stone wall yonder? Now he alights upon the tulip-tree, and swells his speckled breast in a series of short experiments—a broken song, in which every note or call has its twin echo. A “mocking-thrush” he is, indeed, for he mimics his own song from morn till night in all the thickets and pasture-lands. Take care there! why, you almost trod upon that feathery tuft of “Dutchman’s breeches.” Oh, who is he that dared to clothe this sweet blossom in such an ignominious title? Where is the Dutchman that ever wore unmentionables of such exquisite pink satin as that pale dicentra wears? No wonder their little broken hearts droop at the insult!