A still more remarkable change of colour in a lark, belonging to Dr. Thos.  Scott, of Fanash, occurred under my own eye, and which, I have no doubt, was produced by grief at being separated from a mavis.  Their cages had long hung side by side in the parlour, and often had they striven to out-rival each other in the loudness of their song, till their minstrelsy became so stunning, that it was found necessary to remove the laverock to a drawing-room above stairs.

The poor bird gradually pined, moped, and ceased its song; its eyes grew dim, and its plumage assumed a dullish tint, which, in less than a fortnight, changed to a deep black.

The worthy physician watched with the eye of a naturalist this phenomenon; but, after awhile, fearing for the life of his favourite, he ordered it to be replaced alongside its companion.

In a short time it resumed its spirits and its song—­recommenced its rivalry with the mavis; but, after every moulting, the new feathers were always of the same coal-black colour.  The mavis evinced no corresponding feeling of attachment—­neither, so far as I recollect, missing its companion, nor rejoicing at its restoration.

A.C.  HALL.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

BATTLE OF THE CATS.

(From the “Noctes” of Blackwood.)

Tickler.—­A Battle of Cats.

  “How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon the slates!”

Miss Tabitha having made an assignation with Tom Tortoiseshell, the feline phenomenon, they two sit curmurring, forgetful of mice and milk, of all but love!  How meekly mews the Demure, relapsing into that sweet under-song—­the Purr!  And how curls Tom’s whiskers like those of a Pashaw!  The point of his tail—­and the point only is alive—­insidiously turning itself, with serpent-like seduction, towards that of Tabitha, pensive as a nun.  His eyes are rubies, hers emeralds—­as they should be—­his lightning, hers lustre—­for in her sight he is the lord, and in his, she is the lady of creation.

North.—­

  “O happy love! when love like this is found;—­
  O heartfelt raptures! blessed beyond compare! 
  I’ve paced much this weary mortal round,
  And sage experience bids me this declare.—­
  If earth a draught of heavenly pleasure share,
  One cordial in this melancholy vale,
  ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
  In others arms breathe out the tender tale”—­

Shepherd.—­The last line wunna answer—­

  “Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale”

Tickler.—­Woman or cat,—­she who hesitates, is lost.  But Diana, shining in heaven, the goddess of the Silver Bow, sees the peril of poor Pussy, and interposes her celestial aid to save the vestal.  An enormous grimalkin, almost a wild cat, comes rattling along the roof, down from the chimney-top, and Tom Tortoiseshell, leaping from love to war, tackles to the Red Rover in single combat.  Sniff—­snuff—­splutter—­squeak—­squall —­caterwaul—­and throttle!