subject to the rheumatics, and lately they have come on very bad.

But he could have borne them, sir, and he did, without saying a word; but now, for a week or more, he has been getting worse and worse. Sometimes he is taken giddy in his head; and sometimes he shakes all over just as if he was took with the palsy.

"I am afraid it must be the palsy," I said, somewhat too abruptly; and, when I saw their horrified look, and heard the heart-rending tone of deep feeling in which they both exclaimed, "O, sir, God forbid !" I was ashamed of myself for not having been more considerate in breaking the sad truth more tenderly to them. However, to unsay what I had said was impossible, so I tried to console them as well as I could, gave them what little assistance was in my power, and they went their way to the dispensary. For some days urgent business prevented my visiting Elm End; but, when I did so, I found that my worst fears on Thornton's account were realized. Vigorous measures had been adopted; but the disease had baffled all the efforts and skill of the doctor; and his was now a confirmed case of palsy, consequent on chronic rheumatism.

What were they to do? I could not find it in my heart to advise them to go to the union; for Mary wept as though her very heart would break at the bare idea of being separated in her old age from her husband.

"But how," I asked, "do you hope to support yourselves out of the house?"

"We must trust much to God's mercy," Mary replied; "and besides, sir, Mr. Morton has applied to the board, and they have allowed us two shillings a-week, and Alice and I must plait hard, and I'm sure John will do what he can for us; and Mr. Morton is very kind, and so are you, sir," she added, with a smile.

I promised all the assistance in my power, which was, however, I felt but little to offer, and then asked how the plait was then selling. Alice replied

"It fetches more than it has for some time, sir."

"Yes," said her mother; " and, as I tell Alice, it is one sign God has not forsaken us, that the price has risen so, when bread is lower than it has been for some time, sir."

I smiled at the almost joyous tone in which the afflicted woman said this, bade her go on her way trusting as she was in the Lord her strength, and then asked if there was anything of which she then stood in particular and immediate need.

"Well, sir," she answered, "if its not making too bold, I would ask you for some flannel for my poor William; he has but one jacket, and that I have mended till it will hardly hang togother."

"You have mended it!" I said, in a tone of surprise.

"O dear, yes, sir; in my poor way, sir, I do a deal of work and, really, sir, though my blindness is trouble enough, it is not quite so bad as you'd think. Now William's bad, and wants something warm o'nights, I always fetch it; for you see, sir, the darkness makes no difference to me, and I can always find my way about. What a comfort that is, sir!"

"It is, indeed," I said; "and believe me, Mary, with all your trials, your cheerful spirits

|

and firm reliance on God makes you happier than many are who roll in riches, and have all this world has to give."

For a year and more the Thorntons struggled on, oppressed as they were by sickness and poverty, without a murmur escaping Mary's lips. If Alice uttered a complaint, or John bemoaned the hard fate which awaited his parents' old age, they were instantly silenced by their mother, who would put her finger on her lip, and say kindly, but firmly

"Hush, my child, you are murmuring against God it is his will that we should have trouble; and, remember, every day you say to him who can see into all our hearts, "Thy will be done.""

Week after week, and month after month, passed by; and all hope that her husband would ever be anything but a palsied and helpless invalid had vanished from Mary's mind: still not a word of discontent had escaped her lips. She and her daughter worked day and, it might almost be said, night: still they made no complaint, but took all their trials as coming from God, and sent by him for some kind purpose. Were they hungry, and yet had not wherewith to satisfy the cravings of their appetites, Mary would remind them that our blessed Lord fasted forty days and forty nights; "and sure," she would say, we should not complain, because we are obliged one night to go hungry to bed." And, if she or Alice were wearied with a long and hard day's labour, she would exclaim, "O, my child, our Saviour was more wearied than we are when he carried the heavy cross; so don't let us murmur, but be thankful that we can be like him in anything, even in suffering." And these expressions were not said in my presence, and not acted upon when I was gone, as it is to be feared is too often the case; but they were often on her lips, and were the very thoughts of her heart put into words. Thornton himself rarely spoke: be sat with his hat on by the fire, his hands resting on his stick; and all the powers, both of mind and body, gradually became weaker and weaker. His weakness and total helplessness only made him an object of greater care and tenderness to his wife and daughter; and everything that affection could suggest, or the fruits of hard and unceasing labour supply, was afforded to the afflicted man. But all his comforts were dearly paid for; and he would have thought so, had he not been too much taken up by his own sufferings, to notice how pale and thin his child became. Alice was not formed for rude labour; and, though she bore up against illness, and tried to shake off the languor which sometimes came over her, yet she felt that her strength was beginning to fail; and she trembled when she thought of the cold wintry wind, and the still more trying cold damp fogs. And winter did at length come, and a cold biting winter it was, and sorely it tried poor Alice's weakly constitution. One damp, raw day, I was forced to go to the market-town, to do some business; and, as I breathed the air, it seemed to irritate my throat, and to lie like a weight on my lungs. Towards noon, a drizzling rain came on; and, as it was market-day, my pity was excited at seeing the groups of scantily clothed villagers exposed to such inclement weather. At length,

I had made my way through the crowd, and was about to leave the town, when a confused sound, as of many persons all speaking together, met my ear, and arrested my progress. Think ing that an accident had happened, and that I might be of some use, I approached the place whence the noise proceeded, and under an archway I found a crowd of people collected: I inquired the cause, and learned that a young woman had fainted, and that they were trying to restore her. At length I prevailed upon the bystanders to move, so that the air might reac 1the sufferer, and, to my infinite distress, when the crowd separated, I saw Alice Thornton in the arms of an old woman, lying to all appearances dead. She had not fainted, but, being quite exhausted by a long walk and the want of food, she had leaned for support against the archway, and had become quite numbed with the cold. She was removed into the nearest house, where every thing was done to revive her, but for some time ineffectually. At length, however, she recovered; and, having seen her lifted into the covered cart of a higgler who must pass by Elm End, I took my departure.

The next day I visited Alice; and my heart sank within me when I saw her, for I felt that her days were numbered. She coughed incessantly, and her voice was almost gone. In the lowest possible whisper she told me that she had stood about the town for more than four hours, trying, without success, to sell her plaits, and that she thought she must have died. And now Mary's faith was tried to the utmost; and, though tears fell fast and freely, yet she murmured not. She asked me to read of the sufferings of Christ, and then of the tortures and cruel deaths undergone by some of the holy martyrs of our church, and then she would exclaim, "Ah, Alice, what are our sufferings to theirs!" or "Thank God that our troubles are no heavier than they are:" and such as her conduct was on that day, so it was throughout her daughter's illness. At times her spirits, indeed, forsook her, and she was unable to repress her tears; but they were never rebellious tears, and a murmur against the trials sent by God never escaped her lips.

From that time Alice became worse and worse; and at length she was obliged to give up attempting to work, and was forced to keep her bed. Her sister Susan left service, to wait on her afflicted family; and kindly and well did she perform her office of nurse. It was a sad, yet profitable sight, to see those poor creatures, so deeply tried, yet still so resigned; and often and often I have been inclined to envy them their faithful hearts, and felt willing to change places with the much-tried but still happy Alice; for happy she truly was: her body was sore vexed, and her end drew nigh; but she was happy in the belief that her sins were forgiven, and a righteousness not her own imputed to her; and what did it signify to her that sorrow must be her portion for a few short weeks, or it might be months, if her spirit were thereby to be set free, and allowed to rise to heaven?

O, as eternity comes nearer and nearer, and we seem almost on the threshold, how small and paltry do the things of time appear! The troubles

we

have thought almost too heavy to bear

seem but trifles not deserving a tear. The pleasures, or the gains we have sought, seem unworthy one moment's thought, one struggle to obtain them. And why do we leave this lesson to be learned until it be too late? It can be learned while we are young and strong-as well as when we lie on the bed of languishing, and the knowing it only adds fresh pangs to those which torture our souls as well as body-if we will only study God's book, and take his word for it, that a man is profited nothing if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul, and that man is at best but vanity, and spends his life as a tale that is told. And Alice in the heyday of her youth had learned this lesson; in her prosperity she had chosen the better part, and in her adversity it was not taken from her. It was Good Friday, and after morning service I walked to Elm End. There was a chilling silence in the once neat and cheerful cottage, and I felt that all was not right. I lifted the latch; and, finding no one in the kitchen, with a noiseless step I ascended the stairs, and entered Alice's little room. Death was there! but not as the king of terrors. And as I approached the lowly bed of the dying Alice, and said in a low voice the beautiful blessing, "Peace be to this house and all that dwell therein," a fervent and heartfelt "Amen!" sealed it to themselves, as it arose from the lips of those mourners.

And but once more Alice spoke when I concluded with the blessing. Unto God's gracious mercy and protection we commit thee; the Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace both now and evermore ;" she softly murmured, "Through Christ all is peace," and expired.

were

Under the old yew tree in Elford churchyard the mortal remains of Alice Thornton placed, in "sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection unto life;" and many were the tears which watered the turf on her humble grave. But, before it was green, another mound was raised beside it; and there slept in Jesus her fond and faithful mother. Alice and Mary were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not long divided; for, before Whitsuntide came round, God, of his mercy, had taken the mourner unto himself. Thornton lived some years, weak in body and weaker still in mind; but his son was careful that he wanted no comfort which his small means and humble fireside afforded.

And now, reader, you know all about the Thorntons; for this is no tale invented to excite your pity or please your fancy. Thornton and Mary and poor Alice have lived and have died, as I have told you: their lives were as full of trouble, and their deaths as full of peace as I have described; and from their simple history I trust you have learnt a lesson that you will try and remember, for it is one which will be useful to you. Their troubles, you will own, were heavy ones, and hard to bear-as heavy, and perhaps heavier and harder to bear than any you yourself have known. Yet they never murmured, never were cast down. And what do you suppose supported them, and enabled them to be peaceful and even cheerful in the midst of trouble? It was the re