of the year. In the spring, however, it is quite otherwise; the
woodcock then mates, and, ere April showers have passed away, becomes
animated, sociable, and full of life; and, more extraordinary still, its
voice, till then mute, may actually be heard.

Yes, at this delightful season the woodcock is no longer silent, its
tongue is loosened, it breathes its tale of love, and, with joyful
notes, proclaims its happiness morning and night; and yet there are
those who would make us believe that the tender passion is useless, that
love is tom-foolery, or that it does not exist. To these blind
blasphemers, who thus deny its power, I would respectfully say, Come to
Le Morvan, and observe the woodcock, and then dare to say that love is
an untruth. Why, love is the great magician of the universe, the sun of
our minds, a path of fragrant violets, a perfect copse of _millefleurs_,
before which we all bend our hearts, aye, and, with vastly few
exceptions, our heads too. Yes, we all, at some period of our lives,
taste the delicious draught, and some drink deep of it, either to their
life-long happiness or the reverse. Love effects many a miracle, changes
everything, bows the neck of the proud, opens the eyes of the blind, and
shuts them for those who have very good sight; teaches the dumb to
speak, and those who are very loquacious to be silent. When the rosy and
naked little boy makes his appearance with his quiver, all is joy and
unreflecting happiness; when he is at home with his mamma, alas! the
world is all in shadow. The woodcocks, in like manner, are amiable,
eloquent, and engaging as long as the fumes of love affect their brain;
but when these are dissipated, they are dumb, and ten times more stupid
than they were before; and, dear me, how many human woodcocks, robed in
satin and balzarine, or sheathed in kerseymere trousers, are the same.

But, shades of Buffon and Linnaeus! we must not thus rattle on, but
proceed to describe the nuptial couch of the delicious bird under our
consideration. The woodcock, like all those of the feathered tribe that
do not perch, makes its nest on the ground, which is composed of leaves,
fern, and dry grass, intermixed with little bits of stick, and
strengthened by larger pieces placed across it. This nest, made without
much art or care, in form like a large brown ball, is generally placed
under, and sheltered by the root of some old tree. Four or five eggs, a
little larger than those of the com