But we were not allowed the guns, and, even if we had had them, it is probable that the crows would all have died of old age, had they depended for an early death upon our powder and shot. With their sagacity, their long sight, and their sentinels posted on the high trees around the field, they were not likely to let a boy with a gun approach very near to them. I have heard—and have no doubt of the truth of the statement—that one of the best ways to shoot crows is to go after them in a wagon, keeping your gun, of course, as much out of sight as possible. Crows seem to know exactly what guns are intended for. But they are seldom afraid of a wagon. They expect no danger from it, and one can frequently drive along a country road while crows are quietly feeding in the field adjoining, quite close to the fence.

But if any one goes out to shoot crows in this way he had better be very careful that he has an excessively mild and unimpressible horse. For, if the horse is frightened at the report of the gun, and dashes away, and smashes the wagon, and breaks his harness, and spills everything out of the wagon into the dust, mud, and bramble-bushes, and throws the gunner heels over head into a ditch, it may be that a dead crow will hardly pay him for his trouble and expense in procuring it.

But after a time the corn got so high that it was not afraid of a bird, and then we forgot the crows. But we liked to watch the corn in all its stages. We kept a sharp look-out for the young pumpkin-vines, and were glad to see the beans, which were planted in the hills with the corn in some parts of the field.

There is one great advantage in a corn-field which many other fields do not possess: you can always walk in it! And when the corn is higher than your head, and the great long leaves are rustling in the wind, and you can hardly see each other a dozen yards away, what a glorious thing it is to wander about amidst all this cool greenness, and pick out the biggest and the fattest ears for roasting!

You have then all the loveliness of Nature, combined with the hope of a future joy, which Art—the art of your mother, or whoever roasts the corn—will give you.

But the triumph of the corn-field is not yet. The transformation of its products into Indian puddings and pumpkin pies will not occur until the golden Autumn days, when the sun, and the corn, and the pumpkins are all yellow alike, and gold—if it was not so scarce—would be nothing to compare to any of them. Then come the men, with their corn-cutters—pieces of scythe-blades, with handles fitted to them—and down go the corn-stalks. Only one crack apiece, and sometimes a big cut will slice off the stalks on a whole hill.

How we used to long to wield those corn-cutters!

But our parents thought too much of our legs.

When the corn has been cut and carried away, the pumpkins are enough to astonish anybody. We never had any idea that there were so many!

At last, when the days were getting short, and the mornings were a little cool, and the corn was in the cribs, and the pumpkins were in the barn, and some of us had taken a grist to the mill, then were the days of the pudding of Indian corn and the pies of pumpkin!

Then we stayed in the kitchen and saw the whole delightful process, from the first mixing of the yellow meal with water, and the first cut into the round pumpkins, until the swelling pudding and the tranquil pie emerged in hot and savory grandeur from the oven.

It is of no use to expect those days to return. It is easy enough to get the pies and the puddings, but it is very hard to be a boy again.



LIVING IN SMOKE.



Here is a mosquito of which the bravest man might be afraid; but, fortunately, these insects are not found quite so large as the one in the drawing, for he is considerably magnified. But when we hear even a very small fellow buzzing around our heads, in the darkness of a summer night, we are very apt to think that he sounds as if he were at least as big as a bat.

In some parts of our country, mosquitoes are at certain seasons so plentiful and bloodthirsty that it is impossible to get along comfortably in their company. But, except in spots where no one would be likely to live, whether there were mosquitoes there or not, these insects do not exist in sufficient numbers to cause us to give up our ordinary style of living and devote all our energies to keeping them at a distance.

In some other countries, however, the people are not so fortunate. In Senegal, at certain seasons, the inhabitants are driven from their habitations by the clouds of mosquitoes which spread over the land, and are forced to take refuge on high platforms, under which they keep fires continually burning.

The smoke from these fires will keep away the mosquitoes, but it cannot be very pleasant to the Senegalians. However, they become used to it, and during the worst of the mosquito season, they eat, drink, sleep, and enjoy themselves to the best of their ability on these platforms, which for the time become their houses.



It would probably seem to most of us, that to breathe an atmosphere constantly filled with smoke, and to have it in our eyes and noses all the time, would be almost as bad, if not quite, as suffering the stings of mosquitoes.

But then we do not know anything about Senegalian mosquitoes, and the accounts which Dr. Livingstone and other travellers give of the insects in Africa, ought to make us feel pretty sure that these woolly-headed folks on the platforms know what is good for them.



THE CANNON OF THE PALAIS ROYAL.



In the Gardens of the Palais Royal, in Paris, there is a little cannon which stands on a pedestal, and is surrounded by a railing. Every day it is loaded with powder and wadding, but no one on earth is allowed to fire it off. However, far away in the realms of space, ninety-three millions of miles from our world, there is the great and glorious Sun, and every day, at twelve o'clock, he fires off that little cannon, provided there are no clouds in the way. Just before noon on bright days, the people gather around the railing, with their watches in their hands,—if they are so lucky as to have watches,—and precisely at twelve o'clock, bang! she goes.

The arrangement which produces this novel artillery-practice is very simple. A burning-glass is fixed over the cannon in such a manner that when the sun comes to the meridian—which it does every day at noon, you know—its rays are concentrated on the touch-hole, and of course the powder is ignited and the cannon is fired.

Most boys understand the power of a burning-glass, and know how easily dry grass or tinder, or a piece of paper, may be set on fire by a good glass when the sun is bright; but they would find it very difficult to place a glass over a little cannon so that it would infallibly be discharged at any set hour. And even if they could do it, they would not be sure of their cannon-clock being exactly right, for the sun does not keep the very best time. He varies a little, and there is a difference between solar time and true time. But the sun is always near enough right for all ordinary intents and purposes.

I know boys—lazy fellows—and some girls of the same sort, for that matter,—who, if they could, would have, just outside of their school-doors, one of the largest cannon, which should go off every day at the very earliest hour at which school would let out, and which should make such a tremendous report that it would be impossible for the teacher to overlook the time and keep them in too long.

But if these same boys and girls were putting up a cannon to go off at the hour when school commenced, they would get such a little one that it wouldn't frighten a mouse.



WATERS, DEEP AND SHALLOW.

With such a vast subject before us as the waters of our beautiful world, we must be systematic. So we will at first confine ourselves to the observation of pleasant waters.



Let us begin at the beginning.

This pretty little spring, with its cool water running day and night into the old barrel, and then gurgling over the staves, flowing away among the grass and flowers, is but a trifling thing perhaps, and might be passed with but little notice by people who have always lived in cities. But country-folks know how to value a cool, unfailing spring. In the hot days of summer the thirsty and tired farmer would rather see that spring than an ice-cream saloon. Yes, even if he has nothing to drink from but a gourd, which may be lying there among the stones. He may have a tin-cup with him,—and how shocking! he may drink out of his hands! But, let him use what he may, he certainly gets a most delicious drink.

I once knew a little girl who said she could not bear spring-water; she did not think it was clean, coming out of the ground in that way. I asked her if she liked well-water; but she thought that was worse yet, especially when it was hauled up in old buckets. River-water she would not even consider, for that was too much exposed to all sorts of dirty things to be fit to drink. I then wished to know what kind of water she did like, and she answered, readily enough, "hydrant-water." I don't know where she imagined hydrant-water came from, but she may have thought it was manufactured, by some clean process, out at the water-works.

But let us follow this little stream which trickles from the barrel. We cannot walk by its banks all the time, for it winds so much and runs through places where the walking is very bad; but let us go across the fields and walk a mile or two into the woods, and we will meet with it again. Here it is!

What a fine, tumbling stream it has grown to be now! It is even big enough to have a bridge over it. It does not always rush so noisily among the rocks; but this is early summer; there has been plenty of rain, and the brook is full and strong. Now, then, if this is a trout country, we ought to have our hooks and lines with us. Among the eddies of this stream we might find many a nice trout, and if we were only successful enough to catch some of them after we had found them, we would be sure of a reward for our walk, even if the beauty of the scene did not repay us.

But let us go on. This stream does not stop here.

After we have walked a mile or so more, we find that our noisy friend has quieted down very much indeed. It is a little wider, and it may be it is a little deeper, but it flows along very placidly between its low banks. It is doubtful if we should find any trout in it now, but there may be cat-fish and perch, and some sun-fish and eels.



And now the stream suddenly spreads out widely. It is a little lake! No, it is only a mill-pond.

Let us walk around and come out in front of the mill.

How the stream has diminished again!



As it comes out of the mill-race and joins itself to that portion which flows over the dam, it is a considerable creek, to be sure, but it looks very small compared to the mill-pond. But what it wants in size it makes up in speed, like some little Morgan horses you may have seen, and it goes rushing along quite rapidly again. Here, now, is a splendid chance to catch a chub.

If we had some little minnows for bait, and could stand on the bank there to the left, and throw our lines down into the race, we ought to be able to hook a chub, if there are any there, and I think it is very likely that there are. A chub, if he is a good-sized fellow, is a fish worth catching, even for people who have been fishing for trout. One big chub will make a meal for a small family.

But let us follow the creek and see what new developments we shall discover. To be sure, you may say that following up a stream from its very source involves a great deal of walking; but I can answer with certainty that a great deal of walking is a very easy thing—in books!

So on we go, and it is not long before we find that our watery friend has ceased to be a creek, and is quite worthy of being called a fine young river. But still it is scarcely fit yet for navigation. There are rocks in the very middle of the stream, and every now and then we come to a waterfall. But how beautiful some of those cascades are!

What a delightful thing it would be, on a warm summer evening, to bathe in that deliciously cool water. It is deep enough for a good swim, and, if any of us want a shower-bath, it would be a splendid thing to sit on the rocks and let the spray from the fall dash over us! And there are fish here, I am sure. It is possible that, if we were to sit quietly on the bank and fish, we might soon get a string of very nice perch, and there is no knowing what else. This stream is now just about big enough and little enough to make the character of its fish doubtful. I have known pike—fellows two feet long—caught in such streams as this; and then again, in other small rivers, very much like it, you can catch nothing but cat-fish, roach, and eels.

If we were to follow up our river, we would soon find that it grew larger and larger, until row-boats and sloops, and then schooners and perhaps large ships, sailed upon its surface. And at last we might follow it down to its mouth, and, if it happened to flow into the sea, we would probably behold a grand scene. Some rivers widen so greatly near their mouths that it is difficult to believe that they are rivers at all.



On the next page we see a river which, at its junction with the ocean, seems almost like a little sea itself.



We can hardly credit the fact that such a great river as the Amazon arose from a little spring, where you might span the body of the stream with your hand. But, at its source, there is no doubt just such a little spring. The great trouble, however, with these long rivers, is to find out where their source really is. There are so many brooks and smaller rivers flowing into them that it is difficult to determine the main line. You know that we have never settled that matter in regard to the Mississippi and Missouri. There are many who maintain that the source of the Mississippi is to be found at the head of the Missouri, and that the latter is the main river. But we shall not try to decide any questions of that sort. We are in quest of pleasant waters, not difficult questions.



There is no form which water assumes more grand and beautiful than the cascade or waterfall. And these are of very varied shapes and sizes. Some of the most beautiful waterfalls depend for their celebrity, not upon their height, but upon their graceful forms and the scenery by which they are surrounded, while others, like the cascade of Gavarni, are renowned principally for their great height.

There we see a comparatively narrow stream, precipitating itself down the side of an enormous precipice in the Pyrenees. Although it appears so small to us, it is really a considerable stream, and as it strikes upon the jutting rocks and dashes off into showers of spray, it is truly a beautiful sight.

There are other cascades which are noted for a vast volume of water. Some of these are well known, but there is one, perhaps, of which you have never heard.

When Dr. Livingstone was travelling in Africa he was asked by some of the natives if in his country there was any "smoke which sounds." They assured him that such a thing existed in their neighborhood, although some of them did not seem to comprehend the nature of it. The Doctor soon understood that their remarks referred to a waterfall, and so he took a journey to it. When he came within five or six miles of the cataract, he saw five columns of smoke arising in the air; but when he reached the place he found that this was not smoke, but the vapor from a great fall in the river Zambesi.

These falls are very peculiar, because they plunge into a great abyss, not more than eighty feet wide, and over three hundred feet deep. Then the river turns and flows, for many miles, at the bottom of this vast crack in the earth. Dr. Livingstone thinks these falls are one of the wonders of the world.

There is no doubt, however, about the king of cataracts. That is Niagara. If you have seen it you can understand its grandeur, but you can never appreciate it from a written description. A picture will give you some idea of it, but not a perfect one, by any means.



The Indians called these falls "thundering water," and it was an admirable title. The waters thunder over the great precipice, as they have done for thousands of years before we were born, and will continue to do thousands of years after we are dead.

The Falls of Niagara are divided by an island into two portions, called the Canadian and the American Falls. This island lies nearer to the United States shore than to that of Canada. Therefore the American Falls are the smallest. This island is named Goat Island, and you have a good view of it in the picture.



It seems as if the resistless torrent would some day tear away this lonely promontory, as it rushes upon and around it. It is not unlikely that in the course of ages the island may be carried away.

Even now, portions of it are occasionally torn off by the rush of the waters.

You can cross over to Goat Island by means of a bridge, and when there you can go down under the falls. Standing in what is called the "Cave of the Winds," you can look out at a thick curtain of water, from eighteen to thirty feet thick, pouring down from the rocks above. This curtain, dark and glittering, is a portion of the great falls.

It is necessary to spend days at Niagara before its grandeur can be fully appreciated. But we must pass on to other waters, and not tarry at this glorious cataract until we are carried away by our subject.

We will now look at, for a short time, what may be called Profitable Waters. The waters of the earth are profitable in so many ways that it would be impossible for us to consider them all. But we will simply glance at a few scenes, where we can easily perceive what advantages man derives from the waters, deep or shallow. In our own country there is no more common method of making a living out of the water than by fishing with a net.

The men in the picture, when they have hauled their seine to shore, will probably find as good a reward for their labor as if they had been working on the land instead of in the river; and if it is shad for which they are fishing, their profits will probably be greater.

You know that our shad fisheries are very important sources of income to a great many people. And the oyster fisheries are still more valuable.

When we mention the subject, of making a living out of the water, we naturally think first of nets, and hooks and lines. It is true that mills, and steamships, and packet-lines, and manufactories, are far more important; but they require capital as well as water. Men fish all over the world, but on some waters vessels or saw-mills are never seen.



The styles of fishing, however, are very various. Here is a company of Africans, fishing with javelins or spears.

They build a sort of platform or pier out into the river, and on this they stand, with their spears in their hands, and when a fish is seen swimming in the water, down comes the sharp-pointed javelin, which seldom misses him. Then he is drawn upon the platform by means of the cord which is fastened to the spear. A whole family will go out fishing in this way, and spend the day on the platform. Some will spear the fish, while others will clean them, and prepare them for use. One advantage that this party possesses is, that if any of them should tumble into the water, they would not get their clothes wet.



But sometimes it will not do for the fisherman to endeavor to draw up the treasures of the deep while he remains at the surface of the water; very often he must go down after them. In this way a great many of the most valuable fisheries are conducted. For instance, the sponge-fishers are obliged to dive down to the very bottom of the water, and tear off the sponges from the rocks to which they fasten themselves. Some of the most valuable sponge-fisheries are on the coast of Syria, and you may here see how they carry on their operations.



This is a very difficult and distressing business to the divers They have to remain under the water as long as they can possibly hold their breath, and very often they are seriously injured by their exertions in this way. But when we use the sponges we never think of this. And if we did, what good would it do? All over the world men are to be found who are perfectly willing to injure their health, provided they are paid for it.

The pearl-fisheries are quite as disastrous in their effects upon the divers as those of which we have just been speaking.

The pearl-diver descends by the help of a long rope, to the end of which is attached a heavy stone. He stands on the stone, holds the rope with one hand and his nose with the other, and quickly sinks to the bottom. Then he goes to work, as fast as he can, to fill a net which hangs from his neck, with the pearl-oysters. When he can stay down no longer, the net and stone are drawn up by the cord, and he rises to the surface, often with blood running from his nose and ears. But then, those who employ them sometimes get an oyster with as fine pearls as this one contains.



It is perfectly possible, however, to dive to the bottom of the sea with very valuable results, without undergoing all this terrible injury and suffering. In this country and Europe there are men who, clad in what is called submarine armor, will go to the bottom of a river, or bay, or the sea,—where it is not very deep—and there walk about almost as comfortably as if they were on land. Air is supplied to them by long pipes, which reach to the surface, and these divers have been made very useful in discovering and removing wrecks, recovering sunken treasure, and in many other ways.



For instance, you have a picture of some divers at the bottom of the port of Marseilles. A box of gold had fallen from a steamship, and the next day these two men went down after it. They found it, and it was hauled safely to the surface by means of the ropes which they attached to it.

You see how strangely they are dressed. An iron helmet, like a great iron pot, is over each of their heads, and a reservoir, into which the air is pumped, is on their backs. They can see through little windows in their masks or helmets, and all they have to do is to walk about and attend to their business, for men above supply them with a sufficiency of air for all breathing purposes, by means of an air-pump and a long flexible tube.

We have not even alluded to many profitable waters; we have said nothing about those vast seas where the great whale is found, or of the waters where men catch the valuable little sardine.

We have not mentioned corals, nor said anything about those cod-fisheries, which are considered of sufficient importance, sometimes, to go to war about. But these, with many other subjects of the kind, we must leave unnoticed, while we cast our eyes upon some Dangerous Waters.

We all know that almost any water, if it be a few feet deep, is dangerous at certain times and under certain conditions.

The creek, which in its deepest parts is not up to your chin, may be the death of you if you venture upon it in winter, when the ice is thin, and you break through. Without help, you may be able neither to swim out or climb out.

But oceans and seas are the waters where danger may nearly always be expected. The sea may be as smooth as glass, the skies bright, and not a breath of wind be stirring; or a gentle breeze, just enough to ripple the water, may send our vessel slowly before it, and in a few hours the winds may be roaring, the waves dashing into the air, and the skies dark with storm-clouds.

If we are upon a large and strong steamer, we may perhaps feel safe enough among the raging waves; but if our vessel be a fishing-boat, or a small pleasure-craft, we have good reason to be afraid Yet many a little sloop like this rides bravely and safely through the storms. But many other little vessels, as strong and as well steered, go to the bottom of the ocean every year. If the sailor escapes severe storms, or sails in a vessel which is so stout and ably managed as to bid defiance to the angry waves, he has other dangers in his path. He may, for instance, meet with icebergs. If the weather is clear and the wind favorable, he need not fear these floating mountains of ice. But if it be night, or foggy, and he cannot see them, or if, in spite of all his endeavors, the wind drives him down upon them, then is his vessel lost, and, in all probability, the lives of all upon it. Sometimes, however, the passengers and crew may escape in boats, and instances have been related where they have taken refuge on the iceberg itself, remaining there until rescued by a passing ship.



But, be the weather fair or foul, a ship is generally quick to leave the company of so dangerous a neighbor as an iceberg. Sometimes great masses of ice take a notion to topple over, and, looking at the matter in what light you please, I think that they are not to be trusted.

Then there is the hurricane!

A large ship may bravely dare the dangers of an ordinary storm, but nothing that floats on the surface of the water can be safe when a whirlwind passes over the sea, driving everything straight before it Great ships are tossed about like playthings, and strong masts are snapped off as if they had been made of glass.



If a ship is then near a coast, her crew is seldom able, if the wind blows towards the land, to prevent her from being dashed upon the rocks; and if she is out upon the open sea, she is often utterly disabled and swallowed up by the waves.

I have known boys who thought that it would be perfectly delightful to be shipwrecked. They felt certain that they would be cast (very gently, no doubt) upon a desert island, and there they would find everything that they needed to support life and make them comfortable; and what they did not get there they would obtain from the wreck of the ship, which would be lying on the rocks, at a convenient distance from the shore. And once on that island, they would be their own masters, and would not have to go to school or do anything which did not please them.



This is the good old Robinson Crusoe idea, which at one time or another runs in the mind of nearly every boy, and many girls, too, I expect; but a real shipwreck is never desired the second time by any person who has experienced one.

Sometimes, even when the crew think that they have safely battled through the storm, and have anchored in a secure place, the waves dash upon the vessel with such force that the anchor drags, the masts go by the board, and the great ship, with the hundreds of pale faces that crowd her deck, is dashed on the great rocks which loom up in the distance.



Among other dangers of the ocean are those great tidal waves, which often follow or accompany earthquakes, and which are almost as disastrous to those living upon the sea-coast as to those in ships. Towns have been nearly destroyed by them, hundreds of people drowned, and great ships swept upon the land, and left there high and dry. In tropical latitudes these tremendous upheavals of the ocean appear to be most common, but they are known in all regions which are subject to serious shocks of earthquakes.



Waterspouts are other terrible enemies of the sailor. These, however dangerous they may be when they approach a ship, are not very common, and it is said that they may sometimes be entirely dispersed by firing a cannon-ball into the midst of the column of water. This statement is rather doubtful, for many instances have been related where the ball went directly through the water-spout without any effect except to scatter the spray in every direction. I have no doubt that sailors always keep as far away from water-spouts as they can, and place very little reliance on their artillery for their safety.

And now, have you had enough water?

We have seen how the waters of the earth may be enjoyed, how they may be made profitable to us, and when we should beware of them.



But before we leave them, I wish to show you, at the very end of this article, something which is a little curious in its appearance. Let us take a step down to the very bottom of the sea; not in those comparatively shallow places, where the divers descend to look for wrecks and treasure, but in deep Water, miles below the surface. Down there, on the very bottom, you will see this strange thing. What do you suppose it is?

It is not an animal or a fish, or a stone, or shell. But plants are growing upon it, while little animals and fishes are sticking fast to it, or swimming around it. It is not very thick—scarcely an inch—and we do not see much of it here; but it stretches thousands of miles. It reaches from America to Europe, and it is an Atlantic Cable. There is nothing in the water more wonderful than that.



HANS, THE HERB-GATHERER.



Many years ago, when people had not quite so much sense as they have now, there was a poor widow woman who was sick. I do not know what was the matter with her, but she had been confined to her bed for a long time.

She had no doctor, for in those days many of the poor people, besides having but little money, had little faith in a regular physician. They would rather depend upon wonderful herbs and simples, which were reported to have a sort of magical power, and they often used to resort to charms and secret incantations when they wished to be cured of disease.

This widow, whose name was Dame Martha, was a sensible woman, in the main, but she knew very little about sickness, and believed that she ought to do pretty much as her neighbors told her. And so she followed their advice, and got no better.

There was an old man in the neighborhood named Hans, who made it a regular business to gather herbs and roots for moral and medical purposes. He was very particular as to time and place when he went out to collect his remedies, and some things he would not touch unless he found them growing in the corner of a churchyard—or perhaps under a gallows—and other plants he never gathered unless the moon was in its first quarter, and there was a yellow streak in the northwest, about a half-hour after sunset. He had some herbs which he said were good for chills and fever; others which made children obedient; others which caused an old man's gray hair to turn black and his teeth to grow again—if he only took it long enough; and he had, besides, remedies which would cure chickens that had the pip, horses that kicked, old women with the rheumatism, dogs that howled at the moon, boys who played truant, and cats that stole milk.

Now, to our enlightened minds it is very evident that this Hans was nothing more than an old simpleton; but it is very doubtful if he thought so himself, and it is certain that his neighbors did not. They resorted to him on all occasions when things went wrong with them, whether it was the butter that would not come in their churns, or their little babies who had fevers.

Therefore, you may be sure that Dame Martha sent for Hans as soon as she was taken ill, and for about a year or so she had been using his herbs, making plasters of his roots, putting little shells that he brought under her pillow, and powwowing three times a day over bunches of dried weeds ornamented with feathers from the tails of yellow hens that had died of old age. But all that Hans, could do for her was of no manner of use. In vain he went out at night with his lantern, and gathered leaves and roots in the most particular way. Whether the moon was full or on the wane; whether the tail of the Great Dipper was above the steeple of the old church, or whether it had not yet risen as high as the roof; whether the bats flew to the east or the west when he first saw them; or whether the Jack o'lanterns sailed near the ground (when they were carried by a little Jack), or whether they were high (when a tall Jack bore them), it made no difference. His herbs were powerless, and Dame Martha did not get well.

About half a mile from the widow's cottage there lived a young girl named Patsey Moore. She was the daughter of the village Squire, and a prettier girl or a better one than Patsey is not often met with. When she heard of Dame Martha's illness she sometimes used to stop at the cottage on her way to school, and leave with her some nice little thing that a sick person might like to eat.

One day in spring, when the fields were full of blossoms and the air full of sunshine and delicious odors, Patsey stopped on her way from school to gather a bunch of wild-flowers.

They grew so thickly and there were so many different kinds, that she soon had a bouquet that was quite fit for a parlor. On her way home she stopped at Dame Martha's cottage.

"I am sorry, Dame Martha," said she, "that I have nothing nice for you to-day, but I thought perhaps you would like to have some flowers, as it's Spring-time and you can't go out."



"Indeed, Miss Patsey," said the sick woman, "you could'nt have brought me anything that would do my heart more good. It's like hearing the birds sing and sittin' under the hedges in the blossoms, to hear you talk and to see them flowers."

Patsey was very much pleased, of course, at this, and after that she brought Dame Martha a bouquet every day.

And soon the good woman looked for Patsey and her beautiful flowers as longingly and eagerly as she looked for the rising of the sun.

Old Hans very seldom came to see her now, and she took no more of his medicines. It was of no use, and she had paid him every penny that she had to spare, besides a great many other things in the way of little odds and ends that lay about the house. But when Patsey stopped in, one afternoon, a month or two after she had brought the first bunch of flowers, she said to the widow:

"Dame Martha, I believe you are a great deal better."

"Better!" said the good woman, "I'll tell you what it is, Miss Patsey, I've been a thinking over the matter a deal for the last week, and I've been a-trying my appetite, and a-trying my eyes, and a-trying how I could walk about, and work, and sew, and I just tell you what it is, Miss Patsey, I'm well!"

And so it was. The widow was well, and nobody could see any reason for it, except good Dame Martha herself. She always persisted that it was those beautiful bunches of flowers that Patsey had brought her every day.

"Oh, Miss Patsey!" she said, "If you'd been a-coming to me with them violets and buttercups, instead of old Hans with his nasty bitter yarbs, I'd a been off that bed many a day ago. There was nothing but darkness, and the shadows of tomb-stones, and the damp smells of the lonely bogs about his roots and his leaves. But there was the heavenly sunshine in your flowers, Miss Patsey, and I could smell the sweet fields, when I looked at them, and hear the hum of the bees!"

It may be that Dame Martha gave a little too much credit to Patsey's flowers, but I am not at all sure about it. Certain it is, that the daily visits of a bright young girl, with her heart full of kindness and sympathy, and her hands full of flowers from the fragrant fields, would be far more welcome and of far more advantage to many sick chambers than all the old herb-gatherers in the world, with their bitter, grave-yard roots, and their rank, evil-smelling plants that grow down in the swamps among the frogs and snakes.

Perhaps you know some sick person. Try Patsey's treatment.



SOME CUNNING INSECTS.



We hear such wonderful stories about the sense and ingenuity displayed by insects, that we are almost led to the belief that some of them must have a little reason—at least as much as a few men and women that we know.

Of all, these wise insects, there is none with more intelligence and cunning than the ant. How many astonishing accounts have we had of these little creatures, who in some countries build great houses, almost large enough for a man to live in; who have a regular form of government, and classes of society—soldiers, workers, gentlemen and ladies; and who, as some naturalists have declared, even have handsome funerals on the occasion of the death of a queen! It is certain that they build, and work, and pursue their various occupations according to systems that are wisely conceived and most carefully carried out.



Dr. Ebrard, who wrote a book about ants and their habits, tells a story of a little black ant who was building an arch at the foundation of a new ant-hill. It was necessary to have some means of supporting this arch, which was made of wet mud, until the key-stone should be put in and all made secure. The ant might have put up a couple of props, but this is not their habit in building. Their laws say nothing about props. But the arch must be supported, and so Mr. Ant thought that it would be a good idea to bend down a tall stalk of wheat which grew near the hill, and make it support the arch until it was finished. This he did by carrying bits of wet mud up to the end of the stalk until he had piled and stuck so much upon it that the heavy top bent over. But, as this was not yet low enough, and more mud could not be put on the slender stem without danger of breaking it, the ant crammed mud in between the stalk at its root and the other stalks, so that it was forced over still more. Then he used the lowered end to support his arch!



Some other ants once found a cockchafer's wing, which they thought would be a capital thing to dry for winter, and they endeavored to get it into the entrance of their hill. But it was too big. So they drew it out and made the hole larger. Then they tried again, but the wing was still too wide. They turned it and made several efforts to get it in sideways, and upside down, but it was impossible; so they lifted it away, and again enlarged the hole. But the wing would not yet go in. Without losing patience, they once more went to work, and, after having labored for three hours and a half, they at last had the pleasure of seeing their dried wing safely pulled into their store-room.



Then, there are spiders. They frequently show the greatest skill and cunning in the construction of their webs and the capture of their prey, and naturalists say that the spider has a very well developed brain. They must certainly have a geometrical talent, or they could not arrange their webs with such regularity and scientific accuracy. Some spiders will throw their webs across streams that are quite wide.

Now, to do this, they must show themselves to be engineers of no small ability. Sometimes they fasten one end of a thread to a twig on one side of the stream, and, hanging on the other end, swing over until they can land on the other side. But this is not always possible, for they cannot, in some places, get a chance for a fair swing. In such a case, they often wait until the wind is blowing across the stream from the side on which they are, and, weaving a long line, they let it out until the wind carries it over the stream, and it catches in the bushes or grass on the other side. Of course, after one thread is over, the spider can easily run backward and forward on it, and carry over all the rest of his lines.



Bees have so much sense that we ought almost to beg their pardon when we speak of their instinct. Most of us have read what Huber and others have told us of their plans, inventions, laws, and regular habits. It is astonishing to read of a bee-supervisor, going the round of the cells where the larvae are lying, to see if each of them has enough food. He never stops until he has finished his review, and then he makes another circuit, depositing in each cell just enough food—a little in this one, a great deal in the next, and so on.

There were once some bees who were very much disturbed by a number of great moths who made a practice of coming into their hives and stealing their honey. Do what they could, the bees could not drive these strong creatures out.

But they soon hit upon a plan to save their honey. They blocked up all the doors of the hive with wax, leaving only a little hole, just big enough for one bee to enter at a time. Then the moths were completely dumbfounded, and gave up the honey business in despair.

But the insect to which the epithet of cunning may be best ascribed, is, I think, the flea. If you doubt this, try to catch one. What double backsprings he will turn, what fancy dodges he will execute, and how, at last, you will have to give up the game and acknowledge yourself beaten by this little gymnast!



But fleas have been taught to perform their tricks of strength and activity in an orderly and highly proper manner. They have been trained to go through military exercises, carrying little sticks for guns; to work and pull about small cannon, although the accounts say nothing about their firing them off; and, what seems the most wonderful of all, two fleas have been harnessed to a little coach while another one sat on the box and drove! The whole of this wonderful exhibition was so small that a microscope had to be used in order to properly observe it.

The last instance of the intelligence of insects which I will give is something almost too wonderful to believe, and yet the statement is made by a Dr. Lincecum, who studied the habits of the insect in question for twelve years, and his investigations were published in the Journal of the Linnaean Society. Dr. Lincecum says, that in Texas there is an ant called by him the Agricultural Ant, which not only lays up stores of grain, but prepares the soil for the crop; plants the seed (of a certain plant called ant-rice); keeps the ground free from weeds; and finally reaps the harvest, and separating the chaff from the grain, packs away the latter, and throws the chaff outside of the plantation. In "Wood's Bible Animals" you can read a full account of this ant, and I think that after hearing of its exploits, we can believe almost anything that we hear about the intelligence of insects.



A FIRST SIGHT OF THE SEA.



If you have ever seen the ocean, you will understand what a grand thing it is to look for the first time upon its mighty waters, stretching away into the distance, and losing themselves in the clouds and sky. We know it is thousands of miles over to the other shore, but for all that we have a pretty good idea of that shore. We know its name, and have read about the people who live there.

But when, in the beginning of the sixteenth century, Vasco Nunez de Balboa stood upon the shore of the Pacific, and gazed over its boundless waters, the sight to him was both grand and mysterious. He saw that a vast sea lay beneath and before him—but that was all he knew. Europeans had not visited it before, and the Indians, who had acted as his guides, knew but little about it. If he had desired to sail across those vast blue waters, Balboa would have had no idea upon what shores he would land or what wonderful countries and continents he would discover.

Now-a-days, any school-boy could tell that proud, brave soldier, what lay beyond those billows. Supposing little Johnny Green (we all know him, don't we?) had been there, how quickly he would have settled matters for the Spanish chieftain.

"Ah, Mr. Balboa," Johnny would have said, "you want to know what lies off in that direction—straight across? Well, I can tell you, sir. If you are standing, as I think you are, on a point of the Isthmus of Darien, where you can look directly westward, you may cast your eyes, as far as they will go, over a body of water, which, at this point, is about eleven thousand miles wide. No wonder you jump, sir, but such is the fact. If you were to sail directly west upon this ocean you would have a very long passage before you came upon any land at all, and the first place which you would reach, if you kept straight on your westward course, would be the Mulgrave Islands. But you would have passed about seven or eight hundred miles to the southward of the Sandwich Islands, which are a very important group, where there is an enormous volcano, and where Captain Cook will be killed in about two hundred and fifty years. If you then keep on, you will pass among the Caroline Islands, which your countrymen will claim some day; and if you are not eaten up by the natives, who will no doubt coax you to land on some of their islands and will then have you for supper, you will at last reach the Philippine Islands, and will probably land, for a time, at Mindanao, to get water and things. Then, if you still keep on, you will pass to the north of a big island, which is Borneo, and will sail right up to the first land to the west, which will be part of a continent; or else you will go down around a peninsula, which lies directly in your course, and sail upon the other side of it, into a great gulf, and land anywhere you please. Do you know where you will be then, Mr. Balboa? Don't, eh? Well, sir, you would be just where Columbus hoped he would be, when he reached the end of his great voyage across the Atlantic—in the Indies! Yes, sir, all among the gold, and ivory, and spices, and elephants and other things!

"If you can get any ships here and will start off and steer carefully among the islands, you won't find anything in your way until you get there. But, it was different with Columbus, you see, sir. He had a whole continent blocking up his road to the Indies; but, for my part, I'm very glad, for various reasons, that it happened so."



It is probable that if Johnny Green could have delivered this little speech, that Vasco Nunez de Balboa would have been one of the most astonished men in the world!

Whether he and his fellow-adventurers would ever have set out to sail over those blue waters, in search of the treasures of the East, is more than I can say, but it is certain that if he had started off on such an expedition, he would have found things pretty much as Johnny Green had told him.



THE LARGEST CHURCH IN THE WORLD.



This is St. Peter's at Rome. Is it possible to look upon such a magnificent edifice without acknowledging it as the grandest of all churches? There are some others in the world more beautiful, and some more architecturally perfect; but there is none so vast, so impressive, so grand!

This great building was commenced in 1506, but it was a century and a half before it was finished. Among other great architects, Michael Angelo assisted in its construction. The building is estimated to have cost, simply for its erection, about fifty millions of dollars, and it has cost a great deal in addition in later years.

Its dimensions are enormous. You cannot understand what a great building it is unless you could see it side by side with some house or church with which you are familiar. Several of the largest churches in this country could be stood up inside of St. Peter's without touching walls or roof, or crowding each other in the least.



There are but three works of man in the whole world which are higher than the little knob which you see on the cupola surmounting the great dome of St. Peter's. These more lofty buildings are the Great Pyramid of Egypt, the Spire of Strasbourg, and the Tower of Amiens. The highest of these, the pyramid, is, however, only forty-two feet above St. Peter's. The great dome is supported by four pillars, each of which is seventy feet thick!

But let us step inside of this great edifice. I think you will be there even more impressed with its height and extent than you were when you stood on the outside.

Is not here a vast and lofty expanse? But even from this favorable point you cannot get a complete view of the interior. In front of you, you see in the distance the light striking down from above. There is the great dome, and when you walk beneath it you will be amazed at its enormous height. There are four great halls like this one directly before us, for the church is built in the form of a cross, with the dome at the intersection of the arms. There are also openings in various directions, which lead into what are called chapels, but which are in reality as large as ordinary sized churches.

The pavement of the whole edifice is made of colored marble, and, as you see, the interior is heavily decorated with carving and statuary. Much of this is bronze and gold.

But if you should mount (and there are stairs by which you may make the ascent) into the cupola at the top of the dome, and look down into the vast church, and see the people crawling about like little insects so far below you, you would perhaps understand better than at any other time that it is not at all surprising that this church should be one of the wonders of the world.

If we ever go to Europe, we must not fail to see St. Peter's Church at Rome.



THE SOFT PLACE.

There was once a young Jaguar (he was very intimately related to the Panther family, as you may remember), and he sat upon a bit of hard rock, and cogitated. The subject of his reflections was very simple indeed, for it was nothing more nor less than this—where should he get his supper?

He would not have cared so much for his supper, if it had been that he had had no dinner, and even this would not have made so much difference if he had had his breakfast. But in truth he had eaten nothing all day.

During the summer of that year the meat-markets in that section of the country were remarkably bad. It was sometimes difficult for a panther or a wildcat to find enough food to keep her family at all decently, and there were cases of great destitution. In years before there had been plenty of deer, wild turkey, raccoons, and all sorts of good things, but they were very scarce now. This was not the first time that our young Jaguar had gone hungry for a whole day.

While he thus sat, wondering where he should go to get something to eat, he fell asleep, and had a dream. And this is what he dreamed.

He dreamed that he saw on the grass beneath the rock where he was lying five fat young deer. Three of them were sisters, and the other two were cousins. They were discussing the propriety of taking a nap on the grass by the river-bank, and one of them had already stretched herself out. "Now," thought the Jaguar in his dream, "shall I wait until they all go to sleep, and then pounce down softly and kill them all, or shall I spring on that one on the ground and make sure of a good supper at any rate?" While he was thus deliberating in his mind which it would be best for him to do, the oldest cousin cocked up her ears as if she heard something, and just as the Jaguar was going to make a big spring and get one out of the family before they took to their heels, he woke up!



What a dreadful disappointment! Not a deer, or a sign of one, to be seen, and nothing living within a mile. But no! There is something moving! It is—yes, it is a big Alligator, lying down there on the rocks! After looking for a few minutes with disgust at the ugly creature, the Jaguar said to himself, "He must have come on shore while I was asleep. But what matters it! An Alligator! Very different indeed from five fat young deer! Ah me! I wish he had not that great horny skin, and I'd see if I could make a supper off of him. Let me see! There is a soft place, as I've been told, about the alligator! If I could but manage and get a grip of that, I think that I could settle old Mr. Hardskin, in spite of his long teeth. I've a mind and a half to try. Yes, I'll do it!"



So saying, the Jaguar settled himself down as flat as he could and crept a little nearer to the Alligator, and then, with a tremendous spring, he threw himself upon him. The Alligator was asleep, but his nap came to a very sudden close, you may be sure, and he opened his eyes and his mouth both at the same time. But he soon found that he would have to bestir himself in a very lively manner, for a strong and hungry Jaguar had got hold of him. It had never before entered into the Alligator's head that anybody would want to eat him, but he did not stop to think about this, but immediately went to work to defend himself with all his might. He lashed his great tail around, he snapped his mighty jaws at his enemy, and he made the dust fly generally. But it all seemed of little use. The Jaguar had fixed his teeth in a certain soft place in his chest, under his fore-leg, and there he hung on like grim death. The Alligator could not get at him with his tail, nor could he turn his head around so as to get a good bite.

The Alligator had been in a hard case all his life, but he really thought that this surprising conduct of the Jaguar was something worse than anything he had ever been called upon to bear.

"Does he really think, I wonder," said the Alligator to himself, "that he is going to have me for his supper?"

It certainly looked very much as if Mr. Jaguar had that idea, and as if he would be able to carry out his intention, for he was so charmed at having discovered the soft place of which he had so often been told that he resolved never to let go until his victim was dead; and in the midst of the struggle he could not but regret that he had never thought of hunting Alligators before.

As it may well be imagined, the Alligator soon began to be very tired of this sort of thing. He could do nothing at all to damage his antagonist, and the Jaguar hurt him, keeping his teeth jammed into the very tenderest spot in his whole body. So he came to the conclusion that, if he could do nothing else, he would go home. If the Jaguar chose to follow him, he could not help it, of course. So, gradually, he pulled himself, Jaguar and all, down to the river, and, as the banks sloped quite suddenly at this place, he soon plunged into deep water, with his bloodthirsty enemy still hanging fiercely to him.

As soon as he found himself in the water, the Alligator rolled himself over and got on top. Then they both sank down, and there was nothing seen on the surface of the water but bubbles.

The fight did not last very long after this, but the Jaguar succeeded perfectly in his intentions. He found a soft place—in the mud at the bottom of the river—and he stayed there.



A FEW FEATHERED FRIENDS.



Whether dressed in broadcloth, silk, calico, home-spun, or feathers, friends are such valuable possessions that we must pay these folks who are now announced as much attention as possible. And if we do this and in every way endeavor to make them feel comfortable and entirely at home, we will soon perceive a very great difference between them and many of our friends who dress in coats and frocks. For the more we do for our feathered friends, the more they will do for us. Now, you can't say that of all the men and women and boys and girls that you know. I wish most sincerely that you could.

The first family who calls upon us (and the head of this family makes the very earliest calls that I know anything about) are too well known to all of us to need the slightest introduction. You will see in an instant that you have met them before.

And there is no doubt but that these are among the very best feathered friends we have. Those hens are liberal with their eggs, and those little chickens that are running around like two-legged puff-balls, are so willing to grow up and be broiled and roasted and stewed, that it would now be almost impossible for us to do without them. Eggs seem to come into use on so many occasions that, if there was to be an egg-famine, it would make itself felt in every family in the land. Not only would we miss them when boiled, fried, and cooked in omelets for breakfast; not only without them would ham seem lonely, puddings and sponge-cakes go into decline, and pound-cake utterly die, but the arts and manufactures of the whole country would feel the deprivation. Merely in the photographic business hundreds of thousands of eggs are needed every year, from which to procure the albumen used in the preparation of photographic paper.



Do without eggs? Impossible.

And to do without "chicken" for dinner would seem almost as impossible for some folks. To be sure, we might live along very comfortably without those delightful broils, and roasts, and fricassees, but it would be a great pity. And, if we live in the country, there is no meat which is so cheap and easily procured all the year round as chicken. I wonder what country-people would do, especially in the summer time, when they have little other fresh meat, without their chickens. Very badly, I imagine.

Next to these good old friends comes the pigeon family. These are very intimate with many of us.



Pigeons are in one respect even more closely associated with man than the domestic fowls, because they live with him as readily in cities as in the country. City chickens always seem out of place, but city pigeons are as much at home as anybody else. There are few houses so small that there is not room somewhere for a pigeon-box, and there are no roofs or yards so humble that the handsomest and proudest "pouters" and "tumblers" and "fan-tails" will not willingly come and strut and coo about them as long as they receive good treatment and plenty of food.

But apart from the pleasure and profit which these beautiful birds ordinarily afford to their owners, some of them—the carriers—are often of the greatest value, and perform important business that would have to be left undone if it were not for them. The late war in France has fully proved this. I remember hearing persons say that now, since telegraph lines had become so common, they supposed carrier-pigeons would no longer be held in esteem, and that the breed would be suffered to die out.



But that is a mistake. There are times, especially during wars, when telegraphic and railroad lines are utterly useless, and then the carrier-pigeon remains master of the situation.

The doves are such near relations of the pigeons that we might suppose they would resemble them in their character as much as in appearance. But they are not very much alike. Doves are not ambitious; they don't pout, or tumble, or have fan-tails. As to carrying messages, or doing anything to give themselves renown, they never think of it. They are content to be affectionate and happy.

And that is a great deal. If they did nothing all their lives but set examples to children (and to their parents also, sometimes), the doves would be among our most useful little birds.



I suppose we all have some friends whom we are always glad to see, even if they are of no particular service to us. And this is right; we should not value people's society in exact proportion to what we think we can get out of them. Now, the swan is a feathered friend, and a good one, but I must say he is of very little practical use to us. But there is something more to be desired than victuals, clothes, feather-beds, and Easter-eggs. We should love the beautiful as well as the useful. Not so much, to be sure, but still very much. The boy or man who despises a rose because it is not a cabbage is much more nearly related to the cows and hogs than he imagines. If we accustom ourselves to look for beauty, and enjoy it, we will find it, after awhile, where we never supposed it existed—in the caterpillar, for instance, and in the snakes. There is beauty as well as practical value in almost everything around us, and we are not the lords of creation that we suppose we are, unless we are able to see it.

Now, then, I have preached you a little sermon, with the swans for a text. But they are certainly beautiful subjects.

A goose, when it is swimming, is a very handsome bird, and it is most admirable when it appears on the table roasted of a delightful brown, with a dish of apple-sauce to keep it company. But, for some reason, the goose has never been treated with proper consideration. It has for hundreds of years, I expect, been considered as a silly bird. But there never was a greater mistake. If we looked at the thing in the proper light, we would not be at all ashamed to be called a goose. If any one were to call you an ostrich, I don't believe you would be very angry, but in reality it would be much more of an insult than to call you a goose, for an ostrich at times is a very silly bird.

But geese have been known to do as many sensible things as any feathered creatures of which we know anything. I am not going to say anything about the geese which saved Rome, for we have no record that they intended to do anything of the kind; but I will instance the case of a goose which belonged to an old blind woman, who lived in Germany.

Every Sunday these two friends used to go to church together, the goose carefully leading the old woman by her frock.

When they reached the church, the goose would lead his mistress to her seat and then go outside and eat grass until the services were over. When the people began to come out the goose would go in, and, taking the old woman in charge, would lead her home. At other times also he was the companion of her walks, and her family knew that old blind Grandmother was all right if she had the goose with her when she went out.



There was another goose, in a town in Scotland, who had a great attachment for a young gentleman to whom she belonged. She would follow him in his walks about the town, and always testified her delight when she saw him start for a ramble.

When he went into a barber's shop to be shaved, she would wait on the pavement until he came out; and in many of his visits she accompanied him, very decorously remaining outside while her master was enjoying the society of his friends.



Ducks, too, have been known to exhibit sociable and friendly traits. There is a story told of a drake who once came into a room where a young lady was sitting, and approaching her, caught hold of her dress with his bill and commenced to pull vigorously at it. The lady was very much surprised at this performance, and tried to drive the drake away. But he would neither depart or stop tugging at her dress, and she soon perceived that he wanted her to do something for him. So she rose from her chair, and the drake immediately began to lead her towards the door. When he had conducted her out on to the lawn, he led her to a little lake near the house, and there she saw what it was that troubled Mr. Drake. A duck, very probably his wife, had been swimming in the lake, and in poking her head about, she had caught her neck in the narrow opening of a sluice-gate and there she was, fast and tight. The lady lifted the gate, Mrs. Duck drew out her head and went quacking away, while Mr. Drake testified his delight and gratitude by flapping his wings and quacking at the top of his voice.



We have also friends among the feathered tribes, who are not quite so intimate and sociable as those to which we have already alluded, but which still are very well deserving of our friendship and esteem. For instance, what charming little companions are the canary-birds! To be sure, they would not often stay with us, if we did not confine them in cages; but they seem perfectly at home in their little wire houses, and sing and twitter with as much glee as if they were flying about in the woods of their native land—or rather, of the native land of their forefathers, for most of our canary-birds were born in the midst of civilization and in cages.



There are some birds, however, no bigger than canaries, which seem to have an attachment for their masters and mistresses, and which do not need the restraint of a cage. There was once a gold-finch which belonged to a gentleman who lived in a town in Picardy, France, but who was often obliged to go to Paris, where he also had apartments. Whenever he was obliged to go to the great city, his gold-finch would fly on ahead of him, and, arriving there some time in advance of the carriage, the servants would know that their master was coming, in time to have the rooms ready for him. And when the gentleman drove up to the door he would generally see his little gold-finch sitting on the finger of a cook or a chamber-maid, and twittering away as if he was endeavoring to inform the good people of all the incidents of the journey.

Some of these little birds, however, which are very friendly and comparatively sociable as long as they are not troubled and annoyed, are not only able to distinguish their friends from their foes, but are very apt to stand up vigorously in defence of their rights. Those little sparrows, which hop about so cunningly in the streets of many of our cities, understand very well that no one will hurt them, and that they may pick up crumbs wherever they can find them. But let a few boys get into the habit of throwing sticks and stones at them, and the little things will leave that neighborhood as quickly as if the rents of all their tiny houses had been raised beyond their means.



Magpies, too, are very companionable in their own way, if they are well treated; but if a boy should undertake to steal away with one of their nests, when it was full of young ones, he would run a very great risk of having his eyes picked out.

There is a feathered friend of ours who keeps himself so secluded, at least during the day-time, that he is very apt to escape our notice. I refer to the owl.

It may not be supposed, by some, that the owl is a friend of mankind, and I am perfectly willing to admit that very often he acts very much like an enemy, especially when he kills our young chickens and turkeys. But for all that, he has his good points, and very often behaves in a commendable manner. If you have a barn or a house that is overrun with mice, there is nothing that will be more certain to drive them out than an owl. And he will not be so apt to steal your milk or kill your canary as many of the cats which you have taken into your family without a recommendation.



We once had an owl living in our house. He belonged to my young brother, who caught him in a trap, I believe. All day long, this solemn little fellow (for he was a small brown one), would sit on the back of a chair, or some such convenient place, and if any of us came near him, he would turn his head and look at us, although he could not see very well in the day-time; and if we walked behind him, or on different sides of him, he would always keep his eyes on us, turning his head around exactly as if it was set on a pivot.

It was astonishing how easily he could turn his head without moving his body. Some folks told us that if we walked around and around him, he would turn and turn his head, until he twisted it off, but we never tried that.

It was really astonishing how soon the mice found out that there was an owl in the house. He had the range of a great part of the house all night, and in a very short time he had driven every mouse away. And the first time he found a window open, he went away himself. There is that objection to owls, as mousers. They are very good so long as they will hold the situation, but they are exceedingly apt to leave without giving the family any notice. You won't find a cat doing that. The trouble with her very often is that she will not go when you give her notice to leave.

When we speak of our feathered friends, it is hardly fair to exclude all but those which are domesticated with us, or which are willing, sometimes, to come and live in our houses. In the country, and very often in towns, our homes are surrounded, at certain seasons, by beautiful birds, that flutter and twitter about in the trees, and sing most charmingly in the bright hours of the early morning, making the spring-time and the summer tenfold more delightful than they would be without them. These birds ask nothing of us but a few cherries or berries now and then, and they pay well for these by picking up the worms and grubs from our gardens.

I think that these little warblers and twitterers, who fill the air with their songs and frolic about on the trees and bushes, who build their nests under our eaves and in any little box that we may put up for them, who come regularly back to us every spring, although they may have been hundreds of miles away during the cold weather, and who have chosen, of their own accord, to live around our houses and to sing in our trees and bushes, ought to be called our friends, as much as the fowls in our poultry-yards.



IN A WELL.

Perhaps very few of you have ever seen such an old-fashioned well as this. No pump, no windlass, no arrangement that you are apt to call at all convenient for raising the water. Nothing but that upright stake, on top of which moves a long pole, with the bucket hanging from one end of it. But the artist does not show in the picture the most important part of this arrangement. On the other end of this long pole a heavy stone is fastened, and it is easy to see that a bucket of water may be raised without much trouble, with the stone bearing down the other end of the pole. To be sure, the stone must be raised when the bucket is lowered, but that is done by pulling downward on the rope, which is not so hard as to haul a rope upward when the resistance is equal in both cases. Try it some time, and you will see that the weight of your body will count for a great deal in the operation. In old Mr. Naylor's yard—he lived in a little town in Pennsylvania—there was one of these wells. It had been dug by his father, and, as it had answered all his needs from his childhood, Mr. Naylor very justly considered it would continue to do so until his death, and he would listen to no one who proposed to put up a pump for him, or make him a windlass.

One afternoon in the summer-time, Jenny Naylor, his granddaughter, had company, and after they had been playing around the orchard for an hour or two, and had slid down the straw-stacks to their heart's content, the children all went to the well to get a drink. A bucket of water was soon hauled up, and Tommy Barrett with a tin-cup ladled out the refreshment to the company. When they had all drank enough they began to play with the well-pole. Boys and girls will play, you know, with things that no grown person would imagine could be tortured into means of amusement. In less than five minutes they had invented a game. That is, the boys had. I will give the girls the credit of standing by and looking on, in a very disapproving manner, while this game was going on. The pastime was a very simple one. When the stone-end of the pole rested on the ground, on account of the bucket being empty, one of the boys stood by the well-curb, and, seizing the rope as high up as he could, pulled upon it, the other boys lifting the stone-end at the same time. When the stone was a foot or two from the ground the boys at that end sat on the pole and endeavored to hoist up the fellow at the other end.

A glorious game!

The sport went on very nicely until Tommy Barrett took hold of the rope. He was the biggest boy, and the little fellows could not raise him. No, it was no use, so they gave it up and jumped off of the pole.

But what was their amazement to see the stone rise in the air, while at the same time Tommy Barrett disappeared down the well!

The fact was, Tommy had been trying to "show off" a little before the girls, and when he found the boys could not raise him, had stepped on the well-curb, and pushing the bucket off, had stood on it, trying, on his part, to raise the boys. So, when they jumped off, down he sank. The stone was not nearly so heavy as Tommy, but it was weighty enough to prevent his going down very fast, and he arrived safely at the bottom, where the boys and girls saw him, when they crowded around the well, standing up to his arm-pits in water.

"Pull me up, quick!" cried Tommy, who still stood on the bucket, and had hold of the rope.

The children did not wait to be asked twice. They seized the rope and pulled their very best. But they could not move Tommy one inch. The rope hung right down the middle of the well, and as they had to reach over a good deal even to touch it, they could get no opportunity of exerting their full strength upon it. And it is very well that they could not, for had they been able to raise Tommy, it is probable that one or two of them would have been jerked down the well every time he slipped down again, which he would have been certain to do a great many times before he reached the top.

They soon perceived that they could not draw Tommy from the well in that way. And the stone-end of the pole was far out of their reach. What should they do?

There was no one at the house but the two old people, and they were scarcely as strong as the children. They all said a great deal, but Jenny Naylor, who was much older than any of the others, saw that something must be done instantly, for Tommy was crying out that he was nearly frozen to death, and she was afraid that he would let go of the rope, slip off of the bucket, and be drowned.

So, without a word to anybody, she ran to the upright stake and began to climb it. This was a very unlady-like proceeding, perhaps, but Jenny did not think about anything of that kind. She was the oldest and the largest of them all, and there was no time to explain matters to the boys. Up she went, as actively as any boy, and scrambling to the crotch of the stake, she seated herself upon the pole.

Then she began to work herself slowly up towards the stone-end. And as she gradually approached the stone, so she gradually began to sink a little, and the nearer she got to it the more she sank and the higher Tommy Barrett rose in the well!

She and the stone were heavier than he was, and some of the children stood, with open mouths, looking at Jenny slowly coming down, while the others crowded around the well to see Tommy slowly coming up.

When Jenny had nearly touched the ground, there was Tommy hanging above the well!

Half a dozen little hands seized the bucket, and Tommy, as wet as a dish-rag, stepped on to the curb.

I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that whenever there is a party of children, playing around an open well, that there could be a girl like Jenny Naylor with them.



A VEGETABLE GAS MANUFACTORY.



There is a plant, called by botanists the Fraxinella, which has the peculiar property of giving out, from its leaves and stalks, a gas which is inflammable. Sometimes, on a very still day, when there is no wind to blow it away as fast as it is produced, this gas may be ignited by a match, when the plant is growing in the open air. But this is very seldom the case, for the air must be very quiet, and the plant very productive, for enough gas to be found around it to ignite when a flame is applied.

But it is perfectly possible, as you may see in the engraving, to collect sufficient gas from the Fraxinella to produce combustion whenever desired. If the plant is surrounded by a glass case, the gas, as fast as produced, is confined in the case, and at last there is so much collected in this novel gasometer, that it is only necessary to open the case, and apply a match, to see plant-gas burning.

It is not at all probable that the least use in the world could be made of this gas, but it is certainly a very pretty experiment to collect and ignite it.

There are other plants which have this property of exuding illuminating gas in very small quantities, but none, I believe, except the Fraxinella, will produce enough of it to allow this experiment to be performed.



A FEW WORDS ABOUT BEARS.



If you should ever be going up a hill, and should meet such a procession as that on the opposite page, coming down, I would recommend you to get just as far to one side as you can possibly go. Bears, especially when there are so many of them together, are by no means pleasant companions in a walk.

But it is likely that you might wander about the world for the rest of your lives, and never meet so many bears together as you see in the engraving. They are generally solitary animals, and unless you happened to fall in with a mother and her cubs, you would not be likely to see more than one at a time.

In our own country, in the unsettled parts of many of the States, the black bear is still quite common; and I could tell you of places where, if you pushed carefully up mountain-paths and through lonely forests, you might come upon a fine black bear, sitting at the entrance of her cave, with two or three of her young ones playing about her.

If it should so happen that the bear neither heard you, saw you, or smelt you, you might see this great beast fondling her young ones, and licking their fur as gently and tenderly as a cat with her kittens.

If she perceived you at last, and you were at a distance, it is very probable that she and her young ones, if they were big enough, would all scramble out of sight in a very short time, for the black bears are very shy of man if circumstances will permit them to get away before he approaches too near to them. But if you are so near as to make the old bear-mother fearful for the safety of her children, you will find that she will face you in a minute, and if you are not well able to take care of yourself, you will wish you had never seen a bear.



But, in the western part of our country, especially in the Rocky Mountain region, the grizzly bear is found, and he is a very different animal from his black relations.

He is the most savage and formidable animal on this continent, and very seldom is it that he runs away from a man. He is glad enough to get a chance to fight one. He is so large and powerful that he is very difficult to kill, and the hunter who has slain a grizzly bear may well be proud of the exploit.

Washington Irving tells of a hunter who accidentally fell into a deep hole, out in the prairies, and he tumbled right on top of a great grizzly bear! How the bear got down there is not stated, and I don't suppose the hunter stopped to inquire. A fight immediately commenced between these two involuntary companions, and after a long struggle, in which the man had an arm and leg broken, and was severely bitten and torn besides, he killed the bear.

The hunter had a very hard time after that, but after passing through adventures of various kinds, he floated down the Mississippi on a log and was taken in at a fort. He recovered, but was maimed for life.



I think it is probable that no other man ever killed a grizzly bear in single combat, and I also have my doubts about this one having done so. It is very likely that his victim was a black bear.

Few men care to hunt the grizzly bear except on horseback, so that if they have to run away, they may have better legs than their own under them.

The other great bear of this continent is the white or Polar bear, of which we have all heard so much. Up in the regions of ice and snow this bear lives just as comfortably as the tiger in the hot jungles of Asia, and while he is not quite so savage as the tiger, he is almost as hard to kill. But, in speaking of his disposition, I have no intention whatever to give him a character for amiability. In fact, he is very ferocious at times. He has often been known to attack parties of men, and when wounded can make a most soul-stirring defence.

The Polar bear is a big fellow, with long white hair, and he lives on seals and fish, and almost anything he can pick up. Sometimes he takes a fancy to have a man or two for his supper, as the following story will prove.

A ship, returning from Nova Zembla, anchored near an island in the Arctic Ocean, and two of the sailors went on land. They were standing on the shore, talking to each other, when one of them cried out, "Stop squeezing me!"

The other one looked around, and there was a white bear, very large but very lean and scraggy, which had sneaked up behind the sailors, and now had clutched one of them, whom he very speedily killed and commenced to eat, while the other sailor ran away.

The whole crew of the ship now landed, and came after the bear, endeavoring to drive him away from the body of their comrade; but as they approached him, he quietly looked at them for a minute, and then jumped right into the middle of the crowd, seized another man, and killed him. Upon this, the crew ran away as fast as they could, and scuttling into their boats, rowed away to the ship.

There were three of these sailors, however, who were too brave to stay there and see a bear devouring the bodies of their friends, and they returned to the island.

The bear did not move as they approached him, and they fired on him, without seeming to injure him in the least. At length one of them stepped up quite close to him, and put a ball into his head just above his eye.



But even this did not kill him, although it is probable that it lessened his vigor, for he soon began to stagger, and the sailors, falling upon him with their swords, were able to put him to death, and to rescue the remains of their comrades.

After these stories, I think that we will all agree that when we meet a procession of bears, be they black, white, or grizzly, we will be very wise to give them the right of way, and to endeavor to drive from our minds, as far as possible, such ideas of the animals as we may have derived from those individuals which we have seen in rural menageries, nimbly climbing poles, or sedately drinking soda-water.



AN OLD COUNTRY-HOUSE.



Here is a picture of a handsome summer residence. It apparently belongs to a rich man, and a man of taste. The house is large and commodious; the grounds are well laid out; there is a garden, evidently a fine one, close at hand; there is shade, water, fruit, flowers, and apparently everything that a country-house ought to have.

But yet there is a certain something strange and unusual about it.

There are handsome porticos, but they are differently arranged from those to which we have been accustomed. Such as those in front we have often seen; but the upper one, which appears to go nearly around the house, with short pillars on the sides, is different from anything that we see in our country neighborhoods. Those long pillars at the rear of the house seem very peculiar. We have never noticed anything like them in such positions. There seems to be scarcely any portico at the back, and those slim pillars are certainly useless, and, to our eyes, not very ornamental. The windows, too, are remarkable. They are not only very small, but they are wider at the bottom than the top—a strange idea of the architect to make them in that way. The upper story of the house does not appear to have any windows at all, but we suppose that they must be in the back and front, or the artist may have accidentally left them out. Even if that floor was used for lumber-rooms, there ought to be windows.

The garden has a very high wall for a private estate. It is evident that there must be great fear of thieves in that neighborhood.

But it is no wonder that some things about this house and its grounds strike us as peculiar, for it was built more than three thousand years ago.

It was the country residence of an Egyptian gentleman, and was, no doubt, replete with all the modern conveniences of the period. Even in the present day he might consider himself a very fortunate man who had so good a house and grounds as these. If the windows were made a little larger, a few changes effected in the interior of the establishment, and some chimneys and fire-places built, none of our rich men need be ashamed of such a house.

But, handsome as it is, it is not probable that this house cost the Egyptian gentleman very much.

It is very likely, indeed, that it was built, under the supervision of an architect, by his own slaves, and that the materials came from his own estates. But he may, of course, have spent large sums on its decoration and furniture, and it is very probable, judging from the outside of his house, that he did so. Some of those old Egyptians were most luxurious fellows.

If you wish to see how his slaves worked while they were building his house, just examine this picture.

To be sure, it is a temple which these men are building, but the bricklayers, hod-carriers, etc., worked in the same way when they were putting up a private house.



These poor men whom you see toiling here were probably not born slaves, and it is very likely that many of them are equal in birth and education to those who own them.

A great proportion of them are captives taken in war, and condemned for the rest of their lives to labor for their victorious enemies That will be a vast temple which they are building. Look at the foundations—what enormously thick walls! It is probable that several generations of slaves will labor upon that temple before it is finished.

They do not work exactly as we do in the present day. The hod-carrier, who is bringing bricks from the background, has a very good way of carrying them; but those who are bearing a pile of bricks between them seem to make a very awkward business of it. And the man who is carrying mortar on his shoulder, as he ascends the ladder, might very profitably take a lesson from some of our Irish hod-carriers. An earthen pot with a round bottom is certainly a poor thing in which to carry mortar up a ladder.

The man who is apparently squaring a stone, and the one who is smoothing or trimming off some bricks, are using very peculiar chopping tools. But they may have answered their purpose very well. At any rate, most magnificent edifices were built by the men who used them, although it is probable that the poor fellows progressed very slowly with their work.

It may be, when three thousand years more have elapsed, that our country-houses and our methods of building may appear as strange as this mansion of the Egyptian gentleman, and the customs of the Egyptian bricklayers, seem to us.

But then we shall be the ancient Americans, and it will make no sort of difference to us what the future moderns say about us.



FAR-AWAY FORESTS.



I have no doubt that you all like to wander in the woods, but suppose we ramble for an hour or two in forests so far away that it is probable none of you have ever seen them.

Let us first enter a pine forest.

We have plenty of pines in our own country, and it is probable that most of you have walked in the pine woods, on many a summer's day, when the soft carpet of "needles," or "pine-shatters," as some people call them, was so pleasant to the feet, the aromatic perfume of the leaves and trees was so delicious, and everything was so quiet and solemn.

But here is a pine forest in the Eastern hemisphere.

These woods are vast and lonely. The ground is torn up by torrents, for it is a mountainous district, and the branches have been torn and broken by many a storm. It is not a pleasant place for those who love cheerful scenery, and moreover, it is not so safe to ramble here as in our own woods at home. Companies of bandits inhabit many of these forests, especially those that stretch over the mountainous portions of Italy. It seems strange that in this enlightened era and in one of the civilized countries of Europe, bandits should still exist to terrify the traveller; but so it is.