"Dear spot, which we have watch'd with tender heed, Bringing the chosen plants and blossoms blown Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own, Making all kindness register'd and known. Thou, for our sakes, though nature's child indeed, Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need."

Besides this innate desire to transplant wild-flowers, there is frequently a wish to bring away from some loved spot where happy days have been our portion, some memorials of our walks and enjoyments, and flowers seem peculiarly fitted for the purpose. We have thus long cherished bell-heather from Loch Achray, sea-pinks from the shores of Loch Long, primroses and anemones from many a shady nook, and last, but not least, daffodils from Rydal Mount.

Another pleasure in connexion with this love of wild flowers is derived from forming our native plants into a botanical bed, setting aside a portion of a border where nothing but British species are to grow. Some, however, of our friends need caution ere thus introduced, for they are apt to get beyond bounds, and can scarcely be got quit of. Thus I have myself to thank for bringing comfrey into the garden, where it is now a coarse and troublesome weed; it has no beauty, and was only planted in a botanical bed because it was a native plant. But what must be said about the lovely white convolvulus?

"The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells." Alas, that it should be so, but there is not a more destructive plant in a garden, and hardly one more beautiful. It was originally brought into our garden many a year ago, planted and provided with stakes to climb on, and it was not discovered for some time that it was secretly pushing its roots through a neighbouring strawberry bed up towards a wall, where it festooned the fruit trees with its garlands of pointed leaves and snowy bells. There was no possibility of eradicating it, although the strawberry bed was dug up and the original root cast out; but some of its roots are still entwined with those of the fruit trees, and year after year the plant comes up. Undeterred by this, and partly misled by its botanical name, sepium, which signifies belonging to a hedge, some small portions of this plant were put in beside a hawthorn hedge which divided a strip of vegetable ground from the garden, under the idea that it would climb amongst the hedge and remain there. Again, however, the same insidious process commenced; it crept underground undiscovered till it reached a wall covered with currant bushes, and there, and also in the intervening strip of ground, it flourished, choking the bushes, and well meriting the epithet, "the cumbrous bindweed/' Yet its beauty is great, both in its graceful manner of growth and its pure white bells; if it would only keep its own place, what a pretty addition it would be to our garden flowers.

Our spring pleasures would be very incomplete without the song of birds and the commencement of nest-building among them. The first song we have is that of the missel-thrush : harsher and shriller than the note of the blackbird, it has yet a resemblance to the song of that bird; it does not repeat each note, as the song-thrush does, and is frequently mistaken for the blackbird, even by persons who profess to know the notes of birds. The blackbird has a much richer, more mellow note, and does not commence singing so early in the year as either the missel or the song thrush. The latter forsakes the garden almost entirely in winter, one being rarely seen; but about February they make their appearance, and begin singing and building some time before the blackbird. The winter song of the robin changes to a more cheerful warble in spring; the tomtits begin even in January to utter their cheerful but monotonous notes; then come the hedge-sparrow and chaffinch, the latter being an incessant singer when once he begins, cheering even the blackest and stormiest March days with his merry note. He is not thought much of as a musician in this country; but Bech-stein, in his work on the "Natural History of Cage Birds," says:-"The passion for this bird is carried to such an extent in Thuringia, and those which sing well are sought for with such activity, that scarcely a single chaffinch that warbles tolerably can be found throughout the province. As soon as one arrives from a neighbouring country whose notes appear good, all the bird-catchers are after it, and do not give up the pursuit till they have taken it." He goes on to discribe no less than eight varieties of the song, remarking that "the song of the chaffinch varies almost as much as the countries it inhabits." This last fact may be observed here also. The song of the chaffinch is peculiar and easily known; but the difference between those of even one country and another is more difficult to describe; it is like the accent or tone by which people are discovered to belong to a place, and is quickly observed by those accustomed to notice the song of birds. I have observed this difference of accent in the songs of other birds : the blackbird and thrush, for instance, sing with a different tone along the west coast of Scotland from what they do here; indeed, each thrush varies in his notes slightly from every other, and it is quite possible to distinguish one individual bird by his song from all the others even in the same garden. The chaffinch, however, is not to be named as a songster equal to these, or even to the robin, though its note is merry and cheering from its association with spring; it is curious to hear them beginning to "record," as it as termed by bird-fanciers. Every spring they seem to require several rehearsals of their song before they can bring it out fully, and occasionally one is heard which has never attained the whole tune. The lark is not a garden bird, and therefore its song cannot be included in the pleasures spring brings within its bounds; but it is impossible to think of that season and its songs without recalling that "Bird of the wilderness Blithesome and cumberless," that favourite of all - peasant and poet alike welcoming the laverock. Hogg's Address to the Skylark is familiar to most people; Shelley has also written in its praise; and Wordsworth concludes his lines to this bird by declaring it to be "Type of the wise who soar - but never roam, - True to the kindred points of heaven and home."