"But why do not cuckoos make nests and sit on their eggs like other birds?" said Jack. Such a question is more easily asked than answered; nevertheless I hope you will always try to discover reasons for things. "It is now," writes a celebrated naturalist, "commonly admitted that the more immediate and final cause of the cuckoo's instinct is, that she lays her eggs, not daily, but at intervals of two or three days; so that if she were to make her own nest and sit on her own eggs, those first laid would have to be left for some time unincubated, or there would be eggs and young birds of different ages in the same nest. If this were the case the process of laying and hatching might be inconveniently long, more especially as she has to migrate at a very early period, and the first hatched young would probably have to be fed by the male alone." The cuckoos come to this country about the middle of April; the male birds arrive before the females. Whether this arrangement is ungallant conduct on the part of the gentlemen birds, who prefer to come alone, or whether, just when the gentleman cuckoo is ready and almost impatient for a start, her ladyship has all at once discovered some important matter that ought to be finished before leaving the country, some adjustment of her dress, some tiresome feather that will ruffle itself up in spite of every effort to keep it smooth, I know not, but the fact remains, that my Lord and Lady Cuckoo do not travel together. Let us suppose that both sexes have arrived in this country, we will say about the 23rd of April. It is natural they want a little time to look about them; at any rate, no egg is ready for being sat upon till some weeks after the arrival of the birds, say the 15th of May. The eggs require fourteen days' setting before they are hatched; this brings the date to the 29th of May. The young ones will require three weeks in the nest and constant feeding all the time; we now arrive at about the 20th of June, when the young ones would be ready to leave the nest. But they want five weeks' more feeding by the parents, after they leave the nest, before they are able to provide for themselves; this would bring the date to about the 25th of July, when there is hardly a parent bird in the country; they have left for other parts of the world. "Oh! but, papa," said Willy, "you said in the lines you told us to remember—

In July, He prepares to fly. Come August, Go he must.

And now you say the cuckoos leave before the end of July. I think you must have made a mistake somehow." I am glad that you have found out the error, if it is one. Old rhymes are not always to be trusted; but I suspect that the couplet "Come August, go he must," means to imply that the cuckoo does never really stay so late with us. I must not, however, forget to tell you that it is the old parent birds that leave us early; young birds remain till September, and even October, but they have not by that time acquired the cuckoo note. If you ask why cannot the old cuckoos stay with us a little longer, and then all go away together as a family party, young and old, in September, instead of being in such a hurry, I have only to say that it is the fashion amongst cuckoos, and of course cuckoos, like certain other animals, must be in the fashion. This is Dr. Jenner's explanation of the peculiar habits of the cuckoo in respect of its eggs. I am not prepared to say whether or not it is sufficient to explain them. The cuckoo's egg is very small when compared with the size of the bird; it is of a pale grey tinged with red.

"But how does the cuckoo's egg get into some of the nests?" asked Willy; "for some of the nests in which the cuckoo's egg is found are too small to allow the cuckoo herself to enter to lay her egg." You are quite right; I believe it has been proved that the cuckoo lays her egg on the ground, and carries it in her bill into other birds' nests.



"Oh! papa," said Jack, "what is this curious plant that grows so abundantly on the grass here? I know it well by sight, but do not know its name." It is a spike of horse-tail; see how the stem is marked with lines, and how curiously jointed it is, and quite hollow except where the joints occur. The fruit is borne at the top of the plant (a); see, as I shake it, what a quantity of dust comes from it; this dust is the fruit, or spores as they are called; each spore is of an oval form, with four elastic threads. If I were to put some of this dust on a glass slide, and look at it under the microscope, I should see a curious sight. The four threads would be spread out, but if I were to breathe on the glass, these threads would coil themselves round the oval body; but as soon as the effect of the moisture had passed away, the threads would shoot out again in the same position as they were at first, causing the spore to leap as if it were alive. The stems are of two kinds, fertile and unfertile; the one you have in your hands is a fertile spike, and appears only in the spring; the unfertile ones have no dust-like fruit, and have numerous jointed branches growing in rows, or whorls as they are termed, round them; they remain throughout the summer, and in some places form quite a thick cover. Feel how rough the stem is; this is due to the presence of a quantity of silex or flint in it; on this account some of the species are used for polishing purposes. One kind, under the name of "Dutch rushes," is imported from Holland, being used for polishing mahogany, ivory, metal, &c. The horse-tails for the most part grow in moist ground, in ditches and on the borders of lakes; some, however, are common in corn fields and on the roadside. In this country they do not attain a height of more than a few feet, but in tropical countries one or two species grow to the height of sixteen feet or more.



Now for a dip with the bottle in this pond. I will try and catch a few Hydrae. Strange animals, indeed, they are, and strange is their history; but let us catch a few first. Nothing yet in my bottle like a hydra. Ah! now we have one or two. You see a small creature sticking to the stem of a bit of duckweed; around its mouth are five or six little projections. At present they are contracted; but the hydra is able to lengthen them out, when they appear as long, thin lines, which are used as the creature's fishing-lines; it is not much larger than a pin's head at present, but it can stretch its body out as it does its lines. I will take a handful of duckweed, and put it, dripping wet, into this bag, and when we get home we will place the whole in a glass vessel full of water. In the course of half an hour or so, we shall, no doubt, see several hydrae, probably of different species, in various attitudes—some hanging loosely down, others erecting themselves in graceful curves and throwing out their arms or tentacles many times longer than their bodies; others shooting up their arms right above their heads; others contracted, looking like miniature dabs of jelly; others attached head and tail to the side of the glass; others floating on the surface of the water, their tail-ends sticking out and serving to keep them from sinking; some of a beautiful grass-green colour, others light brown or flesh colour, others almost white, others red. These creatures may be cut into several parts, yet each part will grow again into a perfect animal; young ones bud out of the sides of the parents. Some have said that they can be turned inside out, and find no inconvenience whatever from the operation. "But how," asked Willy, "could anybody manage to turn so small a thing as a hydra inside out?" It does seem an impossible task, I confess, and a man must have much skill and patience to enable him to accomplish it. However, I will give you the description of an attempt made many years ago by a celebrated naturalist of Geneva, named Trembley, who made the hydrae or fresh-water polypes a study for many years. This is what Trembley says:—"I begin by giving a worm to the polype on which I wish to make an experiment, and when it is swallowed I begin operations. It is well not to wait till the worm is much digested. I put the polype, whose stomach is well filled, in a little water in the hollow of my left hand; I then press it with a small forceps nearer to the tail end than to the head. In this way I push the swallowed worm against the mouth of the polype, which is thus forced to open, and by again slightly pressing the polype with my forceps I cause the worm partly to come out from its mouth, and thus draw out with it an equal part of the end of its stomach. The worm, coming out of the mouth of the polype, forces it to enlarge itself considerably, especially if it comes out doubled up. When the polype is in this state, I take it gently out of the water, without disturbing anything, and place it on the edge of my hand, which is simply moistened, so that it may not adhere too closely. I oblige it to contract more and more, and this also enlarges the stomach and mouth. The worm then is partly coming out of the mouth, and, keeping it open, I then take in my right hand a hog's bristle, rather thick and without a point, and I hold it as one holds a lancet for bleeding. I bring its thickest end to the hind end of the polype and push it, making it enter into its stomach, which is the more easily done as in that part it is empty and much enlarged. I push on the end of the hog's bristle, which continues to invest the polype. When it reaches the worm, which holds the mouth open, it either pushes the worm or passes by its side, and at last comes out by the mouth, the polype being thus completely turned inside out."



Very strange, indeed, to think that animals with the wrong side outermost should continue to eat, grow, and multiply, as Trembley assures us his specimens did, though, perhaps, we shall not wonder that they often tried to turn themselves back to their original condition, and with success, unless Trembley took steps to prevent them. There are other strange things recorded of the fresh-water polypes, as that different individuals can be grafted together without the slightest inconvenience to any of the parties, the joint-stock company of course being limited.

The hydrae live on small worms, larvae of gnats, water-fleas, and other minute creatures; they catch them with their tentacles or fishing-lines, and draw them to the mouth. It is maintained by many observers, with good reason, that these arms have the power of paralysing, in an instant, the worms they wrap themselves round. There are at least three well-marked species of hydrae to be met with in the ponds and ditches of this country. There is the green hydra, the light flesh-coloured or common hydra, and the long-armed hydra, the most interesting of all. See, there is the water-primrose, now in flower, with its delicate pink corolla and bright orange centre. Let us gather a few plants, and then return home.



FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote B: 'Marvels of Pond Life,' by H. J. Slack, p. 92.]



WALK V.

MAY.

To-day we will go to Shawbury and try our luck with the trout. If the fish will not rise there will be plenty to observe, and I have no doubt we shall enjoy the day thoroughly; the wind is in the south-west and the day is cloudy; the May-fly is well out, and I think we have every chance of good sport. Let us look out our fishing-tackle and drive off at once to the river. How delightful it is to stroll by the river side and hear the rippling of the water; delightful, too, is the sensation of feeling at the end of your line the tugs and jumps of a good lively trout. I cannot resist quoting some lines from 'The Angler's Song,' which I think you will say are very pretty:

Merry in the greenwood is the note of horn and hound, And dull must be the heart of him that leaps not to their sound; Merry from the stubble whirrs the partridge on her wing, And blithely doth the hare from her shady cover spring; But merrier than horn or hound, or stubble's rapid pride, Is the sport that we court by the gentle river side.

Our art can tell the insect tribe that every month doth bring, And with a curious wile we know to mock its gauzy wing; We know what breeze will bid the trout through the curling waters leap, And we can surely win him from shallow or from deep; For every cunning fish can we a cunning bait provide, In the sport that we court by the gentle river side.

Where may we find the music like the music of the stream? What diamond like the glances of its ever-changing gleam? What couch so soft as mossy banks, where through the noontide hours Our dreamy heads are pillowed on a hundred simple flowers? While through the crystal stream beneath we mark the fishes glide, To the sport that we court by the gentle river side?

For as the lark with upland voice the early sun doth greet, And the nightingale from shadowy boughs her vesper hymn repeat; For as the pattering shower on the meadow doth descend, And far as the flitting clouds with the sudden sunbeams blend; All beauty, joy and harmony, from morn to eventide, Bless the sport that we court by the gentle river side.

Well, here we are once more at the charming little village of Shawbury. How often, both as a boy and a man, have I wandered by the banks of the river Roden. What changes have taken place since my early rambles! Long familiar forms, companions in my fishing expeditions, have vanished; the mind fondly cherishes their memory, and recalls past hours of cheerful intercourse. We will put up the horse and carriage at the Elephant and Castle Inn and stroll away to the river.

Ah! here is a capital place. Now, Master Willy, there is no tree to interfere with your throw, so cast in just near that spot, quietly, carefully, anxiously; if there is a fish there he cannot resist your green drake. I recommend him the artificial before the fat natural fly. As Christopher North says—"Devouring ephemerals! Can you not suffer the poor insects to sport out their day? They must be insipid eating—but here are some savoury exceedingly ... they carry sauce piquante in their tails. Do try the taste of this bobber—but any of the three you please." There, hold fast, Willy, for that's a good one. Bring him up carefully to the side; hold your rod erect; play him a little, for he is full of vigour. There! well done; I have got him in the landing net. Is not he a beauty? A pound weight, I'll be bound; and what condition! His flesh will be almost as pink as that of a salmon. Further down stream I managed to take a fish in very different condition; I took him where the river was rather muddy, and flowed very slowly. Just look at him, with a body lean and dark coloured, and an enormous head for so slender a body. "Oh! but, papa," said Willy, "what are these curious creatures crawling over him? Do look." Ah! I know them well; anglers call them trout lice. I will scrape off a specimen, and put him in the bottle. Now look at him. The body is nearly round, and almost transparent; colour rather green; it has four pairs of swimming feet, each pair beset with a fringe of hairs; a pair of foot-jaws; a small half-cleft tail; and a pair of fleshy circular suckers just in front of the foot-jaws, by means of which the little creature is able to attach itself, as a parasite, upon various fish. It is a graceful little creature, and, as you see, can swim with great activity in the water; now it swims in a straight line, now it suddenly turns quickly round and turns over and over. It is known to naturalists under the name of Argulus foliaceus; I do not think it has any English name. It is found on many kinds of fish, and generally in greater abundance upon individuals that are in an unhealthy state; though these parasites often attach themselves to fish in good condition. The mouth is furnished with a long, sharp sucking-tube, by means of which the animal can pierce the skin of the fish it lives upon, and suck up the juices. We will take a few home, and I will show you the different parts of the creature under the microscope.



Let us now sit down and rest for an hour, and eat our lunch; the fish do not rise as freely as they did; perhaps later on they will be in the humour again. But what do I see sticking to the sides of that rail across the river; I must go and see. Well, really this is an interesting thing. An immense mass of flies, a few alive, but the greater number quite dead; and, look! a quantity of white eggs underneath them. Let us examine a fly; it is of a brown or tawny colour, and has rather long, diverging, colourless wings, marked with irregular brown spots. Why, there must be thousands of dead flies covering these eggs. What an odd idea! Presently up comes Mr. Collins from the farm near the bank of the stream. "Oh, sir, I know those flies quite well; they are oak-flies (Leptis scolopacea)." Certainly not, I replied, though they do somewhat resemble them in colour and appearance; but the farmer stoutly asserted he was right, and I did not think it worth while discussing the matter further with him. Mr. Collins is a good fly-fisherman; and fly-fishermen, unless they are naturalists, are generally very positive. How often have I tried to teach anglers that the May-fly does not come from a caddis worm; how often have I failed! Well, the two-winged fly I have just found in such thousands, with their dead bodies brooding over this mass of eggs, is known to entomologists by the name of Atherix Ibis; the females are gregarious, and, as we have seen, attach their eggs to rails, boughs, or other objects overhanging streams; each female, having laid her eggs, remains there and dies; shortly after comes another and does the same, and so on till immense clusters are formed. The larva, when hatched, falls into the water, its future residence; it is said to have a forked tail about one third the length of its body, and to "have the power of raising itself in the water by an incessant undulating motion in a vertical plane." I am not, however, acquainted with either larva or pupa, but hope to become so this summer. "It is very curious, papa," said Jack, "that the flies, after they have laid their eggs, should die there; why do not they fly away? Do any other animals do the same?" Yes, pretty much so. Some of the female insects of the genus called Coccus, scale insect, or mealy bug, common on the stems of various trees, to which they sometimes do incredible mischief, lay their eggs and die over them, the dead bodies of the parents forming coverings for the young. See how fast the green drake is appearing. Notice how it flies with head erect for a second or two, and then falls almost helplessly on the surface of the water.

There! did you see that fish rise at him? He has escaped the hungry trout, and has reached a blade of grass, where he will probably rest for some hours. But give me my rod; perhaps the same trout will rise at my artificial fly. There! that throw was exactly over the spot. No; he won't have it. I'll try again and again. No. Objects to sauce piquante, I suppose. Well, I will tempt him again in an hour's time or so. The water is smooth here, and free from rapids; let us lie down on the grass and see the birth of Ephemera—for that is the May-fly's proper name. Here comes something floating down. It is within the reach of my hand, so I will secure it. What is it? As I thought. Ephemera is throwing off its swaddling clothes. See how it twirls and twists itself about. Now it is free; and the strange-looking worm has changed into a beautiful fly. But there is yet one other operation to go through ere it assumes its final and complete form; you see at present it is a heavy flier, for the wings are scarcely dry, and the muscles as yet unequal to great exertion; so in their present imperfect form they are constantly dropping for a second or two in the water, and are often sucked down the throat of some roach, trout, or other fish on the look-out. You should remember that the Ephemera, or May-fly, in this its sub-imago, or imperfect winged state, represents the "green drake" of the angler. What have I here on this blade of grass? Do you see? What is the shadowy form that lifelessly clings to it? It is a delicate membrane, thin and light; see, I blow it away. You saw the split in the back, through which the former tenant left the abode. It is the cast-off skin of the green drake, now metamorphosed into a creature more active than harlequin or columbine, the male into a dark brown insect, with gauze-like wings, the female into a beautiful creature, with body marbled white and brown, and able to fly well and strongly, now high in the air, now sailing along close to the surface of the water, ever and anon dipping gently into it for the purpose of laying her eggs. The small oval eggs sink down to the bottom, and attach themselves to the weeds and stones that are found there. The flight of the male Ephemera is different; it is the males that practise together that peculiar up-and-down dance, with heads erect and bodies curving prettily upwards; of course, you can understand how countless multitudes fall victims to fish and bird, for dainty morsels they are. These flies, though voracious feeders both in the larval and nymphal state, never eat at all after they have assumed their perfect form. Indeed, they have no true mouth, only an imperfect or rudimentary one; and you would never find a particle of food in their stomachs, which are always more or less full of air-bubbles, which, no doubt, assist in buoying up the insect, and thus save the expenditure of muscular power. I'll catch one of those dancing males, and press him quickly in the middle. There! crack he goes! for the little air-bubbles in the stomach have burst by the pressure of my finger and thumb.

Abundant as are the May-flies at the latter end of May and the beginning of June in this country, in other countries they are sometimes more astonishingly numerous. In some parts of Holland, Switzerland, and France, their great numbers have been compared to pelting flakes of snow. "The myriads of Ephemerae which filled the air," says Reaumur, "over the current of the river and over the bank on which I stood, are neither to be expressed nor conceived. When the snow falls, with the largest flakes and with the least interval between them, the air is not so full of them as that which surrounded the Ephemerae." The occurrence of such prodigious numbers is, I believe, unknown in the British isles. In the perfect or imago state the May-fly lives but a short time. The word ephemera means "living only for a day;" and though individuals may live longer, yet the term is fairly correct as expressing their short existence. The May-flies (Ephemerae) have all three long fine hairs at the end of the tail; some members of the same family, but belonging to a different genus, have only two hair-like appendages. For instance, the fly known to fishermen as the "March-brown" belongs to the same family as the May-fly; it is smaller than it, and has only two hairs at the end of the tail; but with this exception, the natural March-brown and the May-fly are wonderfully alike; yet it is most curious to notice what a wonderful difference there is in the larvae of these two insects. Significant facts, no doubt, lie at the bottom of such differences in the case of insects so evidently allied, but these I will not speak of. Here are the two forms of larvae, the one being the larva of the common May-fly (Ephemera), the other that of the March-brown (Baetis).



Come, we have lunched, and rested, and watched the May-flies; let us try to catch a few more trout. It is very strange why sometimes the fish will not rise, though the weather is propitious and the water in first-rate order. Holloa! master Willy, what game are you after now? "Oh, papa," he exclaimed, "there are a lot of dace on this shallow, so I put the spinning hooks on, and, see, I have managed to hook a couple out, by simply throwing the tackle on the other side of the fish and then drawing it smartly through the water over them." Well, that looks like a bit of poaching, at all events; the fish are spawning amongst that water-crowfoot, no doubt; just hook out some weed, and I dare say we shall see some eggs. To be sure; there they are, dotted over the long thread-like leaves of the plant, like little pearls. You have caught enough, for I think it is not sportsmanlike conduct to take such unfair advantage of the unfortunate dace. Put on your casting line and try under the old forge bridge. You think there is not much use? A true fly-fisherman should never say so. I have taken many a trout under the bridge, and I dare say you may be successful this time. There! I told you so. Keep your line tight, and Jack shall land him. He is not a large fish evidently, but very lively. Now you have him, throw him on the grass. Are there any parasites on him? Yes; but different to the last we observed. Here is a leech-like creature, rather small and cylindrical; it is the Piscicola, a not uncommon parasitic leech on fish. Well, put him into the bottle; we can take him home and examine him at leisure. How many trout have we taken now? "We have got nine, papa, and, remember, I have caught three." Yes; but I suppose you include the poaching? "No; I have caught three trout with the fly, and I don't count the dace." Not a bad day's sport, after all; for I threw back again three small fish. What is this showy plant, with large, yellow, globe-like blossoms? How pretty it is, growing in abundance in a little spot near the river! It is the globe flower, so called from the rounded shape of the corolla; it is one of the buttercup family, as you will, perhaps, guess. In its wild state I believe it is found in mountain districts, so I suspect it has found its way here from some of the cottage gardens which are only a quarter of a mile distant. We will grub up a few roots; perhaps Mrs. Charlton would like them for her wild garden shrubbery. When you go a-fishing always be provided, if not inconvenient, with a trowel and a small basket, as well as with a few wide-mouthed bottles; they will be very useful, especially if the trout will not rise. The trowel and basket you can leave at a cottager's house, and the bottles are indispensable to every angler-naturalist. What are you running after, Jacko? Oh! I see; one of the most beautiful insects that are found in this country. Ah! he is too quick for you. It is the brilliant steel-blue dragon-fly. Let us sit down for a few minutes and watch its flight. How rapidly it flies, now pursuing the course of the river, now suddenly darting back again. It is the Agrion virgo, the most splendid of all the dragon-flies, even rivalling the gorgeously coloured insects of tropical countries. All the dragon-flies proceed from water larvae; strange creatures of unbecoming forms and ferocious dispositions. The mouth, or rather the lower lip of the larva is of very singular form. Two jaw-like organs are at the end of the lip, its basal portion being articulated to the head; this mask, as it has been called, is folded beneath the head when in repose, but it can be suddenly shot out in front of the head so as to seize any small creatures that may pass near it which the larva thinks good to eat. Imagine one of your arms being joined on to your chin, bend your elbow up till your hand covers your face—this will represent the dragon larva with the mask in repose; now shoot out your arm in a straight line from the head—this will represent the mask unfolded and in use; your fingers may be considered to represent the jaws of the creature. When the larva wishes to turn into an insect, it leaves the water and creeps up the stem of some water weed or other object out of the water, bursts its skin, and commences its new state of existence. If we look about us near the water side, we shall be sure to find some empty pupa skins. Here are two on this sedge; you see a slit on the back through which the dragon-fly has come out. The dragon-flies are the largest and most active of our British insects, and, to quote the descriptive words of Professor Rymer Jones, "are pre-eminently distinguished by the rapidity of their flight and the steadiness of their evolutions while 'hawking' for prey in the vicinity of ponds and marshy grounds, where in hot summer weather they are everywhere to be met with. Equally conspicuous from their extreme activity, their gorgeous colours, and the exquisite structure of their wings, they might be regarded as the monarchs of the insect race. The very names selected for them by entomologists would testify the perfection of their attributes; their titles ranging from that of Anax imperator, indicative of imperial sway, to epithets expressive of feminine delicacy and ladylike grace, such as virgo, puella, demoiselle, and damsel-fly, which are appropriated to the sylph-like forms that many of them exhibit. In their habits, however, they by no means deserve the gentle appellations bestowed upon them. They are, in truth, the tigers of the insect world, and their whole lives are devoted to bloodshed and rapine. Indomitable in their strength of wing, furnished with tremendous jaws, and possessed of acuteness of sight and rapidity of motion scarcely to be paralleled, there seems to be no escape from their ferocity, and terrible is the slaughter they effect amongst the insect legions they are appointed to destroy." It must not, however, be supposed from the above description that the dragon-flies are creatures that deserve to be killed. On the contrary, they are most serviceable to men, and destroy countless numbers of injurious flies and butterflies whose larvae do damage to vegetation. "Well, papa," said Jack, "the boys in the village always kill them if they can catch them, and say they sting horses." I know that this is a popular tradition, inherited by the rural folks of our day from their great-great-grandmothers' grandmothers. Dragon-flies are often called horse stingers; in America they are sometimes called devil's darning-needles; in Scotland, I believe, they are known by the name of flying adders. Where is my net? I will try and catch a demoiselle. There! I have her, or I should rather say him, for these dark spots on the wings disclose the sex; the female has unspotted wings, and is of a rich green colour. "How splendidly it shines in the sun," said Willy; "nothing can exceed the beauty of its wings." Well, now you have looked at him closely and admired him, I will let him go again. Off he flies, none the worse for his temporary captivity. Now for my friend the trout, who would not take my fly an hour ago. Ah! I have got him the first throw; see how he jumps. Now, Willy, for the landing-net. Bravo! all safe, and a good fish too. Our sport is over for the day, and we must get ready to drive home. To-morrow, Willy, you may learn these lines from Thomson's 'Seasons:'

"When with his lively ray the potent sun Has pierced the stream and roused the finny race, Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair; Chief should the western breezes curling play, And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds. Just in the dubious point where with the pool Is mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollowed bank Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly; And as you lead it round in artful curve With eye attentive mark the springing game, Straight as above the surface of the flood They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap, Then fix with gentle twitch, the barbed hook. Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some, With various hand proportioned to their force. If yet too young and easily deceived, A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod; Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven, Soft disengage, and back into the stream The speckled captive throw. But should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, Behoves you then to ply your finest art. Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly; And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the leap, With sullen plunge. At once he darts along, Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthened line; Then seeks the furthest ooze, the sheltering weed, The caverned bank, his old secure abode, And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand, That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following now Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage; Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, And to his fate abandoned, to the shore You gaily drag your unresisting prize."

There is some good advice here worth remembering; at any rate, persevere, persevere, and no doubt you will become in time



WALK VI.

JUNE.

"We had many pleasant rambles last autumn," said Willy, "in search of fungi. How I wish the time was come when we could hunt for fungi again. Think of the woods at the bottom of the Wrekin, and those delightful fir plantations near Tibberton. Besides you know some kinds are so good broiled for breakfast. I often think of fungus-hunting. When shall we be able to go out hunting again?"

September and October are the best months, but we shall meet with fungi earlier. However, I will promise you a long day's ramble or two in search of fungi when the time comes. In the mean time let us keep our eyes open, and I dare say we shall even now, in the month of June, meet with a few interesting species. We will go into some of the meadows near home to-day, and I am much mistaken if we shall not be able to find St. George's mushroom. It is a very delicious fungus, and perfectly wholesome. I gathered a few specimens the other day, and now that the weather is warm, I doubt not we shall meet a good number; so, besides collecting bottles, we will take a basket, and Jack shall be the carrier. Now separate yourselves and search this pasture well. "Here are a lot of fungi growing in a ring," exclaimed May. Let me look. You have found what we wanted. This fungus is the Agaricus gambosus, or St. George's mushroom. See how closely the gills are set together; they are yellowish-white in colour; the top is thick and fleshy; the stem, too, is very thick. Few fungi, comparatively speaking, grow so early in the year, and you could not mistake gambosus for any other kind. What? You think the smell rather strong. Well, I confess this fungus has a strong and not a very pleasant odour. Put what you have collected into the basket; you will find that the taste is better than the smell. Here are some specimens with the top cracked and split; these are a little older, but they are very good. We will put them with the rest. "Oh, papa," exclaimed Jack, "I was looking at that ash tree in the hedge, and I thought I saw a mouse run up the trunk." I suspect it was not a mouse, but a bird, called, from its habit of running up trees, the tree-creeper. Let us get a little nearer. I see I am right; there the little bird is, running rapidly up the tree; now he stops, as if examining the bark; now he is off again. How very like a mouse, to be sure! It is one of the smallest of our British birds, and, though common enough, is not very often seen, except by those who, caring for such things, use their eyes well. Now he has gone to the opposite side of the tree; off he goes again and explores another trunk. By means of its long curved claws and stiff forked tail-feathers, this prettily marked bird is enabled to climb with great rapidity. It remains in this country all the year, and is more abundant in plantations and parks where there are plenty of trees. It makes its nest in a hollow tree, or on the inner side of the bark of a decayed one. The little bird lays many eggs, from six to nine, in the month of April; they are nearly white, with a few pinkish spots, generally at the larger end of the egg. It utters a few pleasing but feeble notes. The young ones are, as you may suppose, tiny little things. You should notice the curved pointed beak of this bird, and the stiff tail-feathers it presses against the tree as a fulcrum to aid it in its ascent.



We will go into this adjoining field, which will soon be ready to mow. We will keep by the hedge—for it would not be right to trample down the tall grass—and gather a few grasses. Few people know more about grass than that it is good pasturage for cattle and sheep. Let us gather a lot, and take care, as far as we can, to gather only one kind each. How graceful and beautiful they are, and what difference there is amongst them; some have a stiff spike-like head of flowers, others have pretty drooping heads; some are harsh and rough to the touch, others soft as satin. Some, again, are of great value as pasturage and for making into hay; others are positively noxious weeds. You know the twitch or couch grass, that gives the farmer so much trouble; it is most rapid in its growth and difficult to kill; its underground creeping stems spread in all directions, and, if left to itself, would soon take sole possession of the whole soil. So the farmers are very careful to rake together all they can; they then collect it in heaps and burn it. Here is the rough "cocksfoot grass," with its head or "panicle" as it is called, upright and tufted. Look at its large yellow stamens; it is a very productive species and enters largely into all hay-grass. Here is the common quaking grass, with its slender, smooth, spreading branches. See how the numerous little heads tremble with the slightest motion; we do not see much of it in these meadows. It is an exceedingly pretty grass, and often seen on the chimney-pieces of cottagers, but is by no means a valuable agricultural grass; on the contrary, it is a sign, when abundant, of poor land.



Here we have the smooth-stalked meadow grass, and here is the hedge wood-melic grass, with its slightly drooping panicle, and spikelets on long slender footstalks. Here is the soft meadow grass; feel how smooth its panicle is; this, the oat-like grass. "What is that very tall grass," asked Willy, "that often grows near the water? It is much taller than you are, and has a rich brown drooping head." You mean the common reed-grass, no doubt; it is not yet in flower, but you will see it in August and September. It is a magnificent grass, though not of much use to the farmer. The little birds find shelter amongst its stems, and the reed-warbler often chooses them as pillars whereon to support its nest. Then you must not forget another tall and handsome grass, often found on the banks of rivers and lakes, called the reed-canary grass; it flowers about the middle of July. You know the ribbon-grass, in the garden, with its leaves striped with green and white, varying immensely in the width of its bands, so that you can never find two leaves exactly alike. "Yes, indeed, papa," said May, "I know it well; you know we always put some with the flowers we gather for the drawing-room table." Well, this is only a cultivated variety of the reed-canary grass; and I have sometimes let a cluster of the ribbon-grass run wild as it were, and then the leaves turn to one uniform green. The reed-meadow grass is another tall and handsome kind; this cattle are very fond of; it is sweet to the taste and grows in damp situations. "You sometimes see," said May, "a very beautiful and curious grass, with long yellow feathery tails, amongst the ornaments in rooms." That is the "feather-grass;" it is a very rare grass, and has been seldom found wild in this country. The long yellow tails are the awns, which resemble delicate feathers. Here is the sweet-scented vernal grass; taste and see how pleasant it is; it is the grass which, perhaps more than any other, gives that charming odour to the hayfields. "There is a clear pond in yonder corner of the field, let us go there and see what we can find," said Willy. All right. It is a very likely pond for many interesting creatures; but let us first look at the plants that grow round or in it. There are a few sedges here and there—a pretty order of plants; at present you must be content with making yourselves acquainted with their general form. Take care how you gather them, for the leaves and stems of some kinds are very rough, and if you draw them quickly through your hand you may cut it rather sorely. "Oh! do come here, papa," said May; "here is quite a new flower to me; is it not a beauty?" Indeed, it is a lovely plant; it is the buckbean or marshtrefoil, and generally grows in some boggy spot, such as this. Look at the three green leaflets, like those of the common bean—hence one of the names of the plant. Look again at the clusters of blossoms; some are not fully out, and are of a lovely rose colour; others are quite out, and the flowers covered with a white silken fringe. Bite a bit, and taste how bitter it is; people often gather the roots and use them as a tonic medicine. I think in some countries, as in Norway and in Germany, the leaves have been used in the place of hops for brewing beer; about a couple of ounces being equal to a couple of pounds of hops. The late Sir William Hooker found the buckbean very plentiful in Iceland, and says that where it occurs it is of great use to travellers over the morasses, for they are aware that the thickly entangled roots make a safe bed under the soft morass for them to pass over. Here is hairy mint, nearly a foot high; do you dislike the smell? I think it pleasant myself; it is not yet in flower, but will be so in about six weeks' time. Holloa! Jack, what's the matter? "I have only tumbled down, papa, amongst these nasty nettles, and got stung rather sharply." That is interesting. Do you know how it is that nettles sting? "Oh, papa," said Jack, pitifully, "you are like the man in the fable who was giving a lecture to the drowning boy; the boy asked him to get him first of all out of the water, and to give him the lecture afterwards. Now, you should first tell me how to cure these nettle stings, and I would then be more inclined to learn how it is that nettles sting."



The pain will soon pass off, and I do not know that there is any remedy. When at school, I was told to rub the stung part over with a dock leaf, but I do not think this ever did it any good. Now, I want you to pay particular attention; you know what we call "the dead nettle"—I mean what plant I allude to; there is the red, white, and yellow so-called dead nettles; you remember the shape of the flowers of these three kinds. Look at the flowers of the real stinging nettles; are they not extremely unlike? You see the small green flowers in long branched clusters; how different from the lip-shaped flower of the dead nettles.



There is some general resemblance, however, between the real nettles and the so-called dead nettles; the leaves for instance of the white dead nettle are very like those of the stinger. The dead nettles, however, are not at all related to the true nettle, and belong to quite a different family called the Labiate tribe, from the Latin word Labium, "a lip," in allusion to the form of the corolla. Is the pain better, now, Jacko? "Yes, it is getting less severe; look what large white lumps have arisen on the back of my hand." The sting of the nettle is a very curious and interesting object under the microscope. It consists of a hollow tube with a glandular organ at the bottom of it, in which is contained an acrid fluid very irritating to the skin; the fine point of the sting or hair pierces the skin, and the pressure forces up the fluid from the bottom of the hair, which is then conveyed into the wound by a point at the top of the sting.



The nettles of foreign countries have much greater poisonous properties. The effects of incautiously handling some East Indian species are terrible. The first pain is compared with the pain inflicted by a red-hot iron; this increases and continues for days. A French botanist was once stung by one of these nettles in the Botanical Gardens of Calcutta; he says the pain so affected the lower part of his face that he feared lock-jaw. He did not get rid of the pain till nine days had expired. Dr. Hooker saw gigantic nettles in Nepal, one was a shrubby species growing fifteen feet high, called by the natives mealum-ma. They had so great a dread of it that Dr. Hooker could hardly persuade them to help him to cut it down. He gathered several specimens without allowing any part to touch his skin, but the "scentless effluvium" was so powerful as to cause unpleasant effects for the rest of the day. "The sting produces violent inflammation, and to punish a child with mealum-ma is the severest Lepcha threat." Then there is the nettle of Timor, or devils-leaf, the sting of which sometimes produces fatal effects. Tree-nettles in Australia are occasionally found as much as twenty-five feet in circumference. There are three species of stinging nettles in this country, the great nettle, the small nettle, and the Roman nettle; the first two are very common, the last very rare indeed. There is a curious story told of the introduction of this last species into this country. You may believe as much as you please of it. It is said that before the Romans under Julius Caesar thought it prudent to come to England—of the coldness of which they had heard a good deal—they procured some seeds of the Roman nettle, intending to sow them when they landed in this country; so when they landed at Romney, in Kent, they sowed the seeds. "And what use, papa," asked Willy, "would nettles be to them during the cold weather in England?" Well, they meant to nettle themselves, and so chafe their skins so as to enable them to bear the cold better. And tough skins they must have had, for the poison of the Roman nettle is much more severe than that of the two common species. Camden, I believe, tells the story; as I said, you may believe it or not. Do you see that tortoiseshell butterfly hovering near the nettles? Its larva was a greenish-black caterpillar with yellow stripes, and it lived, when in that state, entirely on the leaves of the nettle; the larvae also of other kinds of butterflies feed on this plant, as the admiral butterfly, and the peacock butterfly. I have eaten the young shoots of the common nettles in the spring of the year; they do not make a bad substitute for spinach.



How prettily the yellow flags skirt the pool; there, you see, is the common branched bur-reed, with its sword-like leaves and round heads of flowers; a little way in the pool is the pretty arrowhead with its large conspicuous arrow-shaped leaves and flesh-coloured flowers, both leaves and flowers standing several inches out of the water. In the water, too, I see the brown leaves of the perfoliate pondweed; they are almost transparent, and look when dry something like gold-beater's skin. I see also the cylindrical tufts of the horn-wort with its bristle-like leaves often several times forked. It grows entirely under the water. See also a few rose-coloured spikes of the amphibious persicaria.



Such are some of the most conspicuous plants near our pond. It looks likely to contain some fresh-water polyzoa, than which there are few more beautiful tenants of the water. Here is a young one on this leaf of persicaria; do you see it? I put it into my bottle. Now look, it has lately been hatched from that round egg with curious hooks around its margin. It is called Cristatella. At present there are only three individuals in the outer heart-shaped covering, but additional ones will bud out of these three, and others from these last, till the whole colony may number as many as sixty individuals, being then fully an inch long; the mouth of each is placed between the tentacles, which have upon them, running down each side, a great number of very minute hairs or cilia, to which, you may remember, I have alluded before. The colour of the colony is yellowish white, sometimes brownish white. It is a most exquisite little animal, or rather colony of animals; for, though there are several creatures in one house, as it were, each is separate and independent of its neighbour. You will often find other forms of polyzoa in clear ponds and mill-pools; sometimes you would suppose you were looking at a mass of sponge, as in the case of Alcyonella, or the creeping root of some weed, as in Plumatella and Fredericella; but when the sponge-like mass or rootlets are placed in water you will observe numbers of little animals to show their heads and tentacles above the mass or from the little holes in the creeping rootlets. Ah! what have we here? Do you see those long narrow ribbons of floating grass about a yard from us? Do you notice some of the ribbons to be bent and folded here and there? Between each fold we shall find an egg of a newt. Let me get this bit of grass ribbon. There, I unfold it where it is creased, and you see a transparent glairy substance, within which is a round yellowish egg. Here again is another. The leaves of persicaria, also, are often selected by the female newt for the purpose of depositing her eggs. Here you see is a leaf folded up; between the folds is another newt's egg. I have never seen the newt in the act of laying her eggs, but, I believe, it may readily be observed by placing a female newt any time during the months of May and June in a vessel of water with some leaves of persicaria. Mr. Bell says, "The manner in which the eggs are deposited is very interesting and curious. The female, selecting some leaf of an aquatic plant, sits as it were upon its edge, and folding it by means of her two hind feet, deposits a single egg in the duplicature of the folded part of the leaf, which is thereby glued most securely together, and the egg is thus effectually protected from injury. As soon as the female has in this way deposited a single egg, she quits the leaf, and after the lapse of a short time seeks another, there to place another egg." The eggs undergo various changes, and the animal, at an early part of its life, has a pair of delicate organs on each side of the neck; these are rudimentary gills, by means of which the little creature breathes. In its very early condition these gills are simple lobes; I ought to say that the first pair of lobes serve the purpose of holders by which the little creature attaches itself to leaves and other things. But when it is about three weeks old the gills have many leaf-like divisions, and look like beautiful feathered fringes. The circulation of blood in these gills may be readily seen under the microscope, and will be surveyed with the greatest delight. By-and-bye the animal buds out its four legs and looses the gills; they do not drop off, but become absorbed; hitherto it has carried on its respiration or breathing by means of these gills, but how does it breathe now that it has lost them? The lungs in the inside of the body have been gradually growing larger and fit for breathing the atmospheric air; for newts, when arrived at their full or perfect state, are, you know, chiefly terrestrial creatures, and breathe by means of their lungs. When young they are in a fish state, and breathe the air contained in the water exactly as fish do. If you will look at a pond where newts abound, you will see the old ones constantly coming to the top of the water, gulping down a mouthful of air and then returning to the bottom. Full-grown newts do not frequent the water excepting for the sake of laying their eggs. The young ones are ready for leaving the water in the autumn, but I have often obtained young newts with their gills fully developed in the depth of winter. Probably these had been hatched late in the summer and had not time to grow their lungs, so had to keep to their gills and lead the life of a fish during the winter.

"People often call newts 'askers,' papa," said Willy, "and the lads of the village always kill them when they catch them; they say their bite is poisonous." I am sorry to say they do; but it is an error to suppose their bite is poisonous. You have yourself handled many specimens, and I am sure you never saw one attempt to bite. I do not believe their small teeth and weak jaws could pierce the skin. Four species of newts have been described as occurring in this country—the two common kinds are the smooth newt and the warty newt. I think I once found the palmated newt near Eyton; the male of this species is distinguished from other newts by having the hind legs webbed and by a thin filament or thread at the end of the tail.



"What is this, papa," said Jack, "that I have found sticking to the roots of this water-weed; they look like the eggs of some creature?" They are not eggs, but the cocoons of a very common but pretty beetle called Donacia. See, I will slit one open with my penknife. There is the little animal inside, a white, fat, maggoty thing; it has two curious hooks at the end of the tail, it has only just framed its cell, and is about to change from the larval to the pupal state. Here you see are other maggots among the roots; they have not yet made a cocoon. I will open some more; here is one in its pupal condition. Here is another almost ready to come out as a beetle. The Donacia have all a metallic appearance and very beautiful they are, whether blue, red, copper, or purple; the under side is covered with a fine silky down. They are found in great numbers on water-weeds, and being very sluggish are readily caught or picked off the plants they frequent with the hand. Do you notice those small, flat, brown or black dabs so common on almost any water-weed you pluck up? These are planarian worms, and though not of prepossessing appearance generally, are extremely interesting animals to study. These large, reddish, oval or round cocoons are the eggs of the planariae. Here is one of the largest of the family. It is of a milk-white colour, beautifully marked with delicate tree-like branches; sometimes this species (Planaria lactea) is of a light pink colour. The mouth is not situated where mouths usually are, in the fore part of the body, but almost in the centre. See, I will place this white planaria on my hand; do you notice that it protrudes something you might perhaps say was its tongue? It is not its tongue, however; it is a tubular proboscis, and is very strong and muscular, and unlike the soft body of the animal. By means of this proboscis the creature is enabled to pierce the bodies of other creatures and to suck out their juices. I have kept planariae under observation, and seen them drive this proboscis through each other. These black and brown dabs often feed upon the milky planariae. They are something like the hydrae in their power of producing lost portions of their bodies. Cut them in two or more pieces, each piece will grow into a perfect planaria again. These you see do not swim but crawl, or glide over the surface of plants in the water. Some kinds, however, different from these, are able to swim well. We have had a long and successful hunt to-day. Let us go.



WALK VII.

JUNE.

This morning, before we started for our walk, we went to look at a hedgehog which had been brought to us the preceding day. We discovered that the animal, in the course of the night, had crept into a bag with a quantity of bran in it, and that there were four little ones with her. There they were as snug as possible, the mother and little urchins! Very curious little animals too these young hedgehogs. The spines or prickles were nearly white and soft, and were not spread over the whole body, but arranged in rows down it. The appearance was that of a plucked duckling when it is what is called "penny." They were perfectly blind, and the passage of the ear was quite closed; they uttered faint, puppy-like cries. I was desirous to try and rear them; but I had grave doubts about the old one, for those who have attempted to rear young hedgehogs have generally found that the mother ate her offspring. We removed her, young and all, to another place, giving them plenty of straw and supplying bread and milk for the old one. Buffon, amongst others, relates "that he had repeatedly placed the mother with the young in a place of confinement; but that, instead of suckling them, she invariably killed and devoured them, notwithstanding that she was provided with plenty of food."

However, we determined to give our young urchins a chance, and hoped the mother hedgehog would be favorably disposed towards her offspring; so we now left her undisturbed. Willy wished to know whether hedgehogs were injurious creatures, for "you know, papa," he said, "that country lads and gamekeepers always kill them whenever they have a chance." I am convinced that hedgehogs do much more good than harm, by the destruction they cause to insects, slugs, snails, field-mice, and other pests of the farm. There is a foolish idea in the minds of the uneducated that these animals suck cows. You have only to laugh at such an absurdity; but I doubt you will scarcely ever succeed in persuading such people that the idea is a ridiculous one, and utterly unsupported by fact. Hedgehogs will undoubtedly destroy eggs, and one can understand why gamekeepers wage war against them, fearing for the safety of the eggs or young birds of their favorite partridges or pheasants. This is natural. I suspect, however, that hedgehogs seldom molest the nests, and that the injury they do in this respect is very small. "But you know, papa," said Jack, "that they will eat young birds. Do you not remember the dead sparrow we once gave to a hedgehog, and how furiously he went at it, and how soon he ate it all up except the feathers." "Yes," added Willy, "and do you not also remember our putting a toad in the same box with a hedgehog? Oh! how angry he seemed, and how savagely he shook the unfortunate toad! He did not, however, seem to like the flavour, and soon gave up the fight." Hedgehogs will certainly destroy young birds; but we must remember to set the good any animal does against the harm, and strike the balance; and, as I said, I suspect in this case the good will largely preponderate. Hedgehogs are extremely fond of beetles; they seize on them with great earnestness, and crack them with as much delight as you lads crack nuts. Hedgehogs are sometimes kept in houses for the purpose of eating the cockroaches so often abounding in kitchens. Snakes are also devoured by hedgehogs. The late Professor Buckland, having occasion to suspect that hedgehogs sometimes preyed on snakes, "procured a common snake and also a hedgehog, and put them in a box together. Whether or not the latter recognised its enemy was not apparent; it did not dart from the hedgehog, but kept creeping gently round the box. The hedgehog was rolled up, and did not appear to see the snake. The professor then laid the hedgehog on the snake, with that part of the ball where the head and tail meet downwards, and touching it. The snake proceeded to crawl; the hedgehog started, opened slightly, and seeing what was under it gave the snake a hard bite, and instantly rolled itself up again. It soon opened a second, and again a third time, repeating the bite. This done, the hedgehog stood by the snake's side, and passed the whole body of the snake successively through its jaws, cracking it, and breaking the bones at intervals of half an inch or more, by which operation the snake was rendered motionless. The hedgehog then placed itself at the tip of the snake's tail, and began to eat upwards, as one would eat a radish, without intermission, but slowly, till half of the snake was devoured. The following morning the remaining half was also completely eaten up." When rather young these animals make very interesting pets; they soon become tame, and will allow you to stroke their cheeks. You remember our placing a hedgehog on the study table, and seeing how it got off on to the ground. It came to the edge, and threw itself off, coiling up its body partly as it fell; the elastic nature of its prickly covering enabling it to bear the shock of the fall without the slightest inconvenience.



Let us go on the moors again, and watch the coots and water-hens in the reedy pools near the aqueduct. Do you see that great tit on a branch of this poplar? He is actually at work doing a bit of butchery on a small warbler. See how he is beating the poor little fellow on the head; he wants to get at his brains. "Are there not birds called butcher-birds?" asked Willy, "that fix their victims on thorns, and then peck off their flesh? Shall we see any of them?" There are three kinds of butcher-birds that have been known to come to this country. Two kinds are very uncommon, and we are not likely to meet with any of them in our walks. I may as well, however, tell you something about them; but, as I have no personal knowledge of the habits of any of the species, I must get my information from other sources. The great grey shrike, the red-backed shrike, and the woodchat shrike, are the three species of the family occurring in Great Britain; the red-backed shrike is the only tolerably common one, arriving in this country late in April, and quitting it in September. Mr. John Shaw tells me this bird visits the quarry grounds at Shrewsbury every spring, and an early riser, if he goes there, can see these birds readily. Mr. Yarrell says that the great grey shrike is only an occasional visitor to this country, and is generally obtained between autumn and spring. Its food consists of mice, shrews, small birds, frogs, lizards, and large insects. "After having killed its prey, it fixes the body in a forked branch, or upon a sharp thorn, the more readily to pull off small pieces from it." The following remarks are by a gentleman who had one of these birds in confinement:—"An old bird of this species," he says, "taken near Norwich in October, 1835, lived in my possession twelve months. It became very tame, and would readily take its food from my hands. When a bird was given it, it invariably broke the skull, and generally ate the head first. It sometimes held the bird in its claws, and pulled it to pieces in the manner of hawks, but seemed to prefer forcing part of it through the wires, then pulling at it. It always hung what it could not eat up on the sides of the cage. It would often eat three small birds in a day. In the spring it was very noisy, one of its notes a little resembling the cry of the kestrel." It is a cunning as well as a bold bird. It is said that by imitating the notes of some of the smaller birds it calls them near it, and then pounces upon some deluded victim. The shrike is used by falconers abroad for trapping falcons; "it is fastened to the ground, and by screaming loudly gives notice to the falconer, who is concealed, of the approach of a hawk." You will notice in any picture of a shrike how admirably adapted is its curved beak for butchering purposes. The red-backed shrike "frequents the sides of woods and high hedgerows, generally in pairs, and may frequently be seen perched on the uppermost branch of an isolated bush, on the look out for prey. The males occasionally make a chirping noise, not unlike the note of the sparrow." It also imitates the voice of small birds. Mr. Yarrell says "the food of the red-backed shrike is mice, and probably shrews, small birds, and various insects, particularly the common May-chaffer. Its inclination to attack and its power to destroy little birds has been doubted; but it has been seen to kill a bird as large as a finch, and is not unfrequently caught in the clap-nets of London bird-catchers, having struck at their decoy-birds;" and Mr. Hewitson says—"Seeing a red-backed shrike busy in a hedge, I found, upon approaching it, a small bird, upon which it had been operating, firmly fixed upon a blunt thorn; its head was torn off, and the body entirely plucked."

"What an amazing quantity of little lady-bird beetles there are on this hedge-bank," said May. "The ground is almost red with them." Yes, it is a very common, but very pretty species. You see there are seven black spots on its red wing-covers, three on each, arranged triangularly, and one at the top of the wing-covers, just at the point where they meet. "Are these insects injurious, papa?" asked Willy; "you say there are so many insects that are. I do hope the little lady-birds do no mischief." I am happy, then, to tell you that they are as useful as they are pretty. You all know what are called plant-lice, those nasty green or black flies called Aphides, which cover the leaves or branches of so many trees and flowers, and do most terrible mischief. Well, the lady-birds, both when they are larvae and when they are beetles, eat these pests, and help to keep their devastating swarms in check. I have frequently seen an aphis in the mouth of a lady-bird; and the larva, a curious six-footed grub, about the third of an inch long, which you may often see late in the summer and the autumn, is still more fond of aphis food. Mr. Curtis says two lady-birds cleared two geranium plants of aphides in twenty-four hours. The species we are looking at is the "seven-spotted lady-bird;" there is another very common kind, whose scarlet wing-cases have one black spot on the centre of each. This species is subject to considerable variety; it is called the "two-spotted lady-bird." There is another you may often find; it is small and yellow, with eleven spots on each wing-cover. This is called the "twenty-two-spotted lady-bird;" it is an elegant little creature. It is interesting to note how the observation of some particular animal has led naturalists to the choice of their favorite study. Mr. Gould tells us that his first inclination to the study of birds arose from his father having once lifted him up to peep into a hedge-warbler's nest. His admiration for the beautiful blue eggs led him to devote his time to ornithology, or the study of birds. If I remember rightly, Kirby's mind was directed to the study of insects by noticing the wonderful vitality shown by a little lady-bird beetle, which, after having been immersed twenty-four hours in spirits of wine, on being taken out actually flew away. "What is the meaning," asked Mary, "of the nursery rhyme about the lady-bird?

Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, Your house is on fire, and your children will burn?"

Indeed, I cannot tell you. There are different versions of the old song. One runs thus:

Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home; Your house is on fire, your children at home, All but one that lives under the stone,— Fly thee home, lady-bird, ere it be gone.

In Yorkshire and Lancashire it is—

Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly thy way home, Thy house is on fire, thy children all roam, Except little Nan, who sits in her pan, Weaving gold laces as fast as she can.

The names of Lady-bird, Lady-cow, no doubt originated from the general reverence for this insect and its dedication to the Virgin Mary. In Scandinavia this little beetle is called "Our Lady's Key-maid," in Sweden "The Virgin Mary's Golden Hen." Similar reverence is paid in Germany, France, England, and Scotland. In Norfolk it is called Bishop Barnabee, and the young girls have the following rhyme, which they continue to recite to it placed on the palm of the hand, till it takes wing and flies away.

"Bishop, Bishop Barnabee, Tell me when my wedding be; If if be to-morrow day, Take your wings and fly away! Fly to the East, fly to the West, Fly to him that I love best."

The word barnabee or burnabee, or, as Southey writes it, burnie-bee, no doubt has reference to the burnished or polished wing cases of the insect.

Let us now look out for the coots and water-hens, which love to dabble amongst the weeds of these pools, and to hide amongst the hedges and bulrushes that so thickly skirt them. See how rapidly the swifts or "Jack-squealers," as the country folks call them, are gliding by; you remember when we were noticing the swallows and martins that we thought of the swifts. Look at the beautiful scythe-like form of the wings; the tail, you see, is slightly forked; but the bird has the power of bringing the feathers together, so that sometimes you cannot see its cleft form. I generally notice swifts in the neighbourhood about the 5th of May; this year Mr. John Shaw tells me he saw some in Shrewsbury as early as the 23rd of April. Although they come to us the last of the swallow family, they leave us the soonest. By the middle of August most of the swifts will have left us.

This bird has remarkably short legs; and I remember more than once taking one off the ground when I was a boy at school, for unless it is raised a little above the level of the ground, it finds it very difficult to mount upwards by reason of its extremely short legs and long wings. If we had a swift in our hands, I could point out how it differed from the rest of the swallow family in the structure of its feet; in the other members the four toes are arranged three before and one behind; in the swift all the four toes are directed forwards. There is another kind of swift, the "white-bellied swift," which has, on a few occasions, been noticed in this country. It is rather larger than the common swift, and has wings of greater length, and can fly even more rapidly. Hark! I hear the noise of a coot proceeding from the reeds of a pond. I dare say if we keep quite still we shall get a glimpse of her. There she comes; and do look, a lot of young ones with her; little black downy things they are, as we should see were we near enough to examine them. The old birds have a naked white patch on the forehead, and are therefore called bald-coots. You can see the white patch now she faces us and the sun is shining; the body is a dingy black tinged with dark grey; you notice a little white about the wings. The feet of the coot are curiously formed, each of the four toes is partly webbed, having a membrane forming rounded lobes; the claws are very sharp, and the bird does not hesitate to make use of them if you catch hold of it carelessly; so Col. Hawker gives the following caution to young sportsmen—"Beware of a winged coot, or he will scratch you like a cat."

I never saw a coot dive; and think it seldom does; water-hens, every one knows, are frequent divers.

The old bird is pulling up some of the weeds of the pool for the young ones; how carefully she attends to them; the heads of the little ones are nearly naked, and of a bright orange colour mixed with blue; but this brilliant colouring lasts only a few days. The nest is made of broken reeds and flags, and hidden amongst the tall rushes and edges in the water.

Bewick mentions the case of a coot having built her nest among some rushes, which were afterwards loosened by the wind, and of course the nest was driven about and floated upon the surface of the water in every direction; notwithstanding which, the female continued to sit as usual, and brought out her young upon her movable habitation. See, now they have all gone away to hide amongst the reeds; they like to come out into the open water late in the evening, and it is not often easy to observe them in the day-time. There are plenty of moor-hens or water-hens in these reedy pools. They are not so peaceful as the coots, for they have been known to attack young ducklings. There one swims, jerking up its tail, which is whitish underneath, and nodding its head; the moor-hen is a smaller bird than the coot, though resembling it both in form and habits. The feet, however, are very different, for, instead of the toes being furnished with a lobed membrane, they have a continuous narrow one down each. Moor-hens have been known to remove their eggs from the nest, in order to add to it, and to replace them again. Mr. Selby relates the following interesting account:

"During the early part of the summer of 1835 a pair of water-hens built their nest by the margin of the ornamental pond at Bell's Hill, a piece of water of considerable extent, and ordinarily fed by a spring from the height above, but into which the contents of another large pond can occasionally be admitted. This was done while the female was sitting; and as the nest had been built when the water-level stood low, the sudden influx of this large body of water from the second pond caused a rise of several inches, so as to threaten the speedy immersion and consequent destruction of the eggs. This the birds seem to have been aware of, and immediately took precaution against so imminent a danger; for when the gardener, upon whose veracity I can safely rely, seeing the sudden rise of the water, went to look after the nest, expecting to find it covered and the eggs destroyed, or at least forsaken by the hen, he observed, while at a distance, both birds busily engaged about the brink where the nest was placed; and when near enough, he clearly perceived that they were adding, with all possible dispatch, fresh materials to raise the fabric beyond the level of the increased contents of the pond, and that the eggs had by some means been removed from the nest by the birds, and were then deposited upon the grass, about a foot or more from the margin of the water. He watched them for some time, and saw the nest rapidly increase in height; but I regret to add that he did not remain long enough, fearing he might create alarm, to witness the interesting act of the replacing of the eggs, which must have been effected shortly afterwards; for upon his return in less than an hour, he found the hen quietly sitting upon them in the newly raised nest. In a few days afterwards the young were hatched, and, as usual, soon quitted the nest and took to the water with the parent. The nest was shown to me in situ very soon afterwards, and I could then plainly discern the formation of the new with the old part of the fabric."

"What is that little bird in the water?" asked Jack. "Oh! he is suddenly gone; do you see the curl in the water where it dived?" It was no doubt a dabchick, then, from your description, though I was not in time to see it before it dived; if we keep quite still and silent I dare say it will appear again. There it is, dabbling in the water in search of water insects that are found amongst the weeds. Another name of this bird is the little grebe; several species of grebes have been found in this county; the great-crested grebe is a very handsome bird and frequents lakes and rivers; but of the five British grebes, the little dabchick is by far the most common. The feet of these birds are peculiar, the toes are not connected together by a web, as you see in ducks and geese; they are, however, united at the base, and each of the three front toes is surrounded by a broad continuous membrane; the lower part of the leg is also very flat; the legs are placed very far backwards, so that these birds stand almost upright; the wings are short and seldom used for flight; however, they are admirable swimmers and divers, and pretty, lively little birds. The plumage of this little grebe varies according to the time of year. Now, in the summer weather, the head, neck and back are a very dark brown; the cheeks and front of the neck a rich chestnut; chin jet black; in the winter they lose this chestnut colour, and are then of a light olive-grey colour and white underneath. Formerly the two different states of the plumage were thought to mark two different species.

The nest, as Mr. Gould tells us, is a raft of weeds and aquatic plants carefully heaped together in a rounded form. The young ones have delicate rose-coloured bills and harlequin-like markings on the body, and rosy-white breasts. "So active and truly aquatic is the dabchick, even when only one or two days old, that it is almost impossible to see it in a state of nature; for immediately after the young birds are hatched, they either take to the water of their own accord, or cling when not more than an hour old to the backs of their parents, who dive away with them out of harm's way." Mr. Gould mentions that a friend of his, when out on a fishing excursion with him, once shot a dabchick as it dived across a shallow stream; on emerging wounded, on the surface, two young ones clinging to the back were caught by Mr. Gould in his landing net.

So rapid is their diving that they can often avoid the charge of a gun; they then rise again "with only the tips of their bill above water, and even these generally concealed amongst some patch of weeds or grass." The grebes have a peculiar habit of plucking off the soft feathers from the under side of the body and swallowing them. Why they do so is not known.



"What is this pretty pink flower," asked May, "with long trailing stems and leaves broadly arrow-shaped? From its resemblance to that beautiful convolvulus in the garden I should think it must be a smaller kind of that plant." You are quite right, it is a convolvulus, and its English name of Field Bindweed is expressive of the clinging habits of this plant; see how tightly it has wrapped itself round this tall blade of grass. Although a very pretty plant; with its pink flowers and darker plaits, its arrow-shaped leaves, and its fragrant smell, it is a troublesome weed to the farmer. Then there is the greater bindweed, with its large bell-blossoms sometimes white as snow, sometimes striped with pink, sometimes almost rose-colour, so often seen growing profusely over the tallest bushes. Both kinds of bindweed, however, are mischievous weeds; the large kind you may find in flower as late as September. Some of the bindweed family, I ought to say, are valuable in medicine. There is for instance the Convolvulus jalapa and Convolvulus scammonia, both of which are extensively used in medicine; the former a South American plant and the latter a Syrian one. Then there is the so-called sweet-potato, which is the root of Convolvulus batatas used in China, Japan, and other tropical countries as a wholesome food. Strange it seems that plants so closely related should differ so much in their properties.

The accompanying vignette may be supposed to represent Master Willy watching the movements of a snail.



WALK VIII.

JULY.

Let us have another stroll on the moors. We pass over a small brook on our way, and of course stop on the bridge and gaze into the little rivulet. What do I see about four yards off in the shade? A number of small dark-coloured patches which I recognise at once as one of our most beautiful fresh-water algae. We will gather some from the bottom. There! the little tufts are attached to the upper sides of stones. When taken out of the water, the plant looks and feels like a mass of very dark jelly. I will float a piece out in this bottle of water. Did you ever see anything more beautiful? It consists of a number of delicate branches, each arranged in a bead-like row, and from a certain resemblance which these beaded rows bear to frog-spawn, as well as from their jelly-like consistency, this alga has received the name of Batrachospermum, which means "frogs' spawn." If we take a bit home and spread it out carefully on a piece of drying paper, separating the numerous beaded branches one from the other with the point of a needle, and leave it to dry gradually, we shall get a very pretty object indeed. As you may suppose, the plant is a most charming object for the microscope. "Do you think," asked Willy, "it would do in my aquarium?" I have several times tried it in an aquarium; it would live for a few days, then gradually lose colour and break to pieces. The fact is that, as Dr. Hassall says, these plants "inhabit mostly pure and running waters, being usually met with in fountains, wells, and streams, the force of which is not considerable." The frog-spawn alga, therefore, will not thrive in any but the purest water, and a gentle flow is necessary to its growth and health. "These plants are so exceedingly flexible," Dr. Hassall continues, "that they obey the slightest motion of the fluid which surrounds them, and would seem almost to be endowed with vitality; nothing can surpass the ease and grace of their movements. When removed from the water they lose all form, and appear like pieces of jelly without trace of organization. On immersion, however, the branches again quickly resume their former disposition. They adhere strongly to paper, and in drying frequently change to some other tint usually much deeper; on being moistened after long intervals they recover much of their original freshness; and it is even asserted that, after having lain in the herbarium for some years, when they are replaced in water in a suitable locality, they will vegetate as before." This last assertion I must say I do not credit. I shall never forget the delight I felt when I first made the acquaintance of this curious and graceful alga. From the eyes of how many people are its charms hidden! It is only those that look closely that would notice the little jelly-like tufts growing modestly in shaded places for the most part. This species, however, is common enough in gently flowing and shallow streams, and we may often come across it in our rambles if we take the trouble to use our eyes. There are other extremely beautiful forms of fresh-water algae.

Here in this same stream are the long green threads of Cladophora glomerata. I use as few hard words as possible, but I cannot help using them sometimes, as many objects have no English names. This alga is also attached to stones and floats out with the current sometimes two feet in length; and, like the frog-spawn alga, is fond of pure water, but I have often kept the Cladophora alive in perfect health in an aquarium for weeks together. Its deep refreshing green colour and graceful form make it a very desirable acquisition for the aquarium. I break off a small bit. Now see its beautifully branched form. Do you remember a round green ball about the size of a small apple which I have at home? Well, that ball, which came from Ellesmere, is nothing else than a mass of this same Cladophora. Dr. Hassall is no doubt correct in his explanation of the formation of these balls. He says, "This state of Cladophora glomerata I believe to be formed as follows: A specimen by the force of some mountain stream swollen by recent rains becomes forced from its attachment; as it is carried along by the current, it is made to revolve repeatedly upon itself, until at last a compact ball is formed of it, which finally becomes deposited in some basin or reservoir in which the stream loses itself, and in which these balls are usually found." Here are some specimens in the water of a rich brown colour instead of green. This is caused by the growth of other algae over its long branches. See! I shake a bit in my bottle, and you see a quantity of brown deposit comes off, showing the green threads of the Cladophora underneath. This brown deposit looks to you, I dare say, very uninteresting. I will show you some under the microscope when we get home, and you will see many extremely beautiful forms. These are known by the name of Diatomaceae and Desmidiae. I will not tell you more of them at present; but a picture which I will show you will give you the forms of some of these microscopic plants.



Here we are once more on the wild moors. There is really nothing very "wild" about them now; cultivation has turned them into excellent pasturage; the epithet, too, is a corruption of weald, signifying a wood. But this whole district, extending from Longdon-upon-Tern to Aqualate, was once, there can be no doubt, covered with water. Perhaps it was the bed of a large lake a great many years ago; the soil, you see, is composed of peat varying in thickness in different parts, and below the peat is often found sand and pebbles, which looks as if it was once the bottom of a vast lake ten miles or more long, and three broad. The village of Kinnersly was evidently once an island, and you can now see the moors extending all around it. Once, then, the whole district was covered with water, but about 200 years ago it was covered with wood.



"Oh! papa, did you see that?" said Jack. "A hawk pounced upon a small bird and has taken him to that fir tree, where he is eating him." It is a kestril; one of the commonest of the British hawks, and which we may often see in this district; though I am afraid those destructive animals called gamekeepers will in time succeed in destroying every hawk in the neighbourhood. "Well, but, papa," said Willy, "do they not do a great deal of harm to young partridges and pheasants, and of course the gamekeeper will not stand that?" I dare say; indeed I have no doubt that a kestril will occasionally seize upon a young partridge, but it is also certain that mice form the principal part of its food. Remains of mice, shrews, beetles, lizards, have been found in the kestril's stomach, and I am sure it would be a great pity to seek to exterminate this handsome and attractive bird. "Is this the hawk that you very often see hovering steadily in the air over one spot?" asked May. Yes, it is, and from this habit it has got the name of windhover; the outspread tail is suspended and the head always points in the direction of the wind. The sparrow-hawk I occasionally see, and now and then the merlin, a beautiful little fellow and of great courage; the sparrow-hawk is a much greater enemy to young birds than the kestril, and ought not to be allowed to increase where game or poultry are reared, for so bold are these birds that they will not unfrequently skim over a poultry yard, seize a young chicken and carry it off. Have you never heard the cry of terror an old hen utters when a hawk is seen in the air near her little brood?

Mr. Gould gives us the following anecdote of a sparrow-hawk as related to him by a friend:—

"Three or four years since I was driving towards Dover, when suddenly a sparrow-hawk, with a stoop like a falcon's, struck a lark close to my horse's head. The lark fell as a grouse or a partridge will fall to a falcon or tiercel, and the sparrow-hawk did not attempt to carry, but held on his way. I jumped down and picked up the body of the lark and the head; the two being entirely disunited. The velocity and force of the stoop must have been tremendous. I have often seen grouse and partridges ripped up the back and neck, and the skull laid bare, but I never saw a head taken clean off before." A sparrow-hawk has been known to pursue a finch between the legs of a man, and to dash through a window-pane with the intention of seizing some cage-bird.

"What was that very large bird, papa," said Willy, "that you noticed near Eyton last November? It was one of the hawk family, was it not?" Yes; I have no doubt it was the common buzzard, though it would not allow me to get very near it; but I watched it at a distance for some time. It would remain on a tree for some time, and then take a slow flight away, returning again to some tree. Buzzards are not nearly such active fliers and bold birds as the smaller kinds of hawks. Though I said it was the common buzzard, you must not suppose that this bird is really common; it is called common as being the species most frequently seen in this country. Mr. Yarrell, in his book on 'British Birds,' has given the figure of a buzzard nursing and feeding a brood of young chickens. Is not that a curious thing?

He says, "The extreme partiality of the common buzzard to the seasonal task of incubation and rearing young birds has been exemplified in various instances. A few years back, a female buzzard, kept in the garden of the Chequers Inn, at Uxbridge, showed an inclination to sit by collecting and bending all the loose sticks she could gain possession of. Her owner, noticing her actions, supplied her with materials. She completed her nest and sat on two hens' eggs, which she hatched, and afterwards reared the young. Since then she has hatched and brought up a brood of chickens every year.

"She indicates her desire to sit by scratching holes in the ground, and breaking and tearing everything within her reach. One summer, in order to save her the fatigue of sitting, some young chickens just hatched were put down to her, but she destroyed the whole. Her family, in June, 1839, consisted of nine, the original number was ten, but one had been lost. When flesh was given to her, she was very assiduous in tearing and offering it as food to her nurselings, and appeared uneasy if, after taking small portions from her, they turned away to pick up grain."

What is this little mouse-like thing in the grass? how quickly it runs. Now I have got him. No! off again; burrowing under the grass-roots. Now I have him safe enough; he cannot bite me with this glove on. Look at the little rogue, with his soft short silky fur and long nose. See how flexible that pointed nose is; how useful in grubbing amongst the closest herbage, or under the surface of the soil. How sharp are the little creature's teeth. With them he eats worms and the larvae of various kinds of insects. Well, what is its name? It is the common shrew, and though the form of the body is mouse-shaped, it is, properly speaking, not a mouse at all, being much more nearly related to the mole. It is said that shrews are very fond of fighting, and that if two be confined together in a box, the stronger will conquer the weaker and then eat him. Moles are said to eat their small relatives, but I have never had any evidence of the fact, though it is probable enough. May wanted to know whether cats eat shrews. I have often tried cats with dead shrews, and have always found they will not touch them. I dare say, however, they would kill them. The smell of the shrew is certainly unpleasant, as you may find out from this little fellow I hold in my hand. Mind he does not bite your nose. Now we have examined him I shall let him go. It is no pleasure to take an animal's life, and as this little shrew does no harm but good by destroying insect larvae, it would be a shame to hurt him. Where injurious creatures must be killed, let us always be careful to take away life so as to cause the least possible pain. Now, would any of you have ever thought that the little shrew I have just released had ever been supposed to be one of the most dangerous enemies to cattle? This was really once believed by our ancestors, who thought that a shrew, by running over the backs of cattle, made them weak in the loins, and that its bite made a beast swell at the heart and die. Absurd as was the belief, the supposed cure for the injury was, if possible, still more ridiculous. It consisted in passing over the cow's back the twigs of a shrew ash. "Now a shrew ash," says Gilbert White, "is an ash whose twigs or branches when applied to the limbs of cattle will immediately relieve the pains which a beast suffers from the running of a shrew-mouse over the part affected, for it is supposed that a shrew-mouse is of so baneful and deleterious a nature, that wherever it creeps over a beast, be it horse, cow, or sheep, the suffering animal is afflicted with cruel anguish and threatened with the loss of the use of the limb. Against this accident, to which they were continually liable, our provident forefathers always kept a shrew ash at hand which, when once medicated, would maintain its virtue for ever. A shrew ash was made thus: into the body of the tree a deep hole was bored with an auger, and a poor devoted shrew-mouse was thrust in alive, and plugged in, no doubt with several quaint incantations long since forgotten." It is marvellous how people could ever have believed such stuff; but equal absurdities are still accepted by many people to this very day; so strong a hold on men's minds have the kindred vices of superstition and ignorance.

Look at these spiders' webs on this hawthorn hedge, they are formed of delicate silken threads, and are of a long funnel shape; the spider occupies the bottom part and soon rushes up should any insect get into the trap, and quickly rushes down and escapes at the back door if your hand enters the front. The top of the funnel is spread out into large broad sheets, and the whole snare is attached by silken cords to the twigs of the bushes. This is the snare and residence of a good-sized species, the Agelena labyrinthica. Such webs are common on hedges, on grass, heath, and gorse. Now you must distinguish between spiders' nests and spiders' snares. The very common wheel-like webs, which you see abundantly on hedges, are snares or traps for insects, and beautiful they look on a dewy morning all strung with liquid pearls. Here under this oak are a number of old acorn-cups of last autumn's produce; the acorns have fallen out and the black cups remain. Do you see a delicate spider's web filling this cup; inside are a quantity of tiny round eggs, and a small spider is keeping guard within; this is a spider's nest. Many spiders spin cocoons for their little round eggs, place them in various situations, and leave them; others show the greatest care for them and carry them about wherever they go. The cocoons of the species whose web or trap we are now looking at are made of strong white silk, each cocoon containing perhaps 100 round eggs, rather yellowish in colour. They are fastened to the inside of a web the spider spins by means of silken pillars formed by a number of threads closely glued together. The sac containing the cocoons is fastened to stems of grass or other objects, and partially hidden by a few withered leaves. "For the purpose of securing their prey," says Mr. Blackwall, the author of a splendid work on 'British Spiders,' "spiders have recourse to divers expedients. Numerous species run rapidly about in quest of those objects which constitute their food; others, approaching their victims with great circumspection, spring upon them from a distance; some lie concealed in flowers or among leaves, seizing such insects as come within their reach; and many species procure a supply of nutriment by means of complicated snares of their own fabrication." Of these snares the most beautiful, as I said, are the "wheel within wheel" nets of the various species of the family Epeiridae. "What are those spider-like things," asked Willy, "with long thin bodies, you often see skating along the water? they are something like the spiders." They are not spiders at all, but insects called "water-measurers," from their peculiar habit of taking a short skate on the surface of the water and then stopping; having measured that distance, off they go again. However, many spiders do run along on the surface of the water, and you know there is one, the great water-spider, that lives habitually in it. Some years ago I had one of these water-spiders in a glass vessel of water, and saw it spin its curious dome-shaped web which it attached to the sides of the glass and some weeds. These domes are formed of closely woven white silk, in the form of a diving bell or half a pigeon's egg, as De Geer has said, with the opening below. It looks like a half-ball of silver; this appearance is due to a quantity of air. It is, in fact, a huge air-bubble surrounded by a covering of white silk, and, as you may suppose, a very interesting and pretty object. Within this silver dome the spider places her eggs, perhaps a hundred or more in number, which are enveloped in a cocoon, this being attached to the inner side of the dome. "But how," said Jack, "is the bubble formed? Where does the air come from?" You have asked a very interesting question, and one which can be answered; for the question was set at rest by Mr. Bell, an excellent observer and well-known naturalist, about twelve years ago, if I remember rightly. He found that the old spider actually took the air down with her from the surface of the water, and deposited it in her domed house. I shall now quote Mr. Bell's words: "The manner in which the animal possesses itself of the bubble of air is very curious, and, as far as I know, has never been exactly described. It ascends to the surface slowly, assisted by a thread attached to a leaf or other support below and to the surface of the water. As soon as it comes near the surface it turns with the extremity of the abdomen upwards, and exposes a portion of the body to the air for an instant, then with a jerk it snatches, as it were, a bubble of air, which is not only attached to the hairs which cover the abdomen, but is held on by the two hinder legs, which are crossed at an acute angle near their extremity; this crossing of the legs taking place at the instant the bubble is seized. The little creature then descends more rapidly and regains its cell, always by the same route, turns the abdomen within it, and disengages the bubble." Spiders have strong jaws; at the bottom of each hooked jaw there is a small sac which contains a poisonous fluid; this fluid is conveyed by a narrow channel from the sac along the jaw, and is pressed out at an opening or slit at the tip of the fang into the wound inflicted on its victim. The feet of spiders are generally terminated by two or more claws furnished with teeth; by means of these combs the animal is enabled to manage the threads of its web with great dexterity and efficiency.