The male is a fine animal, with large branching horns, somewhat like those of our own stag or red deer, but not quite so large. In a fine and well-developed specimen the horns will often display sixteen branching points. The general colour of the stag is a rather dark grey or brown, with patches of yellowish white upon the haunches, and for some little distance along the back. The neck of the male is covered with longer hair somewhat resembling a mane. The female is very similar in colour to the male, but she is smaller, and has neither horns nor mane.

The Cashmere stag is sometimes called the Nepal stag, and it has also other names, mostly derived from the localities where it is found. Many of these are native names conferred upon it by the inhabitants of various parts of the north of India, and when they are taken up and repeated by sportsmen and travellers they prove very confusing to naturalists, who cannot always be sure that they all refer to one animal.

All stags are very attentive to their mates, and the least cry of the female will draw her companion to her side. A hunter once saw a fine male come running up at the cry of his mate, which had just been shot. The poor thing was dead, but the stag stayed by her body, and would not be frightened away until he was quite sure there was no life left in it.



THE BLACK LEOPARD.

There are few animals more beautiful than the leopard, which inhabits India and Africa. Looking at its handsome fur, we cannot fail to be struck with the regular way in which the black spots or rings are arranged upon the reddish-yellow ground, and how regularly they vary in shape and size in different parts of the body.

Besides the ordinary spotted leopard there is, however, a black leopard. It is found in India and some other countries of southern Asia where the ordinary leopard lives, and seems most common upon the high lands. It is very much scarcer than the ordinary leopard, and is, indeed, very rare. The natives of India have a great dread of it, for they think it is more cunning, more ferocious and stronger than the spotted leopard, which is one of the fiercest and most active of the flesh-eating animals. It climbs trees and sports among the branches with all the agility of a cat. It is as ferocious as the tiger, and though not so large, its activity and strength make it a very dangerous foe.

Though the black leopard is different in colour from the ordinary leopard, it is in other respects very similar, and naturalists now regard it as only a variety of the spotted leopard. After getting together all the information which they can about the colours of the leopard and similar animals, they have come to the conclusion that the leopard family has a tendency to turn to black. This does not mean that full-grown spotted leopards sometimes turn black quickly, but that the cubs are occasionally born black, or grow dark soon after they are born.

The leopard is also known to show other variations of colour, but examples of these are very much rarer than black ones. All animals are liable to occasional variations of colour, which cannot be satisfactorily explained. In the leopard these variations occur more frequently than in most other animals, and the colour is nearly always black.



THE POET CRABBE'S FIRST SCHOOL.

Crabbe, the poet, whose Village Tales were the delight of a past generation, was sent to a boarding school whilst still so young that he had not even learnt to dress himself.

When he awoke in the morning after his first night away from home, he saw the other boys dressing, and was much disturbed. He whispered to his bedfellow (for all schoolboys slept at least two in a bed in those days), 'Master George, can you put on your shirt? for—for I'm afraid I cannot!'

This school, though only for small boys, seems to have been a very severe one, for Crabbe and his friends were punished for simply 'playing at soldiers.' He was condemned, with his friends, to be shut in a large dog-kennel, known by the terrible name of 'the Black Hole.' Little Crabbe was the first to be pushed in, and the rest were crowded in on top of him, till at last the kennel was so full of boys that they were all but suffocated. Crabbe in vain cried out that he could not breathe, but no notice was taken of him until, in despair, he bit the lad next to him violently in the hand.

'Crabbe is dying! Crabbe is dying!' roared the sufferer, and the sentinel outside at length opened the door, and allowed the boys to rush into the air.

Crabbe, when telling this story to his children in after years, always added, 'A minute more and I must have died!'

X.



MY PICTURE-BOOK.

Oh, what a pretty scene is this, Of meadow, hill, and brook, I wish that I was small enough To get inside the book. Upon this stream I'd launch my boat; I'd pluck this willow wand; Then round that reedy curve I'd float, And past the mill beyond— If I were only small enough.

Then where the meadows are so green I'd moor my boat again, And overtake that little boy Who's trotting down the lane. I'd ask him to be friends with me, I'd take him by the hand, And through my pretty picture we Would go to fairy-land— If I were only small enough.



ULRICH'S OPPORTUNITY.

The Thirty Years' War was raging, and Europe was torn by bitter party strife. All over the country men ranged themselves under their respective leaders and fought grimly to the death.

At the time of this story, the little German town of Bamburg had remained loyal to the Emperor Ferdinand, and had in consequence been closely besieged for many weeks by the troops of the Elector of Saxony. The flag still floated from the tower of the Town Hall, and a bold front was shown to the enemy; but in reality the inhabitants were in sore straits, when news reached them that if they could hold out one week longer help would come.

A council was summoned, and all who could bear arms were called to hear the glad news and to form fresh plans for the further defence of the town. Shrewd and cautious advice was sorely needed, and none was fitter to give it than stout old Karl Sneider, the keeper of the water-gate. So to-night he was not in his place in the little watch-tower that looked out over the broad river that flowed by the wall of the little town.

His watch was taken by Oscar Halbau, the clock-maker, who, although he was not a Bamburg man by birth, had lived there so long that the good people had come to regard him as one of themselves. Upstairs, in a quaint little room with sloping roofs and curious corners, lay Karl Sneider's crippled son Ulrich.

Usually bright and cheerful, to-night Ulrich was sadly depressed. To-day was his fifteenth birthday, and were not boys of fifteen allowed to take their places in the council? Caspar Shenk and Peter and Johann Hofman had run up to see him on their way to the Rathhaus, and had joined with him in begging his father to allow him to go, too, for with the help of his crutch and a friendly arm he could make his way to the Cathedral, and the Town Hall was not much further away.

'Nay, my son,' said his father firmly, 'a council is not like a service at church. Stay quietly here, and when I return I will tell thee all.'

He spoke cheerfully, but his heart ached to see the boy's disappointment, and when the other lads had gone he bent tenderly over him, saying, 'Only wait patiently, my son; thy turn will come, bringing the bit of work Providence means thee to do. There is work for every one if only we wait quietly for it.'

Long after he had gone, Ulrich thought over these words. They might be true, but it seemed as if there could never be work for him to do. His life seemed bounded by his couch and his chair by the window. Sometimes he went out, it was true, but at best it was a slow and painful business, and lately he had fancied the children laughed to themselves when he passed.

He was roused from these sad thoughts by something coming sharply against the window. He listened, and the sound was repeated again. Someone was throwing stones at the glass. Who could it be? and what could they want at that hour?

Stretching out his hand for his crutch, he moved softly across the room and peered out. There was just enough light to enable him to see a boat moored to the steps which ran up to the gate. He opened the window gently, and was about to speak when he heard the clockmaker's voice saying cautiously, 'Is that you, Captain?'

Ulrich knew then that the stranger had struck his window by mistake; clearly it was the guard-room window he had aimed at, and if that were so, why had the stranger chosen the very night that his father was away, and how did Oscar know him? As quickly as he could he put out his lamp and listened breathlessly. Oscar was speaking again.

'All is going well—better than I dared to hope. The fools think I am as loyal as themselves, and they have left me to guard the gate. The council will not be over till near midnight, and in half an hour the moon will be gone. I will open the gate when it is quite dark and admit your men, and the game will then be in our own hands.'

'You are a good fellow, Oscar, and shall be remembered,' replied the stranger. 'To-morrow, when the town is ours, your name shall be on every one's lips, and your pockets shall be filled with gold.'

He then turned back to his boat, and Ulrich leant back in his chair sick with horror. To think that here, in his father's house, sat a traitor, and that unless help came soon the town would be lost!

What could he do? It was useless for him to crawl downstairs and confront Oscar. He had only to carry him back to his room and lock the door to ensure safety. It was no less useless to cry for help, for a long row of warehouses separated the guard-room from any other dwelling. Oh! if he had only been like other boys, how easily he could have stolen downstairs, and rushed to the Town Hall and given the alarm! It seemed absolutely impossible for him to do it as he was. He had never gone downstairs alone in his life; his father had always been there to help him; even if he managed to crawl down he could not take his crutch with him, and he could not walk without it. No, clearly it was impossible.

And yet, as the slow minutes dragged away, and as he thought of the shame it would be if the town were lost, he decided to make the attempt. Slowly he crawled across the room and down the narrow, twisted staircase. He was trembling from head to foot, and his breath seemed to come in great gasps. What if Oscar heard him? His door was ajar, and the lamp threw a ray of light on the landing outside; but Oscar was deep in his plans, and did not notice the black shadow that moved slowly across the lamp-lit space.

At last Ulrich was outside, and he breathed more freely in the open air. If he had only had his crutch now, things might all have gone well, but how was he to crawl along the long Breite Strasse, and round the corner and up the still longer Gast Strasse to the Town Hall? His heart failed. Still, he could only try his best. Perhaps he might meet some one....

Alas! all who were not at the council were safely in their houses, and there was no one to notice the bent figure slowly dragging itself along, or to hear the feeble knocks as he tried to reach the great brass knockers, which were just too high for him to reach.

At last he came to the Cathedral, where he sometimes attended service, but he had his father's strong arm to lean on then, while now he was alone and quite exhausted. He could never reach the Town Hall in time; but the church door was open, perhaps some one was inside who could take the message. But the church was closed; it was only the porch which was open.

With a sob of despair the boy entered and sank down on a low bench by the door. After all it was no use; he could go no further, and even now the traitor might be opening the gates.

As Ulrich raised his hand to wipe away the big tears that would fall, he struck something soft hanging above his head; in the darkness he felt it. It was a rope.

Instantly his strength came back with a rush. There was hope yet! Was not the bell of the Cathedral the loudest in the town, and was it not used as an alarm in cases of fire? He grasped the rope and pulled with all his might. It was hard work, but soon the sound came—crash! crash! crash!

That would surely rouse the town. And so it did. Soon hasty footsteps were heard, and a watchman ran in, frantically waving his lantern.

'Where is it? What is it?—a fire? Speak, boy!' but Ulrich seemed to have lost his tongue. It was not until several others had gathered round him that he managed to gasp out, 'The water-gate—quick! Oscar is letting in the soldiers!'

The words flew like wild-fire, and off the crowd rushed—men, boys, burgomaster, and watchmen, just in time to capture the traitor and to drive back the enemy.



So his father had been right after all, and Ulrich's bit of work had been ready for him, and nearer than he thought. And he did his best, and doing his best saved the town. For help did come, and Ulrich was thanked by the Emperor himself, who put him under the care of his own doctor. The doctor, although he was not able quite to cure him, did him so much good that he was able in the course of time to walk without a crutch.

E. W. GRIERSON.



INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

VII.—HOW INSECTS BREATHE

Animal life cannot be sustained without breathing, though, strange as it may seem, many of the lower animals have no special breathing organs. By breathing, we mean supplying the body with the life-giving oxygen contained in the air. Animals which live in the water breathe by taking in the oxygen held in solution in the water.

In the simplest animals which live in water, the body is only a small 'blob' of jelly, so small that the oxygen passes directly into the body. The bodies of some worms are so delicate that the oxygen easily passes through the outer layers and mixes with the blood within.

In more complicated animals this life-giving gas is conveyed all over the body by means of the blood, which is brought into contact with the water, or the air, by structures known as gills. In the crayfish, for example, the gills are placed above and rise from the bases of the legs, being saved from injury by a broad shield lying behind the head. (In fig. 4 this shield has been cut away so as to show the gills, marked G, which it really covers.) By means of the circulation of the blood, the crayfish breathes. This blood is carried to the gills and bathed by a constant stream of fresh water, which enters behind the covering and shield, and passes forwards till it comes out on each side of the mouth. The blood, thus refreshed by the oxygen in the water, is carried again all over the body, and in its course loses more and more oxygen, and becomes more and more charged with poisonous gases, which are got rid of on the return of the blood to the gills. The letter S in this figure marks the stump of the leg, which, for the sake of clearness, has been cut off.

In ourselves, the work of breathing, or of purifying the blood, is done by means of the lungs. The lungs are large, spongy organs in the chest, and are continually supplied with fresh air, which passes in through the nose and mouth and down the wind-pipe, by what we call the act of breathing.

Insects take in oxygen in a way quite different from that of the crayfish or mankind. In some larval insects, which live in water, as in some worms, the body is so thin that no special breathing organs are necessary; others breathe by means of gills like those of the crayfish, but arranged differently—sometimes along each side, and sometimes at the tail end of the body. But in the ordinary adult insect the work of breathing is carried on by means of a system of tubes, known as 'tracheae,' which run all over the body. Into these tubes the air is drawn through a number of holes on the surface of the body, called 'spiracles,' or breathing pores. The tracheae or tubes are everywhere bathed by the blood, which is thus constantly 'aerated,' or kept fresh.

One very remarkable thing about these tubes is the way they are kept open. A horny, spirally-twisted thread runs through them, and thus they are prevented from closing up by pressure, or by the bending of the body or limbs. In fig. 2, this thread is marked C. This plan of keeping open the passage in a tube likely to be blocked by sudden bending, has been imitated by mankind, in making rubber gas tubing, for example. As a plain rubber tube is easily bent, the gas would be in constant danger of being cut off. To prevent this, Nature's patent is usually imitated, and a coil of wire is placed along the inside of the tube. Thus, a sharp bend, such as would instantly obstruct the passage of the gas, is prevented.

The openings at the end of the breathing tubes, on the surface of the insect's body, are known, as we have said, as 'spiracles,' or 'stigmata.' They can be closed at will by special muscles, and, to prevent dust from getting into the tube, the rim of each spiracle has a more or less complicated fringe or strainer. In fig. 3 the spiracle is shown open, the opening being marked by the letter O. When closed the fringes interlock like clasped fingers.

Fig. 1 shows the position of the breathing tubes in the aphis or green fly. The spiracles or pores are marked O, the breathing tubes T.

Some insects which live in water, such as the water-beetle, breathe air in the same way as their relatives who live on land. To do this they have to come frequently to the surface of the water to take in fresh supplies of air. In the great Dyticus water-beetle this is done in a curious way. The creature, rising to the surface, first thrusts its tail up into the air, and then bending it downwards, lets the air rush in to fill the space between the body and the upper wing-cases. This done, the tail is pressed back again, and the beetle returns to the depths, where the imprisoned air is taken in through the pores into the tubes.

Besides the system of tubes just described, many insects possess a wonderful system of air-cells, which give extra help in breathing during flight. These air-cells are largest in insects which fly most. It is a curious fact that birds have an exactly similar system; in many cases, even the bones of birds are filled with air. It is generally stated, indeed, that birds with the strongest flight have the most 'pneumatic' bones. This not quite true, for the swallow, for example, has the long bones of its wing filled with marrow, and not with air. Other birds, however, like the storks, which fly much, and the owls and nightjars, have all the bones in the body thus filled with air which they obtain from the air-cells.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.

(Continued from page 227.)

CHAPTER V.

'I shall not be able to make plum duff,' said Charlie to Ping Wang, about half an hour after his loss of the cook's recipe-book.

'There will be a row if the men discover that you don't know how to make it,' Ping Wang declared, looking serious. 'But never mind that, I have something more important to tell you. Come aft; the skipper may be listening to what we are saying.'

They went right to the stem of the trawler and stood against the gunwale.

'No one can come near us without our seeing him,' Ping Wang said, and continued at once: 'Could you swim a mile in a sea like this?'

'I think so.'

'Then let us desert the Sparrow-hawk when darkness comes on.'

'But where are we to swim to? I don't see any boats within five miles of us.'

Ping Wang pointed to the horizon, where the smoke of about half-a-dozen trawlers was plainly visible.

'That's a fleet of steam trawlers,' he declared, 'and before midnight we shall be among them. When one comes within a mile or so of us, we will jump overboard and swim to her. The skippers and men on the steam trawlers belonging to the large fleets are splendid fellows, and when they hear what a beast Skipper Drummond is, they won't send us back. We must start as soon as possible after the midnight shoot, if there is any trawler near us then.'

'Suppose the skipper thinks we have fallen overboard and sends a boat to rescue us?'

'I don't think that he would take the trouble. But listen! I can hear him on the bridge. Don't let him see us talking, in case he suspects that we are up to something.'

Ping Wang made his way for'ard, while Charlie returned to the galley and busied himself in making buns. He had made some on the previous evening, and although he did not enjoy the one that he tasted, the crew found no fault with them.

As he worked, he could see through the porthole that the fishing fleet was drawing nearer. Some of the trawlers were miles away on the starboard bow, and others on the port.

Three hours later, when it was dark, Charlie counted twenty-five trawlers, and every now and again he could see the mark-ship's rockets piercing the night gloom. At ten o'clock he calculated that the nearest trawler was quite three miles away, and judging from the course the steamers were taking, he began to fear that it would come no nearer. But shortly before the men turned out to haul, Ping Wang popped his head into the galley and beckoned Charlie to come outside.

'As soon as we have hauled and shot,' he said in a whisper, 'we must slip off aft and dive overboard.'

'We shall have to swim nearly two miles.'

'Oh, no; nothing like that distance,' Ping Wang declared, and pointed to a smack on the starboard side which Charlie had not noticed.

'It's a mission ship,' Ping Wang explained, 'and she will lay to until daybreak. By the time that we have hauled and shot we shall be abreast of her, and won't have more than half a mile to swim. The skipper is fast asleep, and, as the mate is not going to disturb him, we shall have a quiet haul.'

A few minutes later, Charlie and Ping Wang were tugging at the cold, dripping net, delighted at the thought that it was the last time they would have to perform such work.

'It's a splendid haul,' the bo's'un called out to the mate, as the net of fish was swung over the pound.

As he spoke, the fish fell with a splash in the pound, and, the catch being extra large, many of the bigger fish jumped out of the enclosure and wriggled and slid about the deck. Charlie and another man picked them up and tossed them back into the pound.

As soon as the net had been let right out again, Charlie walked aft and found that Ping Wang was already there. The other men had gone for'ard to clean and pack the fish.

'Are you ready?' Charlie asked.

'Quite,' Ping Wang answered, and at once they began to undress.

'I shall not take off my under-clothes,' Charlie said, 'in case the water is very cold.'

'Nor will I,' Ping Wang said.

In a few moments both were ready.

'Chinee!' the mate shouted from the bridge. 'Chinee!' the men in the fish-pound repeated.

'They have missed us,' Charlie said. 'I'm off.' He climbed on the starboard gunwale, balanced himself for a moment and then dived into the sea. Ping Wang was after him in an instant.

Charlie saw the sailing-boat and made towards it.

'Let us keep close together,' he said to Ping Wang, 'in case anything should happen to either of us.'

Ping Wang did not wish to waste his breath in talking, but showed that he agreed with Charlie's suggestion by drawing closer to him. For a time—they did not know for how long—they swam silently onwards, but there was a big ocean swell, and often the ship for which they were bound was completely hidden from their sight for some minutes. When they did catch sight of her, they found that they were not making rapid progress. They were still a long way from the ship, and when they had been swimming for a good time, Ping Wang's courage began to fail him.

'I shall never reach her,' he declared, 'I'm getting tired. It is all up with me.'

'Nonsense, man,' Charlie answered, swimming a little closer to him. 'Have a rest; float.'

Ping Wang acted on Charlie's advice.

'She was much farther from the Sparrow-hawk than we thought,' Ping Wang declared, when he had rested for a few moments.

'You're right,' Charlie answered; 'but we shall reach her in ten minutes at the latest.'

Ping Wang, encouraged by what Charlie had said, turned over and resumed swimming.

For more than ten minutes they swam steadily onward without saying a word, but still the sailing-boat was a long way from them, and Charlie vowed to himself that never again would he attempt to judge distances at sea.

A few minutes later Ping Wang again turned on to his back. He did not utter a word, but Charlie knew by his heavy breathing that he was nearly exhausted. When he had lain there for some minutes he said, with a gasp, 'I will have one more try,' and started off again. But when he had swum a few yards he said, feebly, 'I can't reach her. Don't you bother about me. Look after yourself.'

'I won't go aboard her without you,' Charlie declared, and kept a closer watch on his companion. Soon he saw that Ping Wang, if left to himself, would be drowned.

'Turn on your back and lie still,' he said, 'and I'll tow you.'

Very fortunately Charlie had often practised the art of saving life from drowning, and therefore had no difficulty in supporting Ping Wang, who had the presence of mind to lie still. In a few minutes the Chinaman recovered somewhat, and Charlie, seeing the improvement, said, 'If you can support yourself for a few moments I'll hail the ship.'

'All right,' Ping Wang replied, and Charlie, letting him go, turned over and shouted towards the sailing ship, 'What ho, there!'

For two or three minutes he waited for an answering shout, but none came.

'What ho! what ho!' he sang out, and almost immediately he saw some lights moving about on the deck of the ship.

'Help, help!' he shouted with all his strength.

'Coming,' was the faint reply that reached him, and almost at the same moment he noticed that a boat was being lowered.

'We shall be picked up in a few minutes,' he said to Ping Wang, and the good news had such a reviving effect upon the Chinaman that he turned over and began to swim again.

'Lie still,' Charlie shouted, knowing that his companion's strength would otherwise soon expire.

Ping Wang obeyed instantly.

'Where are you?' the men in the boat called out.

'Here,' Charlie answered, and so that the boat might not have much difficulty in finding them, he hailed her every few moments.

Sometimes he caught sight of her on the top of a wave, and then he would see nothing more of her for quite a minute. But at last she reached them.

'Take my friend first,' Charlie sang out to the man who was holding aloft a big lantern to get a look at them.

In a moment the boat was brought alongside Ping Wang, who was fished out in a state of collapse. Charlie, almost unaided, scrambled in, and at once busied himself in striving to revive his companion. Fortunately he was successful, and by the time the boat reached the ship, Ping Wang was not much the worse for his long and unpleasant swim.

(Continued on page 242.)



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.

(Continued from page 239.)

CHAPTER VI.

The three men who had rescued Charlie and Ping Wang were not talkative, and beyond saying, 'That's all right,' when they were thanked for their assistance, scarcely said a word. The skipper of the sailing ship was, however, very different.

'Get down below, boys, and put on some dry togs,' he exclaimed genially, as Charlie and Ping Wang scrambled over the gunwale. 'There are chests full of them.'

The fugitives obeyed him willingly, but as Charlie put on the dry things provided for him, he took stock of the saloon, and was astonished at what he saw. Pictures of prize-fighters and race-horses hung on the walls, and at the far end of the saloon there was a sort of bar, behind which he noted some black bottles.

'Surely this can't be a mission ship,' Charlie said, in an undertone, to Ping Wang.

'It isn't what I expected to find on one,' Ping Wang answered. 'However, we shall soon know, for here comes the skipper.'

'Well, how are you feeling now?' the skipper inquired boisterously.

'Better,' Charlie answered, wondering what his nationality was, for although he spoke English fluently, he was evidently a foreigner.

'That's good,' the skipper replied, 'but why didn't you tip me the wink that you were coming over to us? I would have had the boat hanging around for you. Do any of the other fellows want to come aboard?'

'No, they have all turned in by now.'

'What a crew they must be. Who is your skipper?'

'Drummond, of the Sparrow-hawk.'

'I know him. He passed a bad five-shilling piece on me the last time he was aboard this craft.'

'Will he come aboard to-morrow do you think?' Ping Wang asked, with difficulty concealing his anxiety.

'Not likely. I told him that if ever he set foot on the Lily, I would go for him. However, we don't want to talk about him. What are you going to drink?'

'Tea or coffee, I don't mind which.'

The skipper threw back his head and laughed heartily, as if Charlie had said something that was witty. 'Do you really mean it?' he asked at length.

'I do.'

'Well!' the skipper gasped, and was evidently overcome with surprise.

After a few minutes' silence his spirits revived.

'I'll send you some tea down before long,' he said, and then went on deck without another word.

'Do you know what this ship is?' Charlie asked as soon as he was gone.

'If this is not a pleasure-boat, I do not know what it is,' Ping Wang answered.

'It's a coper.'

'A coper! What is that?'

'I thought every one in the North Sea knew.'

'This is only my second voyage, and your countrymen do not talk to me as freely as if I were an Englishman. What is a coper?'

'It is a boat that sails about the North Sea to sell drink and tobacco to our fishermen. She flies a flag to show that she has tobacco for sale, and when the men come aboard her, they are tempted to drink, just as we were a few minutes ago. As a rule the poor fellows do drink, and if their money is not all spent by the time that they are intoxicated, they are cheated at cards or robbed. I am very much afraid that we have not bettered ourselves by leaving the Sparrow-hawk, for if the skipper of the coper finds that we have money, even though we neither drink nor gamble, he will be anxious to get rid of us.'

A few minutes later a boy brought down to them two mugs of what was supposed to be tea.

'What awful stuff,' Charlie exclaimed after tasting it. 'One sip is quite enough for me.'

'There must be something besides sugar and milk in it,' Ping Wang declared.

'That is very likely. The skipper hopes that it will get in our heads without our knowing that we have been drinking intoxicants. We will upset the rascal's plans by not drinking any more of the tea.'

In about a quarter of an hour the skipper returned.

'Well, boys, how are you getting on?' he exclaimed. 'Have some more tea?'

'No, thank you,' Charlie replied. 'We haven't drunk this. There's something about the taste that we don't like.'

'It's first-class tea. I've never had any complaints about it until now. I'm very sorry that you don't like it, for you need something warming after your long swim. But look here, if you are tee-totalers, what did you come aboard the Lily for?'

'We made a mistake. We mistook her for another boat.'

The skipper looked at Charlie searchingly. 'Did you think she was a revenue cutter?' he asked.

'Oh, no; we mistook her for a mission ship.'

Now, coper skippers have the same hatred for mission ships that they have for revenue cutters, for the former, by selling tobacco at low prices, keep the North Sea fishermen away from the copers, and so have spoiled their traffic in intoxicant drinks.

'You thought she was a mission ship, did you?' the skipper growled. 'Well, you made a fine mistake.'

'We know that now,' Charlie replied.

'Then why are you sticking here? Jump overboard, and swim back to the Sparrow-hawk.'

'I should be drowned,' Ping Wang declared.

'Well, that wouldn't be much of a loss. There are too many Chinamen already.'

'Look here, skipper,' Charlie interrupted, anxious to prevent a quarrel, 'I have a proposal to make. My friend and I left the Sparrow-hawk because the skipper was a wretched little bully. I suggest that we stay here, as passengers, until we meet a boat for Grimsby that will take us aboard.'

'You will have to pay me before you leave the Lily.'

'I'll do so, willingly, unless your charges are unreasonable.'

'Will you pay in advance?'

'Certainly not; but I'll settle up with you every evening.'

'Then hand over sixpence for those two cups of tea.'

'Sixpence!' Charlie answered, 'Why, you are charging as if you had put brandy in them. I'll give you threepence.'

Charlie took his belt from his pocket, and, as he undid the pouch attached to it, in which he kept his money, the skipper caught sight of three or four sovereigns.

'Well,' he said, as he pocketed the three pennies which Charlie gave him, 'I ought to let Skipper Drummond know that you are aboard; but, as I owe him a grudge, I won't. I haven't any spare bunks for you, so you must sleep on the cushions here.'

Charlie and Ping Wang were far from considering that a hardship, for the coper's saloon was a little palace compared with the Sparrow-hawk's foc's'le.

'Well,' the skipper continued, 'I'm going to shut up for the night.'

He drew a sliding-door down over the bottles, and locked it, and left them. As soon as he had gone they lay down and, finding the saloon cushions fairly comfortable, were soon asleep. They awoke about seven o'clock and, going on deck immediately, found that during the night the Sparrow-hawk had steamed away. The coper was, however, in the midst of a busy scene; for the stream-trawlers belonging to the fleet which Charlie and Ping Wang had seen on the previous day had closed in, and were busy sending their boxes of fish aboard the steam-carrier that was waiting to hurry off with them to Grimsby. The fish was conveyed from the trawlers to the carriers in small, but strongly built, rowing-boats, and some of these, after getting rid of their load, came to the Lily. As the men sprang over the gunwale on to the deck, the skipper greeted each with a hearty 'What cheer, sonny?'

Many of the fishermen were easily prevailed upon to go below and drink. Some indulged in one glass, and then hurried off to their ships; but two men remained in the saloon long after the others had departed. When they had been there for half an hour their skipper blew his siren loudly, as a command for them to return at once. Each came on deck quickly; but they were intoxicated to an extent that surprised Charlie, considering the short time they had been on the Lily.

'They will never get back to their ship,' Charlie declared to the skipper of the coper.

'That is their look-out, not mine,' the skipper answered, and turned away, evidently not caring what happened to them.

The Lily, in common with all the North Sea trawlers, had no ladder by which men quitting the ship could descend into the small boat. The departing man has to hang from the gunwale until the small boat is lifted high on a wave, and then he drops quickly into it. A moment's hesitation may result in his falling into the sea, sometimes with the risk of being crushed between the ship and the small boat. Charlie had good reason, therefore, for thinking that the two poor fellows might meet with an accident, but the men themselves did not consider that there was any danger.

'We shall be all right,' one of them answered noisily, when Charlie advised them to be careful, and the man who spoke certainly dropped into the small boat as easily as if he were sober. The other man, however, hung to the gunwale longer than he should have done, and, consequently, when he did release his hold he had a long way to drop. He landed with both feet on one of the seats, and after struggling for a moment to balance himself, fell backwards into the sea, but, fortunately, not between the boat and the ship. His mate broke into a laugh, but made no attempt to rescue him. Possibly he thought that the man could swim, but it was clear to Charlie that he could not, and that unless he went to his assistance he would be drowned. So he pulled off his coat and dived into the sea. He came to the surface just beside the man, and, seizing him, pushed him along until they reached the boat, into which the now sober fisherman quickly scrambled. In the meanwhile the other man, seeing Charlie dive to the assistance of his shipmate, had come to the conclusion that he also ought to do something. He dived in, but in consequence of the muddled state of his head, swam in the wrong direction, and by the time that it dawned on him that he had made a mistake his mate had been rescued by Charlie.

Being a good swimmer, the man regained the boat easily, and Charlie was glad to see that the water had sobered him as effectually as it had his mate.

'You've had a very narrow escape,' Charlie said to the man whom he had rescued. 'Now take my advice, both of you, and don't you ever again set foot on a coper. If you want tobacco, go to a mission ship.'

Charlie got on the seat as he finished speaking, and as the little boat was lifted on a big wave he sprang upwards, grasped the Lily's gunwale and climbed aboard, leaving the men to whom he had denounced copers to wonder why he was on one. Loud blasts from their trawler's siren instantly drove all thoughts of Charlie's action from their minds, and rowing hard they worked their way back to their ship, where they received a lecture from the skipper which they did not forget that voyage.

(Continued on page 253.)



ALL PRIME MINISTERS.

Many years ago there was a clever and kind doctor at a Paris hospital where the patients were of the poorest class. The skill of this doctor somehow reached the ears of the then Premier of France, who, being about to undergo a very serious operation, sent for this doctor to perform it.

'You must not expect, doctor,' said the Prime Minister to the surgeon as he entered the room to arrange for the operation, 'to treat me in the same rough manner as if I were one of your poor wretches at the hospital.'

'Sir,' answered the doctor with dignity, 'every one of those poor wretches, as you are pleased to call them, is a Prime Minister in my eyes.'

X.



DON'T BEGIN.

Two little dogs, one summer's day, Who tired of play had grown, Discovered lying in their way A most attractive bone.

'I saw it first—'tis mine—let go!' The one in anger cried; 'I shan't, how dare you say 'tis so,' The other one replied.

And so no doubt they wrangled on, Although I cannot tell Where those two little dogs have gone, Or how the fight befell.

But quarrels, as we know, take two, And some one must give in, So far the wisest thing to do Is simply—don't begin.

C. D. B.



THE PARKS OF LONDON.—II.

In the days of Queen Bess the pretty village of Stoke Newington was a pleasant object for a country walk of about three miles from the City boundary of London. The village lay amid dense woods whence came its name—Stoe being the Saxon word for wood, and Stoke Newington meaning the new town in the wood. Its derivation shows what an old place it is, and we may picture to ourselves how, ages ago, the dwellers within the City walls would joyfully leave London, on holidays, by the Moor Gate, and wend their way northward to the shady trees and grassy banks of the roadway known as the 'Green Lanes'—names which, like Stoke Newington, still survive. Along that road the royal chariot of Queen Elizabeth might occasionally be met coming from the Tower; for at Stoke Newington, in a mansion beside the church, dwelt some of the Dudley family, whom she delighted to honour.

A story is told how, when her Majesty was the persecuted Princess Elizabeth, living under the stern rule of her sister, Queen Mary, she paid a stolen visit to London to see how Court matters were progressing. The Dudleys befriended her, and went so far as to hide her in a brick tower in the Park, communicating with their home by a secret passage. To judge by what history tells of Queen Mary, these devoted friends ran no slight risk, and Queen Elizabeth, in later years, did her best to repay their kindness. We read that, on one visit after her accession, she took a jewel of great value from her dress and presented it to the daughter of the house, Lady Anne Dudley. One avenue off the Park is still known as Queen Elizabeth's Walk, and tradition says she was fond of pacing up and down there with the master of the house.

The next time we hear much of Stoke Newington Park, it was in the hands of Mr. Jonathan Hoare, one of the founders of the great banking house of that name; and, later still, it was rented from the Ecclesiastical Commissioners by one of the Crawshay family, then known as 'the iron princes' of Wales. His lease set forth that he was to pay the sum of one hundred and nine pounds a year rent, with one good, fat turkey, the latter probably appearing at the annual dinner of his landlords. For this consideration he was allowed to call house and land after his own name, but was forbidden to cut down timber. Mr. Crawshay's tenancy closed romantically with the incident which won the place its present title.

He had two fair daughters, whom no doubt he wished to see married to rich and noble husbands. Great, therefore, was his anger when he found that one of them had given her affections to the curate of the parish, Mr. Clissold by name. Mr. Clissold was forthwith forbidden to set foot within Crawshay Farm again. To ensure this, the walls of the place were made higher, and the hard-hearted parent expressed his firm resolve of shooting any messenger who tried to carry letters secretly. How long this state of affairs lasted does not appear, but it was ended by the death of Mr. Crawshay. Then the curate and his hardly-won bride became tenants of the mansion, and changed its name to Clissold Park or Place.

As Clissold Park it was bought from the Ecclesiastical Commissioners for ninety-six thousand pounds, and formally opened by Lord Rosebery in 1889.

Perhaps the greatest charm of this particular park lies in its evident old age—trees, turf, and the disused mansion all bear witness that it is no newly planted recreation ground, but a noble relic of the days of old, with a stately dignity all its own.

A number of deer enclosed in the middle of the park prove that these pretty creatures are not always shy. A family of kittens could not be less afraid of the admiring crowd which watches them. At the same time the deer were presented to the park, a number of guinea-pigs were also introduced, and they still flourish in their cosy enclosure, giving endless delight to the children of the neighbourhood.

The beauty of the park is greatly increased by the waters of the New River, which wind in and out of the grounds as well as round them, although the charm of the stream is somewhat spoilt by a close iron fencing, walling in the water on both sides. This, however, appears to be a necessity, to protect the numerous fish from the keenness of would-be fishermen.

Bridges cross the river in many places, and two lakes of some size, studded with wooded islets, afford homes for swans, ducks, and other water-fowl. Near the mansion there is a bandstand, and all about the grounds there are seats and rustic shelters for the elders, whilst the young folk and children are making merry with games.

In the spring and autumn a very favourite place for basking in the sun is the terrace before the old house, in part of which refreshments are provided. Some of the views in the park are exceedingly pretty, especially in the direction of the deer park, looking towards the mansion, where the old parish church stands out against the trees, whilst the fine open tower of a new church, with a graceful spire, rises above the green foliage.

Stoke Newington has been the home of various celebrated men: John Howard, the philanthropist, who did so much to alleviate the horrors of prison-life; Defoe, whom we all love for the sake of Robinson Crusoe; Dr. Watts, author of many of our best-known hymns, among the number.

It is pleasant to know that the leafy walk of the Green Lanes is still an attractive one for Londoners, although the mossy banks of former days have long been lined with handsome houses, and though a wide expanse of densely populated town lies between Clissold Park and the street still known as London Wall, whence the Moor Gate, with all its companion portals, have long vanished.



HE SET THE EXAMPLE.

A gentleman was once entertaining his friends at a grand dinner. He was a sad boaster, and was often guilty of describing deeds that he had done when an officer in the army, which those who knew him well felt sure were greatly exaggerated. He was in the midst of some such anecdote when the butler brought him word that a man wished to see him.

'Tell him I am engaged with my friends, and can see no one,' said the gentleman, pompously.

The butler retired, but soon came back to say the man was most urgent in wishing to speak to the gentleman, and said he had been in his regiment at a famous battle, where he owed his life to the officer.

'Show him in! show him in!' said the host, much gratified. 'This good fellow says I saved his life at X——,' he added, turning to his guests as the old soldier came in. 'How was it?' he went on, 'for I am sure I forget; in the heat of battle one does brave things almost unconsciously.'

'It was like this, your Honour,' said the soldier: 'I owed my life to you, for I certainly should never have thought of running away if you had not set me the example!'



A PEEP AT NORTHERN ITALY.

It is comparatively easy now to run over to Switzerland, and through the lovely scenery of the St. Gothard Pass, to the plains of sunny Italy; but this land of light and song is very little known to English boys and girls.

Of all the lovely lakes that reflect the deep blue of the summer skies, none is more beautiful than Lake Lugano, although Como is larger and Maggiore has a charm of its own. The town of Lugano stands at one end of the lake. It is pretty and bright, with many things to interest and amuse; but it is in the villages dotted along the south side of the lake that the real life of the people is to be seen.

These villages are surrounded by vineyards. The grapes are gathered in October, when the whole scene is very animated and gay. Every one—men, women, children, even the ox-waggons of the country—is pressed into the service, and the vineyards resound with songs and laughter. From these grapes a red wine is made. It is the ambition of every peasant to own a small vineyard and a boat.

On the other side of the lake rises a range of hills covered almost to the water's edge with deep green woods. In some places cliffs rise between wood and water, and in these cliffs are many small natural caves. These have been enlarged and enclosed with doors, so as to form wine vaults, and in them is stored much of the wine made in the district.

On Sunday afternoons in summer the lake is alive with boats, each holding a happy family party of father, mother, and children, and laden with cakes made from polenta, and other dainties. They are all bound for the caves, where a series of merry picnic parties is soon in progress.

The provisions are taken from the boats, the wine vault is opened with a key, for all are kept carefully locked, and then the feast begins. Soon the air is filled with song and laughter. The whole afternoon is spent in this way, and only in the cool of the evening do the merry revellers return to their simple homes across the lake.

The boats look very pretty. They are rather wide and shallow, and in the middle a white canvas covering is stretched from side to side, supported on bent canes, to make a shelter from the heat of the sun. The boatman in the dress of the country stands at the end, and drives the boat through the water with rapid strokes from his single oar.

The streets are narrow and crooked, and the houses are built very irregularly. There is no pavement, and the dust is amazing. The brown-faced, bare-legged children, with large solemn-looking brown eyes, tumble about in it, munching ripe red tomatoes with their hunches of brown bread. In the grass by the road-side funny little green lizards run in and out, hurrying away at your approach as fast as their legs will carry them.

It is very strange to see even the smallest cottages fitted with electric light, but this is the case in one village, Marroggia. A clever German has set up some works close by, and drives the machinery by power derived from a beautiful waterfall near the village.

From Marroggia a young Italian went to London some years ago to seek his fortune. He succeeded so well that he soon became rich. Returning to his native village, he built there a beautiful villa, with gardens and lawns sloping down to the lake. When it was finished he gave a feast to all the villagers. Thousands of fairy lamps and Chinese lanterns were sent for from London to illuminate the gardens, and turn them for the occasion into fairyland. The peasants had never before seen anything like it. They danced, they sang, and ate the good things provided for them. They would willingly have lingered there all night, and it was only when the last lamp flickered and went out that they returned home to dream of what they had enjoyed.

At one end of the lake stands Monte Generoso. The top is reached by a mountain railway, which zig-zags its way up through the woods. It feels very strange as the engine goes up panting and puffing, turning a sharp corner at every few yards; but the view from the summit is very fine, and the journey down still more exciting than the ascent.

At the other end of the lake is a famous china and earthenware manufactory. You can reach it by steamboat, but it is much better fun to go in a small boat, where you can lie under the awning and watch the boatman, in his white shirt-sleeves and coloured velvet waistcoat, steering his boat like the gondoliers of Venice.

The china manufactory is old-fashioned, but very interesting. The potter's wheel is still used there, and it is wonderful to see the ease and quickness with which a lump of clay is made into a cup, a saucer, a vase, or any other article you may ask for. After it is taken off the wheel, it is dipped into liquid glaze, then ornamented with some design transferred from coloured paper, and finally fired in the furnace.

Most people who visit the Italian lakes go on to Milan, a very important, busy town. On the way you pass through large tracts of country covered with maize and rice fields. The maize grows to an enormous height, and the rice is watered artificially by tiny streams, which may be seen trickling through the fields in all directions.

ELAINE CARRUTHERS.



CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

VII.—BALLOONS AT THE SIEGE OF PARIS IN 1870.

Towards the close of the war between France and Germany, in 1870, the German troops lay so closely round the walls and fortifications of Paris that all communication with the outside world was cut off. No letters could be sent to friends, and no letters from friends could be received, for, once outside the walls of the town, they would surely fall into the hands of the enemy. But the post office was anxious to continue doing its duty, and the Government felt bound to find some means for sending out and receiving official dispatches. The only way to accomplish this was by the use of balloons. Paris had always been very busy with balloons, but, when inquiries were made, it was found that there were not more than six in all the city, and these were far too old and worn out to use. Balloons must, therefore, be made, said the authorities, and two gentlemen, named Godard and Yon, were requested to begin the work at once. As railway stations were not wanted for trains in Paris at that particular time, the two largest were chosen in which to build balloons. Henceforth their 'trains' would journey silently through the sky instead of noisily over the iron roads.

Needles and cotton and calico were all carried in large quantities to the Gare du Nord and the Gare d'Orleans (as the two stations are called), and in less than four months sixty balloons were built and dispatched.

Some people in Paris, however, were so anxious to try the experiment that they could not wait for the new balloons, but used an old one, called the 'Neptune,' and M. Durnof, a daring aeronaut, made a flying dash in it out of Paris. Those who witnessed his adventure say that the old Neptune bounded almost straight up into the air, and fell beyond the enemy's camp in much the same manner. It was as though a large cannon ball had been fired (only very slowly) from the streets of Paris.

The successful path of the Neptune was soon followed. M. Gambetta, the great statesman, stepped into the car of the 'Armand Barbes' on the morning of October 7th, and, after many narrow escapes from the enemy's guns, landed safely among friends. Three days later a pretty grey-feathered pigeon settled in Paris, bringing in one of its quills the story of his journey.

But among the many wonderful ascents made in that terrible time, none is more interesting than that of M. Janssen, a great astronomer, who went to Algeria to see an eclipse of the sun. Certain learned societies in France, very anxious that the progress of science should not be delayed by this unhappy war, were delighted to find him willing to undertake the dangerous journey. England offered to obtain a safe-conduct for him through the Prussian camp, but the astronomer said: 'No, thank you. I do not wish to be under any obligation to the enemy.'

So, packing his telescope and other instruments with very great care, he carried them to the Gare d'Orleans on the morning of the 2nd December (three weeks before the eclipse would take place), and, settling himself in the car of his white balloon, the 'Volta,' gave orders for the anchor to be weighed. At that time in the morning it was quite dark, and, ere daylight was an hour old, he and his companion (a young sailor) had come to earth again by the mouth of the Loire. They had travelled nearly three hundred miles in a little more than three hours. A swifter journey has hardly ever been made. It is disappointing to learn that, after such a daring exploit, M. Janssen reached his destination only to find dense clouds covering the Algerian sky at the moment the eclipse took place.

The frequency with which balloons left Paris soon made it necessary to increase the number of aeronauts, for those who departed were, of course, unable to return. As the professional men became fewer, it was found that the best to take their places were sailors. But, that they might first have lessons in the art, a car was suspended from the roof of the factory, and into this the sailor-pupil climbed. He soon learned how to cry out, 'Let go all!' Then, after throwing out the ballast, pulling the valve-rope, and dropping the anchor, he was ready, with more courage than discretion, to call himself an aeronaut. And into the air he went, with bags of letters and cages of pigeons, and, on the whole, succeeded very well as a postman in the clouds.

The mention of pigeons leads us to another story of ingenuity, though it has not much to do with balloons.

After the question of how to dispatch letters had been solved, the next that arose was, how to receive replies. The balloons that left the city had got nearly all Europe to settle in, but it was hopeless to try to steer them back to so small a spot as the city itself. But a carrier pigeon would have no such difficulty in returning. Means must be found, however, to make it possible for each bird to carry many letters. M. Dagron, a clever photographer, discovered this means. He showed how he could photograph a letter and reduce it in size till the writing became unreadable, even under an ordinary magnifying glass. This could be done on films so thin that a roll of twenty of them could be inserted in one quill, each film representing a large number of letters. Having proved to the authorities the success of his invention, M. Dagron departed in a balloon, to explain to the various towns in France how letters must be sent to Paris.

Every day after that the welcome sounds of flapping wings was heard in the beleaguered city. The letters that they brought were placed between two sheets of glass and enlarged. Then, by means of a magic lantern, they were reflected on to a large screen, while post-office clerks, sitting at a table opposite, copied them down on to separate sheets, and dispatched them to their different addresses in the city. Nearly one hundred thousand letters were sent to Paris in this way during the four months of the siege, and the hostile army outside its walls was powerless to intercept them.

JOHN LEA.



WILLIE'S SUM.

Willie laid his pencil down, And put his books away, And with a sad and peevish frown He hurried out to play. But as he ran, the blackbird's song From poplars in the lane, Rang out: 'You know that sum was wrong, And should be done again.'

Yet Willie heeded not the sound; Pretended not to hear, Till trees, and hills and all around Kept singing in his ear: 'It's no use, Willie! Trust us, do! You can't enjoy the fun Until the task that's set for you Is well and justly done.'

Then in a sad and sorry state He homeward turned amain: Took up his pencil and his slate And worked the sum again. This time the answer wasn't wrong, And as to play he went, His conscience sang an altered song Which made his heart content.



GENEROSITY.

A father of a family wished to settle his property between his three sons. He therefore made three equal parts of his chief possessions and gave one part to each son. There remained over a diamond ring of great value, which he reserved for the son who should perform the noblest and most generous action within the space of three months. The sons separated, and at the appointed time presented themselves before him.

The eldest son said, 'Father, during my absence I had in my power all the riches and fortune of a person who entrusted them to me without any security of any kind; he asked me for them, and I returned them to him with the greatest honesty.'

'You have done, my son,' replied the father, 'only what was your duty, and I should die of shame if you were capable of doing otherwise, for honesty is a duty; what you did was just, but not generous.'

It was now the second son's turn, and he spoke thus: 'I was on the banks of a lake, when, seeing a child fall in, I threw myself in, and with great danger to myself drew him out. I did it in the presence of some countrymen, who will testify to the truth of it.'

'Well and good,' replied the father, 'but there is only humanity in that action.'

At last came the turn of the third son, who spoke thus: 'I found my mortal enemy, who had strayed during the night, and was sleeping on the edge of a precipice in such a manner that the least false movement on waking would have thrown him over. His life was in my hands; I was careful to wake him with precaution, and drew him out of danger.'

'Ah, my son!' exclaimed the father, overjoyed, embracing him, 'without doubt you deserve the ring.'



ANIMAL MAKESHIFTS.

True Anecdotes.

II.—TIME WITHOUT A CLOCK.

'The stork in the heavens knoweth her appointed times,' says the Bible, and the turtle-dove, the crane, and the swallow to this day 'observe the time of their coming.' What a wonderful law is theirs! They need not learn it, for it is born in them. Migratory birds know not only the need for their journeys, but the fixed times for them. It has been thought that the rules of their airy road have been handed down from generation to generation, but this is not always true. Nothing is positively known, except that the travellers are in search of food or quiet nesting-places, when they move from land to land.

As the time draws near for birds of passage to travel, they seem to know it by an inward restlessness; they long to be away—they know that delay is dangerous, and, so strong is the longing to be gone, that migratory birds kept back by accident or wilful cruelty, often die of the desire to go. The young cuckoo never survives an attempt to detain him. A poor, wild goose, with a lame wing, was seen bravely setting out on foot to do his journey of hundreds of miles over sea and land, when he saw his brethren depart for another clime.

One of nature's grandest sights is the yearly flight southwards of wild swans from Norway to the great lakes in Turkey. The birds fly at the rate of about one hundred miles an hour, in vast flocks, shaped like the letter V, the sharp end foremost, as an arrow passes through the air. At the point flies the leader or captain, the strongest and wisest of the band, and ahead of the main army he sends a skirmishing swan to keep a sharp look-out. This swan's business it is to see if the coast is clear. From time to time he comes rushing back with some warning note. Then there is a great cackling, a pause, and a council. After holding this noisy parliament, the army resumes its course, or changes it, according to the news brought. When the swans reach the lake, they do not swoop down till the captain has made a careful search around, poking among the reeds, flapping over the surface, and even taking a sip of the water, to make sure that nothing has happened to make the lake dangerous for swans since the last time he was there. All being well, he signals to the band, who descend with a rush, and soon cover the water with their graceful forms.

Do pigeons carry watches? How do London pigeons, for instance, tell the hour, and turn up punctually at the feeding-places? At Guildhall Yard the birds come early in the morning to eat the breakfast provided for them, but they do not stay all day. At Finsbury Circus, Draper's Hall Gardens, and other places in London, there are flocks which are carefully fed at regular hours, and those who have the care of them agree that at feeding-time the flocks are always joined by large numbers of guests from without. Perhaps the pigeons ask each other out to dine, mentioning the hours for the meals!



The rough idea of time which all living things possess is keenest in domestic animals. The dogs, cats, horses, donkeys, and others, who know certain days in the week and hours in the day without clock or almanac, may be guided by noticing little events which we do not, but which show them the time; or they may even feel the position of the sun, though it cannot be seen. However this may be, they show a sense which we must admire and may envy. Horses are great observers of time, as many anecdotes show, perhaps none better than this one: A horse belonging to a news-man knew the houses at which his master's journals were delivered, and, when he took them round in the trap, always stopped at the right doors. But this was not all. There were two people—living one at Thorpe, the other at Chertsey—who paid for a weekly paper between them, taking it in turns to read it first. The horse found this out, and would stop one week at Thorpe and the next at Chertsey, alternately.



The mule is not behindhand. A Spanish milk-seller was taken ill, and, being unable to go the rounds or to spare his wife, they agreed to send the mule, who always carried it, alone. A paper was written, asking the customers to measure their own milk, and place the money in a little can for the purpose; this was fastened to the animal's neck, and off he went. At every house where his master was in the habit of selling milk he stopped and waited; but he did not wait an unreasonable time. If nobody came, he tried to push the door open, or pulled the string of the bell, which, in Madrid, is usually rung by a cord hanging down. The simple peasants laughed, and fell into the joke; they scorned to cheat the dumb milkman, and the clever mule took his money home in triumph.

It is not the higher animals alone who are time-keepers. Menault tells of a friendly toad, living in a garden, who would appear at the family dinner-time, and sit upon the stone ledge outside the window to get a share. The hour was changed, for some reason, from noon to three in the afternoon, and, for the first time, the uninvited guest was absent—once, but once only. On the second day after the change he was squatting at the new hour ready for his saucer of milk.

EDITH CARRINGTON.



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.

(Continued from page 243.)

CHAPTER VII.

Three days passed, and Charlie and Ping Wang were still on board the coper, no boat bound for Grimsby having been met. During that time Charlie and his friend had seen many things which filled them with loathing for the boat on which circumstances had placed them.

On the third evening, when the coper's boat returned from a trip around the trawlers, Charlie and Ping Wang were surprised to see that the passengers were two men who had been sent away early on the previous evening, because their money was spent.

'How can they have got money since last night?' Charlie said to Ping Wang.

'They've borrowed from their mates,' Ping Wang suggested, but they soon discovered that his explanation was not the right one. As the boat bobbed up and down by the side of the Lily, the men took from the bottom of it a fishing-net, and handed it up to the skipper, who was leaning over the gunwale.

'They have stolen that net,' Charlie remarked, guessing the truth, 'and the skipper is going to buy it from them.'

'It's a new one, skipper,' one of the thieves exclaimed, as he jumped on board.

'All right,' the receiver of stolen property answered, 'Go down below and enjoy yourselves.'

The two men descended at once into the saloon, while the skipper, after examining the net, dragged it aft, and removing a hatchway dropped the net into the hold. As he did so Charlie stepped forward, and looking down, saw, by the light of the wire-guarded lamp, that the hold was half full of nets, oars, buckets, ropes, cooking utensils, brass fittings, mops, oilies, and other things too numerous to mention.

'All that is stolen property, I suppose?' Charlie said to the skipper.

'Well, it wasn't stolen from you,' the skipper answered, 'so you have no cause to grumble.'

He closed the hatchway, and then turned to Charlie to abuse him more freely, but just as he began a seaman came up and told him that a mission ship had joined the fleet of trawlers.

Forgetting all about Charlie, the skipper hurried away to look at the new craft, and found that the news was true. Very bad news he considered it, for he knew that the North Sea fishermen never came aboard a coper if there was a mission ship with the fleet. Tobacco is sold cheaper on a mission ship than on a coper, and naturally the fishermen, who have very little money to spend, buy in the cheapest market. Moreover, every man aboard a mission ship is a friend of the fishermen, and there is not a trawler in the North Sea on which it is not possible to find two or three men who have good reasons for blessing mission ships. Hundreds of men have been carried aboard these floating hospitals and nursed back to health.

When the mission ship was about half a mile from the Lily, Charlie said to the coper skipper: 'Now is your chance to get rid of Ping Wang and me. Hail that boat and send us aboard her.'

'Hail a craft like that?' the skipper answered roughly. 'I'd sink her with pleasure if I had the chance; but as for hailing her——I'd rather die!'

'I'll give you a sovereign to take us aboard her.'

'Wouldn't do it for ten sovereigns.'

Charlie went back to Ping Wang and told him of the skipper's decision.

'I'm not surprised,' Ping Wang declared. 'He will sail off as quickly as possible, I fancy.'

That, indeed, was the coper skipper's intention. He wished to start immediately, and would have done so had it not been for the two thieves who were drinking in the saloon.

'Now then,' said the skipper, coming down to the saloon and addressing the thieves, 'if you won't leave, I shall have to sail off with you.'

'Right you are; I don't care,' one of them declared, and the other added that he would thoroughly enjoy a cruise in a coper.

The skipper, however, had no intention of keeping on board two men without money, and was compelled to wait about for their departure. But just as he expected them to go, one man had a heated argument with his companion, which ended in a fight. The skipper, fearing that his saloon might be damaged, tried to stop the fight by seizing hold of the smaller man, who, however, promptly freed himself, and with two quick-following blows with his fist knocked the skipper down. The other man had in the meanwhile jumped across the counter and seized a bottle, which he put in his pocket.

'Come on, Jack,' he shouted to the man whom he had been fighting, and hurried up on deck. Jack, seeing that the skipper was not likely to interfere with him, followed his shipmate quickly on deck, and they made for the coper's boat, but none of the ship's crew were in it.

'Cut the painter, Jack,' the taller man commanded, and Jack, using his knife, soon did so. Then they grasped the oars and rowed away. It was the only boat that the coper possessed, and when the skipper discovered what the two fishermen had done he hurried on deck and shouted abuse at them. The men took no notice, and soon arrived safely at their own ship. Before they climbed aboard, the taller man said, 'Now let us sink the coper's boat. Cut a hole in her.'

The other man was delighted with the idea, and without delay removed the bottom boards and let in the water. That done, he followed his mate aboard the trawler, sending the small boat adrift.

The skipper of the coper had, in the meanwhile, by tacking, made an effort to keep his stolen boat in sight, but the night was dark, and the fear of a collision with a trawler made his endeavour a fruitless one, and he was compelled to lay to until daybreak would give him an opportunity of renewing his search. But, of course, when morning came he could see no signs of his boat, and after several hours' search he sailed away. About six hours later he sighted another fleet. He at once made for it, but finding on approaching nearer that there was a mission ship with it, he sailed off in another direction.

The skipper was now in a very bad temper, and his ill-humour spread to his men, who were mostly foreigners. It was evident to Charlie and Ping Wang, although they did not understand Dutch, that the latter were relieving their feelings by making insulting remarks concerning them.

While the coper's men were speaking about Charlie and Ping Wang, the Chinaman, innocent of any intention to be rude, made some gesture which one of the crew took for an insult. Instantly he rushed at Ping Wang and struck him a heavy blow in the face with his fist. He was about to strike him again, but Charlie pushed him roughly aside and faced him with clenched fists.

The sailor struck viciously at Charlie, who warded off two blows and then landed his opponent a heavy one full in the mouth. This he followed up with a blow between the eyes, knocking the man down. For a moment the sailor lay still; then, seeing that he was likely to get the worst of the encounter, he quickly ran to the galley, and, seizing a big shovel, prepared to continue to fight with it. But the skipper, hearing a disturbance, hurried aft to see what was taking place. He met the man with the shovel, and, hearing his threat, drew his revolver and pointed it at him.

'Take it back!' he commanded, and the man obeyed reluctantly. 'I don't want murder done aboard my ship,' the skipper added, turning to Charlie and Ping Wang, 'so don't annoy my men.'

'We have done nothing whatever to annoy them,' Charlie declared, 'and the assault upon Ping Wang was quite unprovoked.'

'There must have been some reason for the fellow hitting him,' the skipper declared, and at once questioned his men, who, of course, made known the nature of the insult which they had received from the Chinaman. He explained the matter to Charlie and Ping Wang, and afterwards assured his men that no insult had been intended. The sailor who had assaulted Ping Wang then made an apology, and the whole incident was concluded by his shaking hands with Charlie. But in the middle of the night Charlie had an experience that was far more unpleasant than his brief fight. He was sleeping, as usual, on the cushioned seat in the saloon when he woke suddenly, feeling some one tampering with the belt which he wore, and which contained the whole of his money.

'You scoundrel!' he shouted, as he gripped the thief's hand. The next moment Charlie uttered a cry of pain, for the thief, who was under the table, drew a knife across his hand. Charlie released his hold of the thief instantly, and then jumped up in the hope of catching the man before he could escape. But the thief was too quick for him. The room was in darkness, and, before Charlie could make his way out of his cramped quarters at the side of the table, the thief had climbed up the ladder and closed the iron door behind him.

Ping Wang was now awake, and, finding the place in semi-darkness, struck a light.

'Turn up the lamp,' Charlie said, and, when the Chinaman had done as he desired, he told him what had happened.

'How much has he taken?' Ping Wang inquired.

'Half a sovereign,' Charlie replied, after counting his money. 'Evidently the scoundrel had only tried one of the little pockets when I woke. It is a good thing that I distributed my money all round my belt.'

'It is, indeed,' Ping Wang answered. 'Now let me bind up your hand.'

The cut was not very severe, the thief apparently having had no desire to inflict a deep wound.

'Let us go and complain to the skipper at once,' Ping Wang suggested, and, after putting on a few clothes, they went on deck, where, somewhat to their surprise, they found the skipper at the wheel.

'Hallo!' he sung out. 'What's up? Going to try another midnight swim?'

In as few words as possible Charlie told him what had happened.

'You've been dreaming,' the skipper declared, with a laugh. 'I've been at the wheel for the last three-quarters of an hour, and you are the first person I have seen come out of the saloon. No one could come out without me seeing him. Get down below again, and don't lie on your back; you are sure to dream if you do.'

'Dreams do not cut a man's fingers,' Charlie observed, sharply.

'Well, I'll make inquiries, but it is not likely that the man who did rob you—if you were robbed—will confess. Now get below, or you'll catch cold.'

Charlie and Ping Wang returned to the saloon, very dissatisfied with this conversation.

'I believe,' Ping Wang said, 'that it was the skipper himself who robbed you.'

'So do I,' Charlie replied; 'but how can I prove it? And if I could prove it, what good would it be while we are on his ship? All we can do is to take extra precautions against being robbed.'

After talking for about half an hour, they fell asleep, and were not again disturbed.

When they went on deck, shortly after breakfast, the skipper summoned all hands on deck, and questioned each man as to whether he had been into the saloon during the night. Each one denied having done so, and Charlie believed them.

'It is my opinion,' the skipper said to Charlie an hour or two later, 'that it was that Chinaman who robbed you.'

'If you knew Ping Wang as well as I do, such a foolish idea would never have entered your head.'

'All Chinamen are very crafty. You had better let me make him sleep in the foc's'le.'

'So that it would be easier for me to be robbed.'

'What do you mean? Do you accuse me of robbing you?'

'I do not accuse any one unless I can prove my charges. At any rate, I shouldn't be doing you an injustice if I did call you a thief, knowing, as I do, what a collection of stolen property you have in the hold. A receiver of stolen goods is not an atom better than a thief.'

With this parting shot Charlie walked away.

(Continued on page 258.)



OUTWITTING HIMSELF.

A celebrated physician once attended the child of a wealthy French lady, who was so grateful for the recovery of her boy that she determined to give a larger fee than usual for his attendance. As he was taking leave on his final visit, the grateful mother handed to the doctor a handsome pocket-book, which she said she had worked with her own hands. The doctor bowed stiffly, and said, 'Madam, the pocket-book is quite a work of art, and I admire it exceedingly, but my fee is two thousand francs.'

'Not more?' she replied; and taking the pocket-book back, she removed from it five one-thousand franc-notes, and handed two of them to the doctor, bowing stiffly in her turn, and, replacing the other three notes in the rejected pocket-book, she retired.



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.

(Continued from page 255.)

CHAPTER VIII.

From the coper skipper's point of view the two following days were very unsatisfactory. Not an ounce of tobacco nor a drop of drink was sold, in spite of the fact that several fishing-boats were met. Growing reckless, the skipper determined to approach the English coast, so as to meet the boats coming out of the Humber.

'Now you will soon be able to transfer us to a Grimsby-bound boat,' Charlie said to the skipper, when they were about two miles from land.

'I have come here to look after outward-bound boats,' the skipper answered, sharply, 'and I can't bother about you. I have quite enough to think about.'

A few minutes later, Charlie understood what the skipper meant. He was in British waters, and to sell tobacco or drink there would render him liable to be seized by a cruiser or revenue cutter. Every sailing ship that came out of the Humber the captain watched closely through his marine glasses, and not until he had satisfied himself that she was harmless did he approach her.

The skipper was well pleased with his work at the end of the day, and when darkness came on he sailed out of British waters, with the intention of returning at daybreak. Charlie and Ping Wang, however, considered that the day had been a most unsatisfactory one.

'I can't stand another day of this,' Charlie said to Ping Wang, when the two were alone. 'I mean to get ashore to-morrow somehow or other. Shall we jump overboard, and swim to the nearest ship making for the Humber?'

'I have lost confidence in my swimming powers,' Ping Wang answered.

'But there will be no necessity for us to have such a long swim as our last one. Besides, there will be plenty of boats about, and some of them are sure to come to our help.'

'When do you mean to start?'

'As soon as we are again in British waters. That will be to-morrow morning. To-morrow night we shall be in Grimsby, or perhaps at my home. You agree, don't you?'

'Oh, yes. But now let us get to sleep. We ought to start as fresh as possible.'

They lay down almost immediately, and slept soundly until about six o'clock. Then they were awakened rather suddenly by hearing a gun fired.

'What's the meaning of that?' Charlie asked, as he sat up and listened.

Ping Wang shook his head, and in a few minutes was again asleep. Charlie, a little later, lay down and slept; but in about a quarter of an hour they were again awakened, this time by men descending into the saloon. Looking up over the saloon table, they saw two bluejackets, with cutlasses in their hands, at the foot of the ladder. An officer ran down the ladder and joined them.

As soon as Charlie and Ping Wang saw the sailors, they guessed that the coper had been captured in British waters, and in their delight they jumped off the seat on which they had been sleeping and stood up on the cushions. In a moment the officer covered Charlie with his revolver.

'All right,' Charlie exclaimed, 'we are not Dutchmen.'

'I didn't suspect your mate of being one,' the officer replied, smiling, but still covering Charlie. 'Come over here and surrender.'

'With pleasure,' Charlie said. 'We are jolly glad you have boarded this wretched coper.'

'The skipper denies that she is a coper. Possibly you can save us the trouble of hunting for his liquor and tobacco?'

'That is where it is kept,' Charlie declared, pointing to the cupboard. 'The skipper has the key.'

'Throw down the skipper's keys,' Lieutenant Williams sang out to his men on deck.

For two or three minutes the revenue officer sat on the saloon table, dangling his legs and whistling cheerfully.

'The skipper says he hasn't any keys, sir,' a sailor called down. 'We have searched him, and can't find any, sir.'

'Very well, then,' the officer said; 'we must do without them. Force open that cupboard.'

One of the two sailors pulled out his knife and forced the lock with little difficulty; then he slid back the shutter and displayed the coper's stock of spirits, wines, tobacco, and cigars.

'A very nice collection indeed,' the revenue officer declared. 'I am very much obliged to you for your assistance,' he continued, addressing Charlie; 'but I must ask you to explain why you are on board this boat. You are my prisoner, although you do not appear to be in league with the skipper.'

Charlie related all that had happened to him. The story of his and Ping Wang's adventures amused the revenue officer highly.

'Well,' he said, at the end of the story, 'I'm very glad to have met both of you. After I have had a peep in the hold, I will take you aboard my cutter.'

The hold, with its stock of nets and other stolen property, added to the revenue officer's satisfaction at the capture he had made. Leaving five men on the coper, to man it—three on deck and two in the saloon—he returned to his cutter, taking Charlie and Ping Wang with him. As soon as they were aboard, the cutter started, escorting the coper into Grimsby.

'How did you manage to catch the coper?' Charlie asked the lieutenant, as they were watching the land coming nearer and nearer.

'I discovered her yesterday, but could not get close to her while she was in British waters. I saw that the chances of catching her were against me, so did not make the attempt. At night I went out to sea with covered lights, and kept my eye on her. Just before daybreak she went back into British waters, and I followed her. When there was light enough for her to see me, she fancied, as I intended she should, that I was a fishing-boat returning to Grimsby. While she had two trawlers' boats alongside I made for her. Then she guessed who I was, and tried to escape, but when I sent a shot across her bows she lay to, and the skipper demanded to know what I meant. I soon told him.'

'I fancy,' Charlie said, 'that the coper skipper is an old hand at the game.'

'I am certain of it,' the revenue officer replied, 'and that makes me all the more pleased. Now, I must be off.'

With that he went on deck, and Charlie and Ping Wang followed him. They were now in the Humber, creating some excitement among the vessels in the river. All hands mustered on every ship to see the coper, and frequently, when the nature of the boat was known, loud cheers were given for the captor.

The news of the capture had reached Grimsby before the two boats arrived, and, consequently, there was a large crowd waiting to see the prisoners brought in. Among the people was the former cook of the Sparrow-hawk, whose astonishment at beholding Charlie and Ping Wang on a revenue cutter highly amused his two acquaintances. Charlie nodded to him, but there was no opportunity to settle up with him just then, as the prisoners were immediately marched off to the magistrate.

To the revenue officials' surprise, the coper skipper pleaded guilty to selling spirits and tobacco in British waters. He did so because, seeing Charlie and Ping Wang in court, he knew that they would give evidence against him. On his pleading guilty, the stock-in-trade, together with the stolen property which he had purchased, was confiscated. As Charlie and Ping Wang came out of the court they found the bow-legged cook waiting for them, anxious to get the balance of money due to him from Charlie, and also to hear how he had fared on the Sparrow-hawk. They went to the Fisherman's Home, and there the cook was paid.

Charlie then related, in as few words as possible, all that had happened to him from the time he went aboard the Sparrow-hawk, and concluded by asking the bow-legged cook not to mention to Skipper Drummond, if he met him during the next few days, that he had seen him and Ping Wang.

Charlie and Ping Wang shook hands with the cook and left him.

'Now,' Charlie said, 'we must go to a cheap tailor's. I think that I have enough money to buy a ready-made suit for each of us.'

'Perhaps the tailor will give us something for the coper's things,' Ping Wang remarked. 'You paid enough for them.'

'I did, and if I tell a tailor, or any one else, what I gave for them, I shall be thought a madman.'

Half-a-crown was the value which the Grimsby tailor placed upon the clothes which Charlie and Ping Wang were wearing. The new clothes which they purchased were rather loud in pattern, and by no means a good fit, but they were cheap, and a great improvement on the things which they had taken off.

After surveying themselves in the glass—and immediately wishing that they had not done so—they quitted the shop and made their way to the railway station, to start for Charlie's home.

(Continued on page 266.)



JACK'S WISH.

'Oh, how I wish,' cried Jack, one day, 'That I was grown up quite, For then I should not go to school, Or have to keep some silly rule. I'm sure they're made in spite. Why should I go to bed at eight, If I desire to sit up late?'

'Oh, very well,' his father said; 'Go to the Bank for me, And sit, as I do, all day long— I think you soon would change your song, And long at school to be. Just try to be content, my boy, And then your life you will enjoy.'



A TIMELY RESCUE.

'It looks just as if we were going to have a thunder-shower,' Mrs. Marston said. 'I wish, George, you would find Rose and Elsie, and tell them to come home.'

'But I don't know where to look for them,' George said.

'They are certain to be somewhere in the fields. And take an umbrella with you. Elsie has such a bad cold, I shall be vexed if she gets wet.'

'Oh, Mother, I don't believe it will rain, and I do want to finish painting this rabbit-hutch! It is such a nuisance to leave things half done.'

'My boy, it is not right to argue with your mother when she asks you to do something for her.'

'Bother those kids,' George muttered crossly, as he went off, grumbling, to hunt for an umbrella.

It was a hot, thundery day, and he was feeling still more cross after searching through three fields and finding no trace of the children.

'The clouds are clearing away, and blue sky is showing everywhere,' he said to himself. 'It is perfectly idiotic to go on with this wild-goose chase.'

Then he climbed a stile for a look into the next field, and what he saw almost made his heart stand still.

Rose and Elsie were sitting on the grass, busily arranging some flowers they had been gathering to make a nice bunch for their mother.

Behind them was a large freshly made gap in the hedge, and coming through it was a fierce bull belonging to a neighbouring farmer.

George was horror-struck. What should he do? If he shouted and alarmed the children, they would be too frightened to know what to do, and should the bull give chase, they might be overtaken before they could reach the stile.

In a moment his mind was made up. He jumped over into the field, and ran as fast as he could to try and get between the bull and the children.

He was only just in time. Rose and Elsie started up when they saw him, but when they realised their danger, they were almost too scared to move.

'Get to the stile as quickly as you can,' George called to them; and then he ran towards the bull, and opened his umbrella quickly before the astonished animal.



The fierce creature lowered his horns and seemed uncertain whether to charge his enemy or to flee before him.

Again George fired off his umbrella as if it were a gun, and this time the bull decided it would be better to retreat in a dignified way to his own domain. You may be sure George lost no time in getting out of the field.

'My brave boy!' his mother whispered when the breathless children had arrived home and had told their story. 'How thankful I am that I have an obedient son!'

'But, Mother, I nearly disobeyed,' George confessed, and he grew pale when he thought what it would have meant if he had not arrived in time.

M. H.



INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

VIII.—HOW INSECTS MAKE MUSIC.

Though the sounds made by insects may not in themselves be musical, according to our standard of music, yet many insect performers give us great pleasure, perhaps because of the pleasant memories which they call up. Who among us does not love the hum of the bee? How delightful is the lazy drone of the great steely-blue dor-beetle, as he rambles along in the twilight of a summer night! The lively chirping of the cricket, too, has inspired more than one poet, and the great novelist, Charles Dickens, used it in a well-known story.



The simplest means of making a noise is that used by the beetle known by the grim name of the 'death-watch.' In our own houses this little beetle often causes great alarm by the ticking or tapping sound which it makes by striking its head against the wall. Ignorant people look upon this noise as a warning of approaching death; but, really, it is meant to charm and attract any other beetles of the kind which may be within hearing!



But many insects, like the crickets and grasshoppers, have a specially constructed instrument on which they play. Fig. 1 shows a part of the instrument used by an American grasshopper. It is formed by a row of tiny teeth, marked T, placed along the inner side of the thigh of the great leaping leg. When this creature feels very happy, or wants to charm his mate, he produces a shrill sound by rubbing these teeth across the hard 'nervures,' or wing 'veins.' What these teeth are really like can be seen in the lower part of the illustration, which shows eight little spear-heads set in sockets. These are 'teeth,' which act much as a comb would do if drawn lightly over a tightly stretched wire.



The 'stridulation,' as this form of musical production is called, in some locusts is so loud that it can be heard on a still night for a distance of a mile. Some South American locusts are such wonderful performers that the Indians keep them in wicker cages, in order that they may enjoy the playing. There is a North American locust which is quite famous as a musician. It is known as the Katydid, on account of its peculiar notes, which resemble the words Katy-did-she-did. This note is kept up throughout the night. Our field-cricket plays by rubbing a row of teeth, about one hundred and thirty in number, placed on the under side of one of the supporting rods, or 'veins,' of the wings, against another rod very like it, but without teeth, in the upper surface of the opposite wing. First one wing is rubbed over the other, and then the process is reversed.

A near relative of the grasshopper, the cicada of North America and of Southern Europe (fig. 2), has a really wonderful instrument, rather like a kettle-drum. But it is an unusual sort of kettle-drum, for it is played from within. The drum-heads are shown in fig. 3, marked D, one on each side of the creature, like the drums on a cavalry horse, except that they are underneath the animal in the case of the cicada. If the 'skin' of the drum be removed, a very complicated instrument is seen, and this, by causing vibrations, increased by the tightly stretched drum-head, gives rise to the sounds for which these insects have long been famous.