We threw out sand and mounted above it. Then it arose toward us again. It seemed as though we could reach our hands into its surging depths. Over went seats, baskets, the tent—everything we could spare, and I'm not sure the Professor didn't glare at one of his companions with malicious and deadly intent.

The truth rushed upon us that we were racing with a storm.

It was of vital importance to keep in the sun, for the moment the shadows below could place their chilly spell upon our steed, the gas would chill and condense, and we would drop! drop! swiftly to the earth. At last it came, and we knew it was inevitable. Below us we could hear the crashing of thunder reverberating away into the depths of the black storm masses, and the lightnings every moment lit the weird scene with a grandeur but few mortals have ever witnessed. For a brief moment we hung suspended like Mahomet's coffin in the centre of a great cave of pearl. Shall I ever forget that glimpse of heavenly splendor? A single shaft of sunlight broke through its walls and then died like the last ray of hope. Then downward we rushed! A mile nearer earth within the first minute! As the air grew denser we fell more gradually. Our long drag-rope was out, weighing perhaps three hundred pounds. Now we were closely enshrouded by leaden clouds. The rain ran down the bag in rivulets and trickled upon our heads.

"Look, oh look!" cried the Professor.

We were now below the storm, and along its dense ceiling could see its broad extent. We were above the mountains. No towns nor even houses could be discovered, only dense forests, through which the gale howled as among the rigging of a ship upon a winter sea.

Very quickly our drag-rope touched the tree-tops and began to glide among the swaying pines.

"Hold on at life-ropes!" shouted the Professor, knife in hand.

In another instant the basket gave a dreadful surge; a mass of pine boughs swept about our heads, followed by a strong jerk. The Professor had cut the cord which bound the anchor coil. The anchor had dropped and caught among the limbs. We were safe! No! not yet.



The line must be shortened so we could clear the tree-tops. All three tugged at the rope. Then other lashings were made while the great aerostat plunged about like a wounded leviathan. We were eighty feet from the ground. Two of us found it convenient to go down the drag-rope, but the poor Professor, tall and heavy, preferred to try the tree. This was wet and slippery, as well as full of projecting points of broken branches. About twenty feet from the ground the Professor's clothes caught. He was in a great dilemma.

Amid a good deal of laughter we managed to liberate him, and as he reached the ground he exclaimed: "Well, of all the scrapes I was ever in, this is about the meanest!"

But help came even here. Far down the slope we heard a shout, which you may be sure was quickly answered. Then, after a while, the bushes parted and a half-score of woodsmen carrying gleaming axes ran to our aid. They were all thoroughly wet, like ourselves.

"What can we do for you?" they asked.

"Cut down half a dozen of these pines. I want to save the balloon," answered the aeronaut.

Then you should have seen the chips fly! Down came the trees, one after the other, and finally the one to which our steed was lashed. The gas soon escaped through great holes torn by the limbs, and our gallant craft was robbed of its power. Standing upon one of the fallen trees I made the sketch you see before you.

We found upon inquiring that we had landed in Potter county, Pennsylvania; and consulting our watches, found we had travelled one hundred and twenty-five miles in about two hours.

We were made comfortable at a lumberman's cabin,



and managed to get out of the woods in a couple of days where we could telegraph to our friends.

It cannot be denied that after the excitement had passed we felt very much like an old farmer who listened to our adventures. He said:

"Mebbe some folks prefer to travel in a flying Beelzebub, but I'm willin' to git along in a buck-board with a good road to put my feet agin when I git off."

You'll say, now, "I guess that race was enough for you!" But you're wrong; for I've had several trips since; and now you've a perfect right to retort, "Well! you are a bigger balloonatic than I took you for."

Perhaps you're right.



AUGUST'S "'SPERIMENT."

August was rather a troublesome boy. Generous and jolly,—his playmates called him a firstrate good fellow, but older people complained that he was curious, meddlesome, and always "cluttering round."

But here is mamma's opinion:

"August was born to be busy. He is inventive too. He asks questions to gain information, and he handles things to see how they are made."

"What is he tinkering at now, mamma?" asked Tom. "He has got hold of an old, old book, full of f ss, and all yellow; he's rigged two pans in a barrel, and bought a naptha lamp, and locked us all out of the attic."

"And he just came in with a covered basket, mamma," said Katie, "carrying it ever so carefully. I was jumping rope in the hall, and he asked me not to joggle. What do you suppose he was doing, mamma?"

"Suppose we wait till he tells us," said mamma, smiling.

"He's only trying some of his 'speriments," said wise little Robbie, aged five.

After the children went out, mamma took up her work and sat down by the window, watching the three outside, and waiting for her oldest boy, August, who presently came to take her into his confidence.

"Mamma, I am trying an experiment."

"And is that something new, August?" with an encouraging smile.

"But the kind is new, mamma. Did you ever hear of Reaumur?"

"Who wrote that curious old book on the art of hatching fowls by artificial incubation? Yes, August."

"Then will you come and see, mamma, what I have begun to do?"

He led the way, two steps at a time, to the attic. When they reached the door, August drew from his pocket a key, and unlocked it and led his mother in.

A flour-barrel stood in the centre of the floor, closely covered. August removed the cover, and lifted up a piece of carpet. His mother looked in.

Within the barrel was suspended a large, deep pan, resting on three iron cleats. This pan was partly filled with hot water, and floating on the water was another pan—a shallow one—which contained a layer of sand an inch deep. Over this was spread a piece of linen cloth, and in the cloth thirty-six large Brahma eggs lay closely packed. In the center stood a neat thermometer.



"You have made your arrangements very neatly, August," said mamma. "Of course I do not understand them exactly."

"Well, you see, mamma, this shallow pan gets its heat from the water beneath it. I put that in hot, and keep it just right with this lamp."

Saying which, he knelt in front of the barrel, and opened a neat little door, fitted with a brass knob and hinges.

Stooping down and looking in, his mother saw on a tall flower-pot, which stood upside down, a naptha safety-lamp sending forth a small, steady flame.

"That keeps the temperature about equable;" said August, "but I have another lamp, larger than this, to use in case my incubator grows too cool."

"When did you set them?" asked mamma.

"This morning."

"To-day is the first of March: then if no accident happens, and the eggs are good, you expect them to hatch on the twenty-first?"

"Yes, mamma, and the eggs are all right because I told Grandma I wanted some very fresh, and she saved them for me."

"Did Grandma know of your experiment?"

"Oh! no, mamma. Not a soul but you knows about it; and I want you to keep the secret until we know how it will turn out."

"Very well!" said mamma; "but if you lock the door you had better leave the key with me in case anything should happen. I will look at your incubator occasionally while you are at school."

August gave his mother a grateful look—he felt so encouraged by her sympathy.

"How warm do you keep the eggs?" she asked as he carefully replaced the carpet and cover.

"Reaumur says at 32 deg., that is about 103 1-2 Fahrenheit.[A]"

"Must the eggs be kept at that temperature all the time?"

"No, only through the first week. The second it is a little less and the third still less."

"There is the luncheon-bell, dear; we must go down or the children will be trooping up here. I hope, my boy, that you will succeed."

"If I don't I shall try again," said August. Then, taking a final look to see that the thermometer and lamp were all right, he locked the room and they went down.

He paid several visits to the attic during the day and evening, finding on each occasion that all worked well and steadily. Before going to bed he refilled the lamp, so the supply of naptha shouldn't be exhausted; then he went to sleep and dreamed all night of eggs and chickens.

In the morning he was up and at his incubator before any one else was stirring. The thermometer indicated that the eggs were a trifle cool, so he turned up the wick of the lamp. Before going to church he turned the eggs. This he did twice daily, being careful not to jar them. The incubator worked well all day and all night.

The next day was Monday and he had his school duties to attend to. He left everything in good order, took the attic key to his mother, and went off to school full of confidence.

Alas! When mamma went up at ten o'clock, she could scarcely see across the room. Everything was black with soot. The naptha lamp was smoking fiercely.

The first thing was to get the window open, and put out the lamp. Then mamma looked at the eggs. Alas, again! There they lay covered with fine black soot. She took up one and tried to wipe it, but succeeded only in making a smirch which she could not wipe off. She knew then that the eggs were spoiled.

In the midst of it all August came in from school having been dismissed early. Poor August! He could scarcely keep the tears back.

"Well, August," said his mamma very practically, "I don't think a naptha lamp just the thing. They are very apt to smoke, and they are very inflammable."

"Yes," said August, trying to be cheerful. "Failure the first! I shall try it again. Grandma will give me some more eggs. I've only lost three days."

"And I will go to town this afternoon," said his mother, "and see if I cannot find a lamp which will be more reliable."

There was no school that afternoon, so August cleaned the room, and supplied the incubator with fresh eggs, greatly encouraged by his mother's sympathy and interest.

The other children were curious enough to know what was going on in the attic; but they could get no information.

Toward evening Mrs. Grant returned from town, bringing for her little boy a large tin lamp which would burn kerosene. He lighted it and adjusted the wick to just the right height. Then it was placed within the barrel to warm the second setting of eggs.

Day after day August and his mother watched and tended them. Everything progressed finely.

On the next Monday the eggs, having been in the incubator a week, were far enough advanced to be tested. At a south window there hung a heavy green Holland curtain. In this mamma allowed August to cut a hole, a little smaller than an egg, and she herself staid to assist him.

When all was ready, she handed August the eggs one by one. One by one he held them to the aperture. The first seemed quite transparent. In vain August turned and turned it—there was nothing to be seen but the yolk floating at the top. With a sigh he laid that aside and took up another.

"O, mamma, look!" he cried excitedly.

Mrs. Grant examined it with great interest. Not only could she distinctly see the dark form of a little chick, particularly the head with its immense eye, but bright blood-veins were also plainly defined, branching out in all directions from the body. Another and still another of the eggs looked like this one. August was greatly excited.

"They are lively enough!" he said. "See, mamma, this one moves, and this!"

Then came one that was dark and shaky. "Addled," pronounced August. After this a number more appeared as promising as the former ones.

Finally all were tested. They were pleased enough with the result. Three were clear—that meant there were no chickens within the shells; one was addled; and thirty-two contained live chicks.

August was so wild over this discovery that his hands grew unsteady, and he unfortunately dropped two of the eggs and broke them. This left him but thirty likely to hatch; but these were all very promising.

"I am sure we will succeed now, mamma," cried August gaily.

"It looks like it, certainly," said mamma.

But alas for poor August's bright hopes! and alas for the expected chickens! Whether August was too confident and grew careless, or whether it was one of those unforeseen accidents that will happen, will never be known; but this is certain, that the next morning when August went, later than usual, to look at his incubator, he found the thermometer had gone up to 110 and must have been at that temperature some time, for in egg after egg, which he opened in despair, was a poor little dead chick.

Even if a boy is fourteen years old, he cannot help crying sometimes over a great disappointment.

Poor August put out his lamp with sorrowful breath and some of his tears fell upon the hot chimney which hissed as if in mockery.

Then he locked himself in his own room, threw himself on the bed, refused his breakfast and gave way to his grief.

Tom, Katie and Robbie all tried to get at him, but without avail. Katie coaxed with loving words. Robbie murmured, "Poor Gussie!" Tom said "Never mind, old fellow, if your 'speriment has failed. Come and play ball."

August's reply was not very polite.

"My experiment hasn't failed, and that is all you know about it, Tom!"

But the word "fail" seemed to rouse him, to restore his courage; for presently unlocking the door and coming out, he said quietly to himself, "I shall just go down to Grandma's for some more eggs—that's what I shall do!"

Grandma was curious to know what he did with so many eggs; but she asked no questions. She had great respect for August and his 'speriments.

She only said, "This makes one hundred and eight eggs, child. Now, if I had set all these, and if they had all hatched, what a lot of little chickens I would have had!"

"Ah!" thought August. "If!—" And he drew a long sigh.

Mamma, meanwhile, had been up to the attic to look at the incubator, knowing nothing of what had happened. Great was her amazement to find the lamp out, a basin full of broken eggs and little dead chicks, and the incubator itself deserted and empty.

"Why, August!" she cried, as she met him in the door with a basket of fresh eggs. "What has happened, dear child?"

"Only failure number two;" he answered, trying to speak cheerfully, though even yet the tears lay high. "They got too hot in the night, mamma."

"Yet you are not quite discouraged?" said mamma.

August held out his basket with a smile.

So once more the incubator was set.

"We must take more pains this time," said mamma.

"Yes'm," answered August, "I'll try not to let any thing happen to these."

Things did work more smoothly this time. The temperature was kept about right, the eggs were tested successfully and without accident.

One week, two weeks, two weeks and a half, and then things happened again, things which came near being serious enough. It was Saturday afternoon. August was going with the other children to a circus. He had turned the eggs carefully and sprinkled them lightly with warm water. He had admitted the children into his secret, and they were all in the room waiting for him.

"These eggs are a little cool," said August, putting one up to his cheek. "I must leave them just right, I think I will fill the lamp and turn it up a little. Tommy, will you take the lamp out?"

Down on his knees Tommy went, and drew out the lamp which he set on the floor. Then, kneeling still above it, he blew hard, directly down the chimney.

"PUFF! BANG! Crack!" went something, causing August, Katie and Robbie to start violently, while poor Tommy, with his hands to his eyes, rolled over on the floor with a groan.

"Mamma, oh! mamma!" screamed Katie, "the lamp is 'sploded!"

"And Tommy's killed!" shrieked Robbie.

Mamma flew up the stairs and to Tommy.

"Oh! his eyes!" she cried. "Quick, August, water!"

"Oh! my poor Tommy!" sobbed little Robbie. "See him all b'eedin', b'eedin'!"

August came running with the water, and knelt down and held the basin while Katie flew for a sponge and soft linen.

When the blood was washed off, and his smarting eyes had been bathed with fresh, cool water, Tommy discovered that he had been more frightened than hurt; and mamma and the rest were greatly relieved to find his worst wound, a slight cut between the eyes, could be cured by court-plaster.

It was a great wonder, however, that more harm had not been done; for when the child blew so forcibly down the chimney, the wick shot up out of the lamp and the chimney shivered in pieces; one of the pieces had struck his face, making the cut, while the hot air and smoke flashing into his eyes caused them to smart fiercely. August had neglected to fill the lamp at the proper time, and the oil had burned nearly out. It was the sudden forcing of air down the tube which caused the explosion.

"I thought you said 'twas a safety lamp!" said Katie indignantly.

"'Tisn't half so good as our un-safety ones;" declared Robbie.

"It's never safe to blow directly down upon a full flame in any lamp," said mamma. "The wick should always be turned down first and the flame gently blown."

"Accident the third;" said August ruefully. "Mamma, do you feel like trusting me any farther?"

His mother smiled. "The usual experience of inventors, my son."

Sunday passed quietly. Monday with its school duties was well over. Tuesday morning—"Three weeks to-day!" said August, and half fearfully opened his incubator.

"Peep! Peep! Peep!"

The lad trembled with excitement, and a flush of joy spread over his face. He could hardly believe his ears. "One, two, three," he hurriedly counted, "four, five, six." On he counted, up to twenty eggs chipped or cracked. One chicken was half out of its shell, and one, quite independent, was scrambling over the rest of the eggs.

August held his breath and looked at them as long as he dared to keep the incubator open. Then softly closing the lid, he rushed down stairs.

"Hurrah! Hurrah!" he shouted at the door of his mother's room. "They're hatching, mamma! They're hatching!"

"Are they, really?" asked mamma, pleased enough, and she hurried up the stairs, closely followed by the children, whom August's joyful cry had aroused from their sleep. In great excitement they clustered around the barrel.

"Oh! what a cunning, fluffy one!" cried little Katie, as she spied the oldest chick.

"But what is the matter with that other one?" asked Tommy.

"He has just left the shell and is not dry yet," August explained. "As soon as he is dry he will be downy like the other."

"Hear em say 'peep! peep!'" cried little Robbie, grasping the edge of the barrel with both hands, and stretching his short legs to their utmost extent in order to get his eyes high enough to look over the edge.

"What lots are cracked!" said Tommy. "Oh! August, here is one cracked all round."

"Yes," said August, "that chick will soon be out." Even as he spoke the shell parted, and a third little bright-eyed chicken struggled out and looked about in amazement.

The children could have watched them much longer with great interest, but mamma was afraid the incubator would get too cool, and she advised August to cover it.

"How do they do it, mamma?" asked Katie.



"The little chick is packed very wonderfully in his shell," said mamma. "His head under his wing, legs folded up with the feet toward the head, his bill coming out from under one wing. This bill is furnished with a little hard point on the top. When he is ready to crack the shell and come out, he begins to move. He turns his whole body slowly round, cracking the shell as he goes, by pressing with his whole force against it, the hard, sharp point on the top of his bill coming next the shell. When he is a few days old this hard point drops off. Just before he hatches, after the egg is cracked all around, he frees his head from his wing and struggles to stretch himself. Then the shell parts and he gets his head out, and presently his legs, one after the other. I forgot to say that just before hatching he gradually absorbs the yolk of the egg into his body, and that nourishes him for twenty-four hours after hatching."



"It's very curious, isn't it?" said Tommy.

"I didn't know anything but hens or ducks could hatch eggs," said Katie.

"Why, Katie!" exclaimed August, "there is a place at Canton, in China, where thousands of ducks' eggs are hatched artificially every day. There are twenty-eight rooms to the establishment, and all along the sides of these rooms are rows of sliding trays filled with eggs. These eggs are put in the first room the first day; on the second day they are moved to the second room; and so on, until they hatch in the last room. The heat is graduated, the last rooms being cooler than the first. All these eggs are hatched by the heat of the rooms."

"If they hatch thousands every day," asked Tommy, "what do they do with the little ducks?"

"They hatch them for the people in the neighboring towns," replied August. "The Chinese are very fond of ducks and ducks' eggs. A gentleman who has been to Canton, and seen the hatching-rooms, told me he had seen people take eggs there to be hatched. They would pay for the hatching and then one of the men in charge of the rooms would count their eggs, and give them just as many little ducklings."

"I guess they don't have accidents there, then," said Katie.

"I won't have accidents always," August replied.

"But what do they do with so many ducks?" asked Tommy.

"Why, half the poor Chinese people near the coast live on the water all the time in boats that are half houses. Of course they could not keep hens, but they can keep ducks and they do."

"Oh, yes!" cried Tommy. "I 'member how papa told about seeing them fed and called into the boats. He said every flock knew its own call, and would go scuttling through the water to the right boat. He thought they were in this d'edful hurry, cause the last one got whipped."

"What shall I do about school, mamma?" August asked.

"Oh! go, and recite your most important lessons," she answered wisely. "I will take care of the eggs and chickens till you return."

It was just as well for August to be occupied, since the hatching, although it went on surely, was slow work.

With great faith in his incubator, August had previously built a little yard for the expected chickens.

It was in box form, about eight feet long and two feet wide. In the center was a feeding-tray and water tank, and at one end a hover. This hover (H) was



lined with soft fur loosely tacked to the top and sides and hanging down the front in narrow strips to form a curtain. It sloped from the front to the back. The water tank was a stout earthen bottle in a saucer; a small hole near the bottom of the bottle let the water, drop by drop, into the saucer, so that as the chickens drank, the supply in the saucer was continually freshening. The bottom of the yard was covered with gravel three inches deep. This neat yard was now waiting down stairs in a sunny shed room to receive the chickens.

August went to school, and on his way home called for his grandmother to go up to the house to dinner.

Grandma knew that it was just three weeks since August had taken the last eggs, and that twenty-one days was the time allotted by nature for the bringing forth of chickens, so she shrewdly suspected what she would find; but it had not occurred to her that she would find chickens alive without the aid of a hen.

"Grandma," asked August, as they walked along "when you set a hen on thirteen eggs, how many do you expect will hatch?"

"I hope for all," she replied, "but I seldom get all. I think ten out of thirteen is a very good proportion."

"My incubator beats your hens!" thought August.

When they reached the house he took her straight to the attic.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "So that is your secret, August! Well, I declare! And it really hatches the eggs, doesn't it? I always knew, child, that you would invent something wonderful."

"I didn't invent much," he said modestly. "In 1750, Reaumur, the French naturalist, gave an account of his experiments in hatching eggs in barrels set in hot-beds of horse-manure; and the Chinese and the Egyptians have hatched them for ages in ovens."

"But this is by hot water and lamps," said Grandma.

"Yes," said August, "I never saw an incubator before I made this; but, Grandma, I had read of them made on the same principle."

"At any rate," said Grandma, "I think that you deserve great credit for patience and ingenuity."

By evening thirty chickens were hatched from the thirty-six eggs. The other six gave no signs of life. By Grandma's advice they were left in the incubator "to give them a chance," but they never hatched.

The next morning all the members of the family took the chickens down-stairs, even Robbie, who took two in a basket, and deposited them in their new home.

Then their food was prepared, the yolks of hard-boiled eggs crumbled up fine, bread crumbs, milk, and a little fine cracked corn. After a few days they could be fed almost entirely upon the cracked corn.

The whole family then stood around the yard admiring the brood, thirty little, bright-eyed, yellow, fluffy balls. They soon learned to eat and to drink, and were busy, happy little creatures. They would run under the hover when they wanted warmth or quiet, just as naturally as they would have run under a mother hen. The box was built on castors, and could be rolled from window to window, and thus kept in the sunlight, in which the little creatures reveled; and at night it could be pushed near the stove. Of course August had to renew the gravel very often, and he was very particular to keep the food dishes sweet and clean. When the weather grew warm enough the yard was rolled into an open shed, and they could run out of doors.

These chickens were considered very wonderful, and many visitors came to see them. They grew fast and were as tame as kittens. Day after day the children came to feed the pretty pets, bringing them young clover tops and tender grass. Katie treated them with her birds' canary and hemp seed. Robbie gave them bits of his cookies and cakes. Anything that the children liked to eat, these little chickens liked also; and when they heard the little boots coming towards them they would perch on the edge of their yard and chirp and peep and coax for their dainties.

By and by their wings began to grow and the fluffy down was changed to feathers. Grandma said that now they must have meat occasionally, chopped up fine, and they had it Wednesdays and Saturdays.

The little creatures were frantic for the meat. They would fly upon August, and, if they could get there, into the dish, which they more than once overturned.

When their plumage was well out they were handsome fowls. August built a large coop and out-door yard for them, but they were not often confined in it, for the children loved to have them about with them, and watched them as carefully as a hen mother could have done; and great was the joy of Katie and Robbie as they ran to their mother to report the first crowing of the little cockerels.

When last I saw them they were well grown. The pullets, August proudly informed me, were laying.

It was the glorious Fourth. Torpedoes were the order of the day, and Katie and Robbie were amusing themselves by throwing the snappers in all directions, and seeing their feathered pets run to eat what they could never find. The other fowls, disturbed by the noise of the day, preferred to keep hidden away in their houses, but these liked to keep about with the children and see the fun.

August began his experiments when some of my young readers were quite little children. He has continued them through several seasons, until now, after much study and patient industry, he has enlarged and greatly improved his incubator. He has changed its form entirely, and has attached an electric apparatus which regulates the heat, and avoids all danger from smoke. He has applied for a patent, and has made arrangements for taking care of a large number of chickens as early as February, being still greatly interested in this successful "'speriment."

——-

[A] Fahrenheit and Reaumur were both inventors of thermometers. Those commonly in use are Fahrenheit's.



THE BIRDS OF WINTER.

It seems strange that any birds should stay with us during the cold and frost when there is so much food which they like in the southern part of our country. Men of science wonder why they do remain here, and are unable to account for it. Perhaps it is because it is the true home of these birds which remain, and they prefer to search long and diligently for their scanty food, and bear the cold and the winds and the frost, rather than leave it. This is as we should do, and doubtless the birds that stay through the winter love their homes just as much—as a bird possibly can.

Of course everybody,—that is, everybody except the tiniest, wee baby, has seen the winter birds, some of them; at least the Chickadees, the Snow-birds, and Downy Woodpeckers, and Bluejays and Shore larks. But are you acquainted with the little fellows? Do you know where and how they live, and what they eat, and of their habits and songs?



A great favorite of mine is the Chickadee, with his black cap and white shirt bosom. This active little gentleman is the most social and friendly of them all. If out in the country, this little fellow in company with his mates will twitter gaily at sight of you, every now and then looking curiously at you as if asking, "And who are you, sir?" or "Who are you, ma'am?" and pecking his way gradually nearer and nearer will inspect you in the quaintest and merriest way. Afraid! O no, not they. Mr. Samuels, a writer about birds, says that he once had an inquisitive little Chickadee perch on the end of his boot and sit there watching him inquiringly. They have even been known to feed from the open hand. If you will daily scatter some crumbs for them before the door, or upon the window-sill, you will learn for yourselves how neighborly they are.

Still the Chickadees are strangely tender, needing a warm, cosy nest to shield their little bodies. They cannot make their nests on the limbs of trees. Oh, no, that wouldn't do, for the first thing they knew the wind would blow, blow, and down would come their home. So they hunt around in the woods or along the rails and posts, for the nests in the wood that have been deserted by the woodpecker, who has flown away to a milder clime. If the Chickadees can not find these, they set to work themselves and with great labor dig a hole in a tree, or post, for their winter quarters. They prefer decayed trunks or posts so they can work more easily. To the bottom of their holes they bring pieces of wool, moss, and feathers or hair, and weave warm carpets and curtains to make cosy their little homes.

The Chickadees are very active, lively little things. They are always in motion; now hopping along in search of food, sending forth the peculiar cry that gives them their name, and then alighting on the tree limbs and moving from one tree to another "traversing," as Wilson, a great authority on birds, says, "the woods in regular procession from tree to tree, and in this manner traveling several miles a day." They are very strong for their size, and will hang below a limb supported by their claws, with their head downwards, which we should think would make them dizzy, but it does not seem to.

These little roamers of our roads and woods are so genial, companionable and social, that not only do we enjoy their society, but other birds are enchanted with them and seek their company. The Chickadees do not object. And so Brown Creepers, Nuthatches, Downy Woodpeckers, and other birds, often join them in their merry rambles and scrambles. They feed mostly on very small insects and eggs, such as infest the bark of trees, but will eat almost anything offered them; even meat they will peck from a bone.

Pleasant, indeed, in the midst of winter is this little bird's cry:

"Chick-a-dee-dee-dee! Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!"

Pleasant his sharp whistle:

"Pe-wee! Pe-wee! Pe-wee!"

How much we should miss these amiable favorites should they ever take a notion to desert us! They stay with us throughout the year, but in summer they are shyer than in winter for they rear their young then. It is not until their family cares are over in the autumn, that they gather in small flocks and resume their merry life and social ways.



Another very interesting and neighborly winter bird is our familiar Snow-bird, often called the "Black Snow-bird" to distinguish it from the Snow Bunting or "White Snow-bird."

These tiny birds visit us from the north. Their journeys extend over the whole breadth of the United States. They appear here in the latter part of October, and are first seen among the decaying leaves near the borders of the woods, in flocks of about thirty. If molested, they at once fly to the trees. As the weather becomes colder they approach nearer the farm-houses and towns.

They are real weather prophets. When a storm is near at hand they gather together in large flocks, and work very, very diligently in search of food,—doubtless making provision for the time of wind and storm when they can get none.

But it is after the snow-storms, when the ground is white with the downy flakes, that the Snow-birds become the most friendly. How pleasant it is then to see them gather about the house, and around the barn and out-houses, to search for edibles. Not only then do they appear in the country-places, but even in the crowded city their little forms may be seen in multitudes, on the snowy streets and in the windows.

They build their nests near the ground, often on a stump or log, or in a deep thicket, in such a manner as to be shielded from the wind and storms. They construct their homes from bits of fine grasses and leaves, and it is interesting to observe what wonderful architects they are.

The Snow-birds, I am sorry to say, though friendly with us are not, like the little Chickadees, peaceful among themselves. They are often very quarrelsome, and will peck at each other in a way that little birds should not. Perhaps they "make up" with one another and are good friends again. I hope so.

The Snow-birds are very nimble on the ground, and, I guess, can eat faster and more for their size than any other winter bird. It is a very funny sight to see them scratch away the snow with their tiny feet to get their food, which, when insects and eggs are not to be had, is the seeds of many kinds of weeds that still rise above the snow, and along the border of the roads.

Sometimes, perhaps, you have come upon a dead Snow-bird in the morning following a cold night, and perhaps have wondered if the poor little creature froze to death, and why he did not die at home. But the Snow-birds are sometimes affected with a dizziness or faintness which makes them fall from the limbs, or during their flight. What makes them dizzy or faint, we do not know; not from hanging head downwards like the little Chickadees, surely. But they often, alas! come to their death through this affection.

The snow-birds have a peculiar cry of "Chuck! chuck!"—and another of "Chit, chit-a-sit!" which however, they seldom utter except when taking flight. They stay with us until about the 29th of April, when they wing away to the north or to the higher ranges of our mountains.

Somewhat similar to the Snow-birds are the Snow Buntings or "White Snow-birds." They appear every winter in large flocks, often of many thousands. They are sometimes called "bad weather birds," from the fact of their moving to the northward during fine weather and to the southward on the advent of deep snow-storms. They are much shyer than either the Chickadees or Snow-birds; but they are often seen on the roadsides and in the lanes searching for the seeds of weeds that grow there. On the sea-shore, which they greatly frequent, they live on small shellfish. It is curious that the greater the snow and the colder the weather of winter, the whiter do the Snow-Buntings appear.

They are very swift flyers, and often in flocks of great numbers seem to be a cloud of snow-flakes driven before a storm. They make their nests in the fissures of the rocks, forming from grass, and feathers, and the down of the Arctic fox, a very cosey home. They frequent the roads and lanes in the vicinity of Boston, and their white forms and busy beaks can be seen throughout the winter season.



They have peculiar notes like a clear whistle, and a "chirr, chirr!" which they utter when flying.

A very fine little bird quite common in this State in the winter season, is the Brown Creeper, with its showy brown and white coat. These active little creatures are great lovers of the woods and pass their lives among the trees.

Unlike the Chickadees and Nuthatches, who also are partial to the woods, they very rarely descend to the ground to either hop about or hunt for food. Nor do they, like the two former birds, ever hang to a limb with their heads downward.

Still the Brown Creeper seems to be constantly in activity, and hunts most diligently for the insects it feeds upon. This it does somewhat in the manner of the Woodpecker, by clinging to the trunks or branches of trees, supporting itself by its stiff tail-feathers and thus moving about quite securely.



They are very methodical. They strive to get every insect from a tree that there is on it, before leaving for another. So they generally alight near the foot of a tree and gradually climb to the top; an insect must be very, very small to escape their piercing gaze.

They often work around a tree in spirals, and so are at times lost to the sight of an observer of their ways; and if the watcher runs around to the other side of the tree, very likely by the time he gets there, lo! they are back to the former side.

But they are not at all shy, and though not as neighborly and social as the Chickadee, or Snow-bird, still they will not fly away from the presence of unmolesting persons.

The Brown Creeper has not the bill suitable to excavate a hole for himself, so he is obliged to find a hollow trunk, a squirrel's nest, or a deserted Woodpecker's home. Here the little bird builds a nest of dry twigs and lays its pretty eggs.

As the mid-winter cold deepens they retire to the depths of the woods, or into the brown and sheltered thickets, where their little cry of "Chip, chip," and "Cree, cree, cree," may be frequently heard; and very pleasant it is, too. Very useful they are, these little Brown Creepers, as well as the Chickadees and Nuthatches, for they help preserve our beautiful trees and shrubbery from the destroying worms and insects.

I have mentioned the Nuthatches. These birds, a little larger than the others before noticed, are not so numerous as the Chickadees and Snow-birds, but they are very interesting. The name of Nuthatches was given to them long ago, because it was supposed they broke the wood nuts by repeated hatchings or hammerings with their bills. But now men of science, who study birds, do not think that is true, and believe the Nuthatches to be wrongly named.



It was also thought that the Nuthatches, like the squirrels, lay up in the summer a store of nuts for their winter use. But this also is doubted, since the Nuthatch will climb along the trees and limbs in search of insects and larvae when the tree hangs full of nuts. So it is thought their principal food is composed of ants, seeds of various shrubbery, bugs and insects.

While the female bird is sitting on her eggs, the male Nuthatch displays a great deal of care and affection, supplying her regularly with the choicest food he can collect. With this he flies away to the mouth of the hole where they have established their home, and calls to her so tenderly, offering her the delicacy he has brought. He seems to call to her sometimes, simply to inquire how she is, and to soothe her labors with his incessant chatter. Seldom does he venture far from the nest, and if any danger threatens he instantly flies back to alarm her.

The white-breasted Nuthatch is known by his cry of "quank, quank," repeated frequently as he keeps moving along the branches of a tree, piercing the bark with his bill and breaking off pieces in search of insects and their larvae.

This affectionate bird, like the little Chickadees, rests and roosts with his head downwards; and also like them, is very curious and inquiring. If you are in sight, he will gradually make his way to you and reconnoitre your appearance, as if he would learn who you are.

There is also another bird of this species called the red-breasted Nuthatch, who is seen in New England, in winter, and who leads a similar life to his white-breasted relative.



Though most of the many species of Woodpeckers leave us on the advent of cold weather, still there are some that remain. My little readers, I am certain, have nearly all seen the round homes of the Woodpecker. You may observe them in almost any wood. They are about alike except in size and situation. A round hole in a tree or post is all you will see from a distance; but if you can climb,—for their holes are usually more than six feet from the ground,—you may look down into the deep home itself.

How much patience and perseverance they must have to dig, bit by bit, such straight deep nests. These holes are seldom lined with any thing, but are generally enlarged at the bottom so as to give the family more "elbow room."

The one we know best in winter is the Downy Woodpecker, the prettiest and smallest of the tribe. It builds its nest in various trees, preferring the apple-tree, poplar and birches. Its hole is smaller than those of other woodpeckers because, I suppose, the bird itself is so much smaller that he can do with less room.

The Downy Woodpeckers are very sociable; and although they themselves are not gregarious, you may often see them followed by Chickadees, Creepers, Nuthatches and Wrens, whose company they appear to be pleased with.

They are not shy of man, but, unlike most of their tribe, haunt roadsides, orchards, and grounds about houses and out-buildings, which they prefer to the deep forests. They are generally seen in pairs, and are very active little birdies. In searching for food, insects and eggs, they move from tree to tree and thus pass the day. They rarely alight on the ground. Their ordinary cry is a "Chick, chick," repeated rapidly.

A somewhat larger Woodpecker, called the Hairy Woodpecker, is also an inhabitant of our woods in winter and much like the Downy Woodpecker in habits.

These are the principal and most common of our winter birds. There are some others sometimes seen, such as the Tree-Sparrow, Blue-Jay and Golden Crowned Wren, but space forbids an account of their ways and songs. I hope what I have told you of the winter birds will induce you to study and observe more closely their almost human ways.



SOMETHING ABOUT LIGHT-HOUSES.

You have all heard of the Seven Wonders of the World; did you know that two of these wonders were veritable Light-houses?

About 300 B. C., Cheres, the disciple of Lysippus, cast the famous brazen Colossus of Rhodes, a statue of the Sun God Apollo, and erected it at the entrance of the harbor where it was used as a Light-house, the flames which crowned the head of the Sun God by night serving to guide wandering barks into his Rhodian waters.



For eighty years its hundred brazen feet towered superbly above port and town, and then it was partly destroyed by an earthquake. For nearly a thousand years the sacred image remained unmolested where it had fallen, by Greek and Roman, Pagan and Christian; but at last the Saracen owners of Rhodes, caring as little for its religious association as for its classic antiquity, sold the brass of it for the great sum of L36.000, to the Jewish merchants of Edessa.

Just about the time that the Colossus was set astride the Rhodian harbor, King Ptolemy Philadelphus caused a noble tower of superb white stone, four hundred feet high, to be erected by an architect named Sostrasius, son of Dixiphanes, at the entrance to the port of Alexandria, which was a bran-new busy city in those days, a mere mushroom growth in that old, old Egypt, where the upstart Ptolomies were reigning on the throne of the Pharaohs.

It is said that this Sostrasius didn't want his own name to be forgotten, so he carved it deep in the stone of the tower and covered it over with plaster whereon he inscribed by royal command:

"King Ptolemy to the Gods, the Saviours, for the benefit of sailors."

Josephus tells us that the light, kept burning on the top of this Pharos, as it was called, probably from a word that signifies fire, was visible for forty miles at sea. For a thousand years it shone constantly until the Alexandrian Wonder likewise fell a prey to time and the Saracens.

The words Pharos-Phare, Faro, etc., have been adopted into more than one European language to express Light-house or sea-light.

Some persons suppose that great mirrors must have been used to direct the light on the Pharos and keep it from being lost, but it is most probable that no more effective means of illumination than a common fire was employed.

The only other Light-houses of antiquity of which any record has been preserved are the Tower of Conira in Spain, which Humboldt mentions as the Iron Tower, and a magnificent stone Light-house at Capio, near the mouth of the Guadalquiver, that Strabo tells us about, on a rock nearly surrounded by sea.

Then tradition points out Cesar's Altar at Dover, the Tour d' Ordre at Boulogne, a Roman Pharos at Norfolk, and, in early British history, St. Edmund's Chapel at the same place, as having been originally intended for sea-lights.

Though we are far ahead of our forefathers in our scientific apparatus for illuminating Light-houses, we have never equalled them in magnificence of architecture; for, in point of grandeur, the Tour de Corduan at the mouth of the River Garonne, in France, is probably the noblest edifice of the kind in the world, and it is nearly three hundred years since it was completed under Henry IV., having been twenty-six years in building.



All these centuries it has stood strong on its great reef, and has served to guide the shipping of Bordeau and the Languedoc Canal, and all that part of the Bay of Biscay; and it promises, in all human probability, to show its steadfast light for centuries to come.

Corduan is stoutly built in four stories, each of a different order of architecture, highly ornamented and adorned with the busts of the Kings of France, and of the heathen divinities. The first story contains the store-rooms, the second, the so-called King's apartments, the third a chapel, and the fourth the dome or lower lantern. The tower completed is 197 feet high.

When this splendid structure was completed no better method for illuminating was known than by burning billets of oak wood in a chauffer in the upper lantern; and it was considered a great matter when a rude reflector in the form of an inverted cone was suspended above the flame to prevent the light from escaping upward. It is not known, in fact, that any more effective mode of lighting was employed until 1760, not much more than one hundred years ago; and then the radiance was not especially brilliant as it would seem to us. At that time Smeaton the engineer began to use wax candles at the Eddystone Light-house, which soon degenerated to tallow dips, probably on account of the expense, and they must have given the keeper abundance of occupation in the way of snuffing and replenishing.

In 1789 a French scientist, M. Lenoir, made an epoch in the history of Light-houses, and in the progress of civilization as well, when he introduced an improvement in the way of lighting up the Tour de Corduan; for, of course, the comparative safety in coast navigation attained to by means of our modern Light-house system is of the first consequence in commerce and international communication, which means the spread of science, enlightenment and religion throughout the world. M. Lenoir placed Argand lamps with parabolic mirrors or reflectors in the lantern, which is, as it appears, a glass room on the summit of the tower entered by a trap-door at the head of a spiral staircase. Such a great change having been brought about, men of science have not rested content, but have gone on making one advance after another. In 1820 the famous diaptric instruments of Mr. Fresnel were placed in Corduan on trial, and proved such a grand success that, gradually, they have been universally adopted. The wonderful lens which you saw at the Centennial belongs to a diaptric refracting light of the first order, and oil lamps constructed on the Fresnel principle, and, placed with lenses of different orders, according to the Light-house they are used for, serve an admirable purpose. Lard is found to be the best illuminator, as a general thing, for the light it casts through lenses of the first order reaches as far out to sea as it is possible for any light to be seen on account of the convexity of the earth. Experiment has proved it safer than mineral oil, and it is cheaper than gas, which however is occasionally used near a city whence it can easily be obtained. Only in some few special instances electric light, the most intense procurable, is employed.



The Centennial birth-day gift of the citizens of France to the American Republic is a colossal brazen statue of Liberty, which is to be a Pharos to light the shipping of the world into New York harbor. It will stand on Bedloe's Island, and from the torch in its uplifted hand will flash a calcium light. Only the hand and arm were finished in time to be sent to the Exposition; but these were on so gigantic a scale that a man standing in the little gallery which ringed the thumb holding the torch seemed like an ant or a fly creeping along at that height.

Sir Walter Scott—dear Sir Walter, whose "Tales of a Grandfather" and Scottish stories and poems were so delightfully familiar to the boys and girls of the last generation, left a charming little diary of a voyage he made in the summer of 1814, on board a Light-house yacht, in company with the Commissioners of Northern Lights,—who have charge of the Light-houses in Scotland, as the Elder Brethren of Trinity House have of those in England,—their Surveyor-Viceroy, the engineer Stevenson, and a few other gentlemen.

The first Light-house they visited was an old tower, like a "border keep," still illuminated by a grate fire on top. The commissioners think of substituting an oil revolving-light; but Sir Walter wonders if the grate couldn't be made to revolve!

Next they came to Bell Rock, which, in olden times, was the terror of sailors feeling their way in and out of the islands and rocks and shoals of the beautiful, perilous coast of Scotland. Inch-cape Rock, as it was then called, had shipwrecked many a helpless crew before the Abbot of Aberbrathock, fifteen miles off, out of pity caused a float to be fixed on the rock, with a bell attached which, swinging by the motion of the waves, warned seamen of the danger.

Many years later, when Abbot and Monastery bells had all become things of the past, a humane naval officer set up two beacons on Bell Rock by subscription; but they were soon destroyed by the fury of the elements.

At last in 1802, people began to realize the danger of this terrible reef in the highway of navigation, and the Commissioners appointed Mr. Robert Stevenson to erect a Light-house on this point.

It was a perilous undertaking, and once the engineer and his workmen made a very narrow escape from drowning; but it was successfully accomplished by the brave and skilful Stevenson. Sir Walter thus describes this famous beacon.

"Its dimensions are well known; but no description can give the idea of this slight, solitary, round tower, trembling amid the billows, and fifteen miles from Arbraeth (Aberbrathock), the nearest shore. The fitting up within is not only handsome, but elegant. All work of wood (almost) is wainscot; all hammer-work brass; in short, exquisitely fitted up. You enter by a ladder of rope, with wooden steps, about thirty feet from the bottom where the mason-work ceases to be solid, and admits of round apartments. The lowest is a storehouse for the people's provisions, water, etc.; above that, a storehouse for the lights, oil, etc.; then the kitchen of the people, three in number; then their sleeping chamber; then the saloon or parlor, a neat little room; above all the Light-house; all communicating by oaken ladders with brass rails, most handsomely and conveniently executed."

In the course of the voyage Mr. Stevenson determined that his "constituents" should visit a reef of rocks called Skerry Vhor (Skerrymore), where he thought it would be essential to have a Light-house. Sir Walter's description of this visit is quite amusing and perhaps you would like to read it. The wind had blown squally all night, and in consequence everything and everybody were pitched and tossed about at a great rate, on board the little vessel. Nobody relished the attempt to land under these circumstances on this wild ridge.

"Quiet perseverance on the part of Mr. Stevenson, and great kicking, bouncing, and squabbling upon that of the Yacht, which seems to like the idea of Skerry Vhor as little as the Commissioners. At length, by dint of exertion, comes in sight this long ridge of rocks (chiefly under water) on which the tide breaks in a most tremendous style. There appear a few low, broad rocks at one end of the reef, which is about a mile in length. These are never entirely under water though the surf dashes over them. Pull through a very heavy swell with great difficulty, and approach a tremendous surf dashing over black pointed rocks—contrive to land well wetted. We took possession of the rock in the name of the Commissioners, and generously bestowed our own great names on its crags and creeks. The rock was carefully measured by Mr. S. It will be a most desolate position for a Light-house—the Bell Rock and Eddystone a joke to it, for the nearest land is the wild island of Tyree, at fourteen miles distance. So much for the Skerry Vhor."



As might have been expected, the Commissioners were discouraged at the aspect of affairs and delayed the work from year to year, but at last, in 1834, the Board placed this serious undertaking in the hands of Mr. Alan Stevenson.

Mr. Stevenson has left us a thrilling account of his noble work on Skerrymore Rocks, than which no worthier monument was ever left behind to the memory of a gifted and conscientious man.

In the first place he had to build barracks for his workmen on the Isles of Tyree and Mull, and then to begin the foundation of the tower on the only one of the gneiss rocks of the reef which was broad enough for the purpose, and this is but barely so, for at high water little remains around the tower's base but a narrow band of a few feet of rugged rocks, washed into gullies by the sea, which plays through them almost incessantly.

Everything had to be thought of and provided for beforehand; even so small a matter as the want of a little clay for tamping holes might have stopped the work for a time.

Piers were built at Mull where the granite was quarried, and all sorts of conveniences and contrivances for the vessels and tug in use.

The poor workmen suffered dreadfully from seasickness when compelled to live on their vessel, so they erected a temporary wooden barrack on the rock, but it was completely swept away in a November gale, destroying the work of a season in a single night. The dauntless men went to work again, however, and built another shelter which stood so successfully that it was finally taken down several years after the Light-house was completed.

Alan Stevenson tells us of their life in this wave-washed eyrie, where he was perched forty feet above the sea-beaten rock with a goodly company of thirty men, where often for many a weary night and day they were kept prisoners by the weather, anxiously looking for supplies from the shore. At such times they were generally obliged to stay in bed, where alone they found an effectual shelter from the wind and spray which searched every cranny in their walls. More than once the fearfulness of the storm drove the more timid from their frail abode, which the sea threatened to overwhelm, out on the bare rock where the roofless wall of the Light-house offered a safer defence against the perils of the wind and waves.

Innumerable were the delays and disappointments which tried the courage and faith of Stevenson and his brave band. It was a good lesson in the school of patience, and they learned to trust in something stronger than an arm of flesh. More than once their cranes and materials were swept away by the waves, and the workmen left, desponding and idle. They incurred daily risks in landing and in blasting the splintery gneiss, and in the falling of heavy bodies in the narrow space to which they were confined. For all, they met with no loss of life or limb, and maintained good health in spite of being obliged to live on salt provisions for six summers.

But the hardships and responsibilities by no means end with the building of the Light-house; the keeper who has it in charge holds a most important position, for upon the skill of his hands in the management of the delicate costly lenses and machinery, the clearness of his head, and the courage of his heart, as well as his honesty and fidelity, depends, even more than upon the captain of a vessel, the safety of many precious lives and millions of property; so it is of the first importance that he be intelligent, efficient and trustworthy.

A Light which has been visible for years cannot be suffered to be extinct for one hour without endangering a vessel's safety. The failure to illuminate at the proper time might prove fatal to the confiding mariner.

In England it is a situation for life unless the holder prove unworthy, with a pension if superannuated; but in our own country the appointments are in a measure political, and consequently liable to be temporary. This circumstance is deplored by the Board which sometimes in this way loses valuable servants after they have gained a skill and experience which only comes with time; and raw, untried hands have to be placed in positions of trust. It is hoped that some change will soon be brought about in this matter.



A year or more ago a gentleman, who holds an important position in the office of the Light-house Board and is specially interested in the comfort and welfare of the keepers, came in the course of a tour he was making on one of the Supply Ships, which carry half-yearly stores to the different posts, to a very isolated Light-house off the Florida coast, twenty miles from any human habitation and sixteen from terra firma. Just before the arrival of the vessel a little child of the keeper had died, and was about to be buried in the sea without so much as a word of prayer being said over it. Mr. —— was shocked to find that these poor people in their isolation seemed to have no idea of religion, and that there was not a book of any kind at the station. The parents made no objection to his reading the burial service over the poor baby, out of a little prayer-book which he happened to have in his pocket, and he went away determined to do his part towards making good the deficiency he had discovered; for on investigation it was found that very many Light-houses were quite as much cut off from books as the one he had visited, and one instance had occurred of a poor fellow who had actually gone crazy, from sheer mental starvation, in his loneliness.

Many persons have interested themselves in Mr. ——'s scheme. An appropriation has been asked from Congress for supplying reading matter to the six hundred and more Light-houses along our coast; and in the mean time private individuals have sent in contributions in the way of old books and magazines. The lady and gentlemen clerks at the Light-house Board have been most kind and helpful in the matter; for they always feel an interest in the condition of the keepers and their families, and when cases of suffering come to their knowledge, as lately, when a keeper at the South was burnt out and lost all his possessions, are prompt with their assistance. In this instance they helped to sort and arrange the motley piles of donated literature, which was then bound up nicely, in uniform volumes, at the Government Printing Office, and a neat little library-case of strong oak wood was made, fitted up with shelves and having heavy metal clasps and handles; and just so many volumes, always including a Bible, were placed in each case.

The Store-ships will now go out with a goodly lading of these supplies; one will be left at each station, and the next time the ship comes round the old case will be taken away and a fresh one substituted. In this way a circulating library system is established, and every Keeper well supplied with abundance of wholesome and entertaining reading matter.

You children, with your wealth of books and delightful magazines coming every month, can perhaps hardly appreciate the boon this kind thought, so well carried out, will prove; for you have never known what it is to be shut up in a lonely tower, day after day, month after month, with no outside interest or amusement. You can do your part towards brightening the lives of these men with their wives and children, and I am sure you will be glad of the opportunity. Many of you, no doubt, have piles of old magazines or story papers, or even of books, for which you have no further use. Would you not like to put up a nice package of these, and send them by Express to the "Care of the Chief Clerk of the Light-house Board, Washington, D. C."?

New supplies are constantly needed, and in this way you could not fail to give pleasure to those who have little enough in a life of monotonous duty.



"BUY A BROOM! BUY A BROOM!"

Last summer while on our vacation trip along the sea-coast we made our plans so as to stop over a train at Barnstable that we might have time to take a look at that ancient burgh, but found to our dismay when it was too late, that of time we had altogether too much, for when we stepped out of the car it was seven o'clock in the morning, and our train would not leave till four in the afternoon! And to make matters worse it began to rain. We managed, however, at intervals when the rain held up, to get a pretty good idea of the place, but were driven back to the station by the persistent drizzle long before noon; and there we seemed destined to spend five tedious hours, with not much of anything to do, except to get the way-bills of the Old Colony Railroad by heart, and commit to memory whatever might be available in the other advertisements posted on the walls.



We were beginning to be desperate, when my companion, strolling about, discovered a small placard saying that fruit was for sale in the freight depot. I set out to explore, having visions of apples and pears, but especially peaches and grapes before me.

Passing the wide freightage doors, I came to a narrow one which was wide open; so I first looked, and then walked in. It was an unfinished place where a slim young woman was busy about her housework, while a sick-looking man was "standing round." There was a cooking-stove, and she was taking pies out of the oven, which she set in a row on a cumbrous wooden bench that filled all the opposite end of the room, and under it were stored bunches of something unknown to me which I found afterwards was broom-corn. She was pretty and girlish, and had blue eyes, and fair hair.

She asked me to sit down, and told me they had been living there off and on for three years. "We used to live in 'Commons,' but we did not like, and so came up here. My husband is not well, and I go out washing, and take in washing."

It was a very queer place to live in, but neat and comfortable, yet it seemed just as if they might have been moving, and had merely stopped here over night and set up their stove in order to cook something to eat.

Upon inquiring for the fruit, about which it began to seem as if there must be either a mistake or a mystery for nothing of the kind was to be seen except the dish of apples left over from the pies, she directed me up-stairs; and up the steep narrow stairs I went, nearly stumbling over a great black dog (which she assured me would not bite) that lay stretched at the threshold of a dreary kind of room which had one occupant—a man with his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows at work near one of the windows at the farther end. And now I remembered that we had seen him at his bench there as we sat in the depot, and wondered what he was doing.



No indications of fruit; but there were four machines and a stack of brooms, and the litter of shreds and waste, and I was about to retreat with an apology after making known my errand. He said I had made no mistake, but he was out of everything except confectionery; peanuts, dates and figs. So as there were no apples, no pears, no peaches, no grapes, after all my perseverance, dates I would have, and he went to a closet where he said he kept them, holding his hands out before him in such a way that I knew he could not see even before he said, "I am blind."

After he had weighed them and received his pay, there were a few words about his business, which he seemed delighted to talk about, and because I put a question or two, he asked if I was a reporter, and said "that used to be my business. I was on the reportorial staff of the Pennsylvania legislature, when from overtasking my eyes, and other causes, I became blind. I went to the Institution at South Boston, and learned to make brooms so that I could earn my living."

He was full of interest in the work he had been compelled to fall back upon, and invited me to come in with my companion and see how it was done.

"Now I wish," said he, "that I had some stuff ready. I have to soak it before I use it. But your train does not go till four o'clock. I will put some to soak immediately, and if you will come in about three I will begin at the beginning and make a broom, so that you can then see the whole process."

To be sure we were glad to go, and he did as he said he would, and explained every particular, even to the cost.

"The broom-corn comes from the West," he said, "though a good deal grows in the Mohawk valley, and the largest broom establishment in the United States is at Schenectady.

"It often grows, if thriving stalks, ten or twelve feet tall; it can be cultivated here, but not so profitably. It comes in large bales, weighing anywhere from one hundred and fifty to five hundred pounds. Where I buy mine in Boston it costs me six cents a pound, though the price varies.

"I sort it out on a 'sorting bench,' first, for if I took it as it is, the brooms would be of queer qualities. Sorting is a regular trade to learn.

"The next thing, I tie it in bundles, and then it is ready for use. I put as many of these to soak the night before, as I want to make up in the day. I leave it in the water half an hour, then let it drain, and it keeps damp enough for working; if it was dry it would break when I sew it. Here you see this lot, from which I shall make the broom. I call now we have wire, and it is galvanized to prevent it from rusting. It costs me twelve cents a pound; it used to cost seventeen."



Having made the handle fast, he took a bunch of the corn, smoothed it carefully through his hands to even it, laid it against the handle, put his foot on the treadle or whatever the hour-glass shaped piece of mechanism might be named, and with one or two revolutions wired it tight. This lot had the butts left on, but from the next layer he sliced them down wedge-fashion with a very sharp knife, having secured them to those already on by a strap which could be fastened at such length as he chose by means of a leather button; another and another tier, each time of choicer quality, succeeded, and so on till the stock for that broom was used up.

"This," he explained, "is a number eight broom. If there had been time I would have made a hurl broom, which is the best. (The 'hurl' is the finest part of the corn, the heart.) I make five sizes: number six is the smallest, and it is the smallest manufactured in this country. I can make twenty of those in a day. Of the number ten, the hurl, I have made twelve, and they sell for forty cents apiece. Sometimes when I have got a lot of brooms on hand I hire a horse and cart, take a boy with me, and go round the country to sell them; and people will object to paying my prices, and I can't always make them believe that it pays to buy a good article, even if it is a broom. They sometimes say that they can get enough of them at fourteen cents, but I tell them when they pay fourteen cents for a broom, they only get a fourteen-cent broom."



He had now a rough broom, which he released from the vise and took over to the press which had three pairs of cruel-looking irons that he said were "the jaws," of sizes to shut round brooms of three different thicknesses and hold firmly, while he did the next thing, which he made known in this wise:

"Now I shall sew it. The number six have only two sewings—all they need, they are so thin. The others have three. They are all sewed with waxed linen twine: the higher sizes have pink, because it looks better; the others have tow-colored. You see my needle? It is some like a sail-maker's, but not exactly. I have two, though one will last a lifetime. I keep them in this oiled rag to prevent them from rusting. They cost fifty cents apiece, and were made of the very best of steel. See what nice metal it is!" He held out one, shaped more like a paddle than anything else, polished to the last degree, and as lustrous as silver; then he threw it on the floor to show us how it would ring.

"Broom tools of all kinds are made at Schenectady, but my needles, knives and combs come from Hadley. I will show you the combs pretty soon; the knives you have already seen. Let me see—where did I lay that other needle? No, you need not look for it; I must find it myself. I have to be careful where I leave my things, so that I can put my hand on them the moment I want them. Oh, here it is," picking it up with his long supple fingers, and rolling it securely up in the oiled cloth.

"Now you notice I put on this palm," and he held up what looked like a mitt just large enough to cover the palm of the hand and the wrist, having a hole to slip the thumb through and leaving that and the fingers free. It was made of cowhide, and sewed together on the back, while in the inside was set a thimble against which the needle was to be pressed in doing the hard sewing, while the leather protected the skin from being fretted by the broom.

"It is not just like a sail-maker's palm," he added. "I have one of those which a man gave me, and I will show it to you." So going again to his dark closet, he groped for it among his multifarious things, and came back with one similar, except that it was of raw-hide, and the thimble was a little projection looking like a pig's toe.



He sewed the broom through and through, producing the three pink rows. Then he said he would comb it to clear away the loose and broken stems; and so he passed through it a sort of hetchel made of thirty small knife-blades set in a frame, "which cost me," said he, "more than you would think—that comb was five dollars; and now I comb it out with this one to remove the small stuff and the seeds." And releasing it from the clamp, he took down a fine comb from a nail, and repeated the process.

"And now it is ready to be trimmed. I lay it on this hay-cutter, which some friends bought cheap for me at a fair, and answered my purpose after a few alterations, and I trim it off, nice and even at one end—and now it is done. You have seen a broom made."

That was true. Our only regret was that we could not have that same broom to take away; but on our zig-zag journey, when we were likely enough to stop over or turn off anywhere, that was an absurdity not to be thought of. We did, however, "buy a broom" that we could take—and an excellent one it proved—and we accepted a small package of broom-corn seed which the blind workman was anxious we should have, "to plant in some spare spot just to see how it looks when growing."

When we went down-stairs, the woman was out on the platform, her yellow hair tossing about in the wind, and she seemed as happy with her meagre accommodations in the freight house as if she were owner of a mansion. She begged us to go in and get some of her apples, we were welcome, and "they did not cost me anything," she added. She told us more about her fellow-tenant, and said he paid half the rent, "and he used to board with us, but now he boards up in town, and he goes back and forth alone, his self."

* * * * *

This curious and pleasant little episode made us so ready to be interested in everything pertaining to brooms that it seemed a kind of sarcasm of circumstances when, at a junction not very far along our route, we saw, perched upon his cart, a pedler doing his best to sell his brooms to the crowd on their way home from one of the Cape camp-meetings. His words were just audible as the train went on:

"Buy a broom! Buy a broom! Here's the place to buy a cheap broom, for fourteen cents! only fourteen cents! A broom for fourteen cents! So CHEAP!"

And it happened not many days later that somebody read in our hearing that the broom-corn is a native of India, and that Dr. Franklin was the means of introducing it into this country; from seeing a whisk of it in the hands of a lady he began to examine it—being of an inquiring mind, as everybody knows—and found a seed, which he planted.

The street-sweeper's broom is the genuine besom, made of birch stems, cut out in the country, and brought into town tied up in bundles like fagots; suitable enough for those stalwart men who drag them along so leisurely, but burdensome for the hands of the wretched little waifs, who, tattered and unkempt, make a pretence of keeping the crossings clean; who first sweep, and then hold out a small palm for the penny, dodging the horses' hoofs, and just escaping by a hair's breadth the wheels of truck or omnibus in their attempts to secure the coin, if some pitiful passer-by stops at the piping call:

"Please ma'am, a penny!"

That is the almost tragic prose of brooms.



But there is a bit of poetic history that ought not to be forgotten, for it was a sprig of the lovely broom bush—call it by the daintier name of heath if you will—such as in some of its varieties grows wild in nearly every country in Europe, a tough little flowering evergreen, symbol of humility, which was once embroidered on the robes, worn in the helmet, and sculptured on the effigies of a royal house of England. Which of the stories of its origin is true, perhaps no one at this distant day can determine; but whether a penitent pilgrim of the family was scourged by twigs of it—the plantagenesta—or a gallant hunter plucked a spray of it and put in his helmet, it is certain that the humble plant gave the stately name of "Plantagenet" to twelve sovereigns of that kingdom; and their battle-cry—which meant to them conquest and dominion, but has a very practical sound to us, and a specially prosaic meaning to one like the blind broom-maker of this simple story—was this:

"Plant the broom! Plant the broom!"



TALKING BY SIGNALS.

When boys live some distance apart, it is pleasant to be able to communicate with each other by means of signals. Many and ingenious have been the methods devised by enthusiastic boys for this purpose. But it can be brought much nearer perfection than has yet been done, by means of a very simple system.

At the age of fourteen I had an intimate friend who lived more than a mile away, but whose home was in plain sight from mine. As we could not always be together when we wished, we invented a system of signalling requiring a number of different colored flags; but we were not quite satisfied with it, for we could send but few communications by its use. Then, when we came to test it, we found the distance was too great to allow of the different colors being distinguished. The white one was plainly visible. It seemed necessary, therefore, that only white flags should be used. We studied over the problem long and hard, with the following result.

We each made five flags by tacking a small stick, eighteen inches long, to both ends of a strip of white cloth,[B] two feet long by ten inches wide. Then we nailed loops of leather to the side of our fathers' barns, so that, when the sticks were inserted in them, the flags would be in the following positions:

The upper left hand position was numbered 1, upper right 2, lower right 3, lower left 4, centre 5. Notice, there was no difference in the flags; the positions they occupied determined the communication.

Thirty combinations of these positions can be made:

1—1 2—2 4—1 2 3—1 4 5—1 2 3 5 2—1 3—2 5—1 2 4—2 3 5—1 2 4 5 3—1 4—3 4—1 2 5—2 4 5—1 3 4 5 4—1 5—3 5—1 3 4—3 4 5—2 3 4 5 5—2 3—4 5—1 3 5—1 2 3 4—1 2 3 4 5.

These combinations were written down; and opposite each was written the question or answer for which it stood. The answers likely to be used most we placed opposite the shortest combinations, to save time in signalling. My old "Code" lies before me, from which I copy the following examples:

1. Yes. 2. No. 3. Morning. 4. Afternoon. 5. Evening. 1 2. Can you come over? 1 3. When? 2 5. Wait till I find out. 1 3 4. Can you go a-fishing? 2 4 5. Are you well to-day?

Suppose, now, that I place flags in positions 2 4 and 5. (See the above examples.)

Harry glances down his "code" until he reaches 2 4 5 and its signification, and perhaps answers with a flag at 1.

Then the following dialogue ensues:

I. 1 2.

He. 1 5.

I. 4.

He. 2 5.

And, in a few moments,

He. 1.

We usually spent our noon hour conversing with each other in this manner; and, when it became necessary for either to leave his station, all the flags, 1 2 3 4 5, were put out, signifying "gone."

One combination, 1 2 3 4, was, by mutual consent, reserved for a communication of vital importance, "COME OVER!" It was never to be used except in time of trouble, when the case would warrant leaving everything to obey the call. We had little expectation of its ever being used. It was simply a whim; although, like many other things, it served a serious purpose in the end.

Not far from my father's house stood a valuable timber lot, in which he took an especial pride. Adjoining this was an old apple-orchard, where the limbs of several trees that had been cut down, and the prunings of the remainder, had been heaped together in two large piles to be burned at a favorable opportunity. One afternoon, when there was not the slightest breath of wind, we armed ourselves, father and I, with green pine boughs and set the brush-heaps a-fire. We had made the heap in as moist a spot as possible, that there might be less danger of the fire spreading through the grass. While the flame was getting under way, I busied myself in gathering stray bits of limbs and twigs—some of them from the edge of the woods—and throwing them on the fire.

"Be careful not to put on any hemlock branches!" shouted my father from his heap. "The sparks may snap out into the grass!"

Almost as he spoke a live coal popped out with a loud snap and fell at my feet, and little tongues of flame began to spread through the dead grass. A few blows from my pine bough had smothered them, when snap! snap! snap! went three more in different directions. As I rushed to the nearest I remembered throwing on several dead hemlock branches, entirely forgetting their snapping propensity.

Bestowing a few hasty strokes upon the first spot of spreading flame, I hastened to the next and was vigorously beating that, when, glancing behind me, I saw to my dismay that the first was blazing again. Ahead of me was another, rapidly increasing; while the roaring, towering flame at the heap was sputtering ominously, as if preparing to send out a shower of sparks. And, to make matters worse, I felt a puff of wind on my face. Terror-stricken I shouted:

"Father! The fire is running! Come quick!"

In a moment he was beside me, and for a short time we fought the flame desperately.

"It'll reach the woods in spite of us!" he gasped, as we came together after a short struggle. "There isn't a neighbor within half a mile, and before you could get help it would be too late! Besides, one alone couldn't do anything against it!"

A sudden inspiration seized me.

"I'm going to signal to Harry!" I cried. "If he sees it he'll come and, perhaps, bring help with him!"

"Hurry!" he shouted back, and I started for the barn. The distance was short. As I reached it I glanced over to Harry's. There were some white spots on his barn. He was signalling and, of course, could see my signal.

Excitedly I placed the flags in 1 2 3 4, and, without waiting for an answer, tore back across the fields to the fire. It was gaining rapidly. In a large circle, a dozen rods across, it advanced toward the buildings on one hand and swept toward the woods on the other. We could not conquer it. We could only hope to hinder its progress until help should arrive.



Fifteen minutes of desperate struggle and then, with a ringing cheer, Harry and his father dashed upon the scene. Their arrival infused me with new courage; and four pairs of hands and four willing hearts at length conquered the flame, two rods from the woods!

My father sank down upon a rock, and, as he wiped the perspiration from his smutty face, he said:

"There, boys, your signalling has saved the prettiest timber lot in the town of Hardwick! I shall not forget it!"

Were we not justly proud?

Two days after I found upon my plate at breakfast a small package, which contained two pretty little spy-glasses.

"Perhaps they will enable you to enlarge your 'signal code,'" was all my father said when I thanked him.

We soon found that with the aid of the glasses we could distinguish any color. So we made a set of blue flags, which gave us thirty more communications by using them in place of the white ones. And, by mixing the blue flags with the white combinations and the white with the blue combinations, over two hundred communications could be signalled. Thus we could converse with each other by the hour.

The way we wrote down the mixed combinations was, by using a heavy figure to represent a blue flag; as 1[2]4[5], which meant that positions 1 and 4 were occupied by white flags, 2 and 5 by blue ones.

Blue flags can be inserted in the original thirty combinations in the following manner: 1[2], 12[3], 1[23], 123[4], 12[34], 1[2]3[4], 1[23]4, 1[234], 23[5], 2[35], 234[5], 23[4]5, 2[3]45, 2[3]4[5], 2[34]5, 23[45], 2[345], and so on.

Among the many recollections that throng my memory in connection with this subject, is that of an incident which has caused me many a hearty laugh since its occurrence, although at the time I did not feel particularly amused. Harry had gone away visiting, giving me no definite idea of when he would return. So, one drizzling, uncomfortable day, as I was sitting rather disconsolate at my barn window, I was delighted to see several flags appear on his barn.

Eagerly I read:

1 3 4. "Can you go a-fishing?"

The fine drizzling rain was changing into larger drops, and there was every reasonable prospect of a very wet day, and I thought he must be joking; but I answered:

"When?"

"Now," was the reply.

"Where?" I asked.

"Bixbee's pond."

"Are you in earnest?"

"I will meet you there."

I answered "Yes," and, shouldering my fish-pole, started off across-lots. The distance was fully a mile and a half, and before I had passed over a quarter of the distance the bushes, dripping with rain, had completely drenched me. When nearly there the increasing rain became a heavy shower; but I kept on. I reached the pond, but nothing was to be seen of Harry. Not a frog could I find for bait, owing to the incessantly pouring rain, and I knew it would be difficult to find a worm. So, after half an hour of tedious waiting and monotonous soaking, I started for Harry's, my patience entirely worn out.

The rain came down in torrents as, at length, I turned in at the gate; and I suppose I looked as forlorn as a drenched rooster, for I heard a girlish giggle as I stepped upon the piazza, but I did not then suspect the truth.

"Where's Harry?" I asked of his mother whom I found alone.

"Why, you didn't expect to find him at home, did you? He won't be back for a number of days yet."

(Another subdued giggle from the next room.)

"You're as wet as a drowned rat!" went on the motherly woman. "What on earth started you out in this rain?"

"It's that Hattie's work!" I burst out angrily, and told her the whole story.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed, holding up her hands, despairingly, "I never did see such a torment as that girl is! I noticed she has seemed very much tickled over something! I'll give her a real scolding!"

I darted out the door; and, as I splashed my way disconsolately down to the road, I heard a voice, struggling between repentance and a desire to laugh, call after me:

"Forgive me, Charlie, but it was such a joke!"

Hattie never meddled with her brother's signals again. For her mother's displeasure and the severe cold that followed my drenching more than balanced the enjoyment she derived from that very practical joke.

* * * * *

Two years ago I visited my native town. Resuming my old place by the barn window, I gazed across the intervening forest to where Harry used to stand and signal to me. Tacked up against the window-sill was my old "signal code," covered with dust and cobwebs. Harry was hundreds of miles away, carving himself a name among his fellow-men. Of all the friends of former days, scarcely one remained in the old town. And I could only wish, with all my heart, that I were once again enjoying my boyhood's happy hours.

——-

[B] If the buildings should be painted, the flags should be of a color that would contrast with that of the paint.



JENNIE FINDS OUT HOW DISHES ARE MADE.

Ah! I know something! I know something you girls don't know! I know how they make dishes what you eat off of; and it's just the same way they make dolly's dishes, I guess.

Yes, I do know. And I've got some pictures papa drawed for me, too, and I'll tell you all about them. They're in my pocket right under my handkerchief. I put them under my handkerchief because I don't want them to get dirty. I've got some 'lasses candy on top. I haven't got enough, or I'd give you all some.

Papa took me to a pottery. I don't know why they call it a pottery, for they make cups and saucers, and sugar-bowls, and everything. First the man took us through the dressing-room. I did not see any dresses, nor anybody dressing themselves. I only saw piles of dishes and men and women hammering at them. I asked papa why they called it that, and he said, wait till we come back, for that was the very last of all. So we went on into the yard. I looked into one part of the building where it was all dark, with three great chimneys, broad on the ground and narrow high up. But the man and papa went right on, round to the other side of the building.

There wasn't anything to see, though, but horses and carts hauling clay, and great heaps of it on the ground. I wouldn't have called it anything but dirt, but papa said it was kaolin, not exactly dirt, but clay. He spelt it for me.

There was another of those big chimneys in the yard, only bigger. The man said that was where they dried the clay. Then he led us to a little door in the side of the house, and we went in. That brought us into a little room where they were getting the clay ready.

First there was a sand-screen—like Mike uses, where they sieved it. Next they weighed it and put it into bins. It looked like fine, dark flour.



A little piece off from the bins there was a big deep box. They were mixing clay and water in it, and making a paste. It looked like lime when they're making mortar. The box leaked awfully, and white paste was running down on the floor.

At the end of the box they had a pump working, and it was pumping the paste into what they called a press. It was too funny for anything. I couldn't more than half understand it. But it looks something like a baby-crib, only it has slats across the top, and they're close together. They have a lot of bags inbetween the slats, and the clay gets into the bags and gets pressed flat, so that most of the water is squeezed out. When they take it out of the bags it looks something like a sheet of shortcake before it's cut or baked. Then they roll a lot of them together, and that's what they make dishes out of. They call it biscuit.

The man took us down into the cellar under the little room to show us the engine that made the paste and pumped and pressed the clay. I was afraid, and didn't want to go down, but papa said it was only a little one. It was nice and clean down there, with a neat brick floor, but awful hot. I was glad to come up.



After the little room there's one big room where they don't do much of anything. It is like a large shed, for it is dark and has no floor. The dressing-room where we were first is on one side, and the dark room where the big chimneys are, is back of it. We went through it, and over to one side and up the stairs to the second story.

It's nice up there. It's one great big room, five times as big as our Sunday School room, with ever so many windows. All around the sides and down the middle, and cross-ways, and out in the wings are shelves, piled full of brand-new dishes. And there are tables all along the walls, and that's where they make them. I could stand and look all day.

I saw two boys throwing up a great big lump of clay and catching it; then cutting it with a string and putting the pieces together again, then throwing it up again, until it made me dizzy to look at them. I asked the man what they were doing, and he said, wedging the clay. That means taking the air out. They keep on doing that until there are no air-bubbles in it.

We stopped and talked to a man who was making a sugar-bowl, and he told us how he did it. All the men have on the table in front of them a lump of clay, a wheel, some moulds, a sharp knife, a bucket of water with a sponge in it, and something like the slab of a round, marble-topped table, only it's made of plaster Paris, to work on.



And do you know what the potter's-wheel is? It's as old as the hills and it's in the Bible, but I guess everybody don't know what it is. It looks as if it was made of hard, smooth, baked white clay, and is something like a grindstone, only not half as thick. The grindstone stands up, but this lays flat, with its round side turned up, like the head of a barrel. And it's set on a pivot, like the needle of the compass in our geographies.

The moulds are like Miss Fanny's wax-fruit moulds. They're made of plaster Paris, and they're round outside, and they have the shape of what the man wants to make on the inside, and they're in two pieces. Little things like cups are made in one mould; but big things like pitchers are made in two or three pieces, in two or three moulds, and then put together. Handles and spouts and such things are made separately in little moulds and put on afterwards.



Here's the way. First the man cuts off a piece of the biscuit, and kneads it on the plaster Paris slab. Then he takes one piece of the mould, fixes the clay in nicely, shaves off what he don't want, then puts on the other piece of the mould, and sets it on the wheel. He gives it a shove and sets it spinning. It stops itself after a while, then he opens the mould, and there is the dish. The clay keeps the same thickness all through, and fills both pieces of the mould.