When at last released from what has been its cradle and its prison, the tiny creature is still wrapped in a thin covering, which the kind nurses remove. They carefully stretch out the wings of the males and females, and pile the empty cocoons outside the nest ready for building; for waste and disorder are unknown in an ant-city.

Nursery days ended, the young insects are now shown "all over the house," conducted from one "winding stair" to another, taught to know friends from foes, fed and petted, until they take their airy flight beyond the reach of the wingless caretakers of their infant needs.

By-and-by you will read more about how the workers, by their busy toil,

"Raise such monstrous hills along the plain Larger than mountains,"

in proportion to their own small size; you will read also strange stories of how they collect the eggs of those little green insects which you may see in such numbers upon a rosebud, and tend them with great care—because these tiny aphides are their "cows," and they "milk" them by gently stroking them with their antennae, and so obtain a kind of honey—also how the red and black ants occupy the positions of masters and slaves, the blacks doing all the hardest work, and being kept strictly indoors; and how it is not all work, even with the workers, for they have been caught at play, having high games of leap-frog and hide-and-seek!

Interesting as is the mode of life among our ants at home, not less so is that of those found in Southern Europe and in Syria, as well as in India. They are called "Harvesters," because they "prepare their meat in the summer" by gathering the seeds of grasses, and storing them in granaries against the winter. I have watched long trains of these ants going and returning with their loads, keeping their "own side" as carefully as if passengers in London streets. A naturalist who was watching such a train, once strewed a number of grey and white beads about, and waited to see what would happen. One unsuspicious ant seized a bead and trotted off with it to the nest; but not so a second time; the mistake was soon found out, and the (to them) worthless beads were left untouched by the wary workers, who before they stored the seeds in their granary, took off the chaff and left it in heaps outside, to be blown away by the wind.

It has been thought strange that the seeds thus collected do not sprout and grow, but for this moisture would be necessary, and the ants keep their grain as free from it as possible, spreading it out in the sun to dry, and storing it in granaries, underground like the nurseries, but quite distinct from them.

If you have ever disturbed one of their nests, you do not need to be told that ants, as well as bees and wasps, have stings, with a "poison apparatus" like that of a serpent.

How wonderful are these tiny creatures made by God, who has set them in their places in His creation, and given them their work to do, and the instinct which enables them so faithfully to play their part in the great world, that they are set as a pattern for us to imitate! How true it is that

"Each shell, each crawling insect holds a rank Important in the scale of Him who framed This scale of beings; holds a rank which, lost, Would break the chain, and leave a gap behind Which Nature's self would rue."

And what may we learn from the Harvester-ant, who "provideth her meat in the summer"?

I think I can hear you answer, "A lesson of prudence and foresight."

Surely this is so: "The ants are a people not strong but they prepare their meat in the summer"; on this account they have their place among the "four things which are little upon the earth, but they are exceeding wise," and we do well to consider their ways and learn the lesson which they teach us.

Before we quite leave the ant-city, I should like to tell you that the eggs of ants grow while hatching, to accommodate themselves to the increasing size of the tiny creature within them. There are many interesting things to be observed about the eggs of insects; as to their colour, they are generally of that best adapted for concealment; as to the way in which they are hatched, I have heard that the mother insect—the Earwig was the one mentioned—sometimes sits upon her eggs, and that one of the spiders has been seen sitting upon the silken bag which contained its eggs, and carrying it away if disturbed.

I ought to have told you that there are two great divisions of the insect family—those which suck liquid food through their proboscis or trunk, such as flies and butterflies, and those—such as the beetles, bees, and locusts—which bite and eat solid food with their jaws. Dearly as I should like to tell you about bees, both "solitary" and "social," "masons" and "carpenters," we must not make this chapter longer, so we will speak only of the Locusts.

If I could let you have a peep into the box where I keep a specimen-locust, which came to me by post from his native country, you would notice his powerful jaws, which are so strong that they inflict a severe wound; but it is not on account of their bite that locusts have been used by God as His "exceeding great army" to punish those who hardened themselves against Him; but because wherever they alight in their countless myriads, they devour every green thing, turning a fruitful field into a barren desert in a few hours.



Did you ever see as well as hear a grasshopper? The locust is an insect of the same kind, and I have heard that African locusts in the first stage of their life are as green as grasshoppers, but wingless—though they afterwards have very pretty wings. They are described as crowding together, "standing upon each other in heaps four or five deep, or gradually advancing over each other's backs, eating all before them."

A flight of locusts is indeed a wonderful sight. An African traveller once saw advancing towards him a dark cloud; the seeming storm came nearer and nearer; ah! it was no snow-storm or hail-storm, but a living cloud of locusts. He thus describes it, as it came upon him and his companions:

"Each flake of snow was a locust; we stood with our backs to them, and they struck us over the face and ears; we had to protect our eyes with our hands; the ground where the flight had settled was soon bare, and the trees leafless." Can you wonder that such a storm-cloud should be dreaded beyond any other, and that when the Egyptian sky was darkened by it—and "before them there were no such locusts as they"—Pharaoh besought that God might be entreated to take away this "death" from him and from his land? And they were not the only creatures used by God at that time to punish the proud and wilful king who refused to let His people go that they might serve Him.

But we must now end this long chapter, remembering that we have spoken of only a few of the living creatures which belong to the vast family of animals which have no body framework or skeleton; you can read in larger books the wonderful things which are told about jelly-fishes and sponges, bees and wasps, flies and gnats, and green tiger-beetles—for when we have made a beginning in these little talks of ours together about God's creatures, it will be pleasant to go on; so pleasant for some of us that, having once begun, the difficult thing will be to know where to leave off.

I wish I could show you some pictures which I have seen of fossil insects. I believe white ants and dragon-flies, and even a butterfly, have been found among the rocky strata, but those of which I speak were preserved in amber, which is a clear yellow substance, long thought to be a mineral, but now recognised as the hardened resin of ancient pine-trees. In this transparent sepulchre bees and wasps, gnats, spiders, and beetles have been buried, some uninjured, and others with broken legs or wings. They must have got into the sticky gum while it was moist, and been unable to escape—and so have lain for ages in their transparent tomb.

I wonder whether these verses, which came to my mind while we were speaking of the lessons we should learn from those creatures which faithfully use the wisdom given them, are new to you.

"Never man spake like this man."

"From everything our Saviour saw, Lessons of wisdom He would draw; The clouds, the colours in the sky; The gently breeze that whispers by; The fields, all white with waving corn; The lilies that the vale adorn; The reed that trembles in the wind; The tree where none its fruit can find; The sliding sand, the flinty rock, That bears unmoved the tempest's shock; The thorns that on the earth abound; The tender grass that clothes the ground; The little birds that fly in air; The sheep that need the shepherd's care; The pearls that deep in ocean lie; The gold that charms the miser's eye: All from His lips some truth proclaim, Or learn to tell their Maker's name."

CAROLINE FRY.



THE FIFTH DAY.

"FOWL OF THE AIR, AND FISH OF THE SEA."

"And God gave Solomon wisdom and understanding exceeding much.... He spake also of beasts, and of fowls, and of creeping things, and of fishes."—I KINGS iv. 29-33.

"The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas."—PSALM viii. 8.

We have already seen that it was on the FIFTH DAY that the two great oceans—the world of air above, and the world of water below—were peopled with inhabitants; that "God saw that it was good," and that all these happy living things began their life blessed by Him who gave it.

I wonder whether it will surprise you to hear that in some respects the inhabitants of these two worlds are alike.

Perhaps if you think of a fish and a bird—say a herring and a sparrow—you will say two creatures could hardly be less like each other; the bird has soft warm feathers, and the fish has scales, overlapping each other as the slates on the roof of a house do, thus making a perfectly waterproof coat for its whole body; the bird has legs and wings, and the fish has neither; the bird can chirp and sing, while fishes generally make no noise.

But if you could look inside the feathers and the scales, you would see that there is a likeness in the bony structure of these creatures, otherwise so unlike. Both are vertebrate animals, though the backbone of a fish is in some respects unlike that of a bird, still the plan is the same, and it has been truly said that "among the many wonders of nature there is nothing more wonderful than this—the adaptability of the one Vertebrate type to the infinite variety of life to which it serves an as organ and a home." But when you said that the herring had neither legs nor wings, you forgot to notice the fins, by means of which it moves from place to place in its watery home; as the bird, on its strong wings, makes its way through the fields of air. Birds too, lay eggs, and so do most fishes, some of them even making nests; so there are points in which they resemble each other, are there not?

But while we know a good deal about the ways and habits of birds, very little is known of the life of a fish; for it is much more difficult to watch its way of living, and what is known about animals has been learned by watching them patiently.

Sometimes when you are in a boat sailing over very calm, clear water, you may look down and see the fishes darting here and there, and you may even think that if the boat would but stop you could catch one in your hand; but the only way in which you can really watch fishes sufficiently to see their mode of life, is by studying the habits of those which have been caught and put into glass tanks in an aquarium, where they live and move about just as birds do in their cages; only the fishes' tank must contain water as well as air.

Some time ago I went to an aquarium; it was close to the sea, so that there was no want of water to fill the tanks. At the bottom there was sand, and there were bits of rock, among which brown and green seaweeds were growing, in order that the prisoners might forget that they were shut up in a glass prison-house, and feel as much at home as possible in their captivity.

There they were, big fish and little fish, flat plaice and long serpent-like eels—fish of all sorts, of all shapes and sizes. There were other creatures as well as fish; lobsters and crabs and star-fishes; and the anemones, which "blow flower-like," and have such lovely colours that they are sometimes called "sea-roses," were waving their bright fringes to and fro, and catching the shrimps for their dinner with those same soft fingers of theirs. I should like you to see an aquarium such as this was; but if you cannot just now, I daresay you may have the chance of watching a gold-fish in a globe of water, and noticing how it uses its fins to balance itself and steer its way through the water, and its tail to move itself along so gracefully and swiftly; how it has two pairs of fins, which serve for legs and arms, besides three others, the use of which you cannot so well make out; and how the boat-like shape of the fish helps it to cut its way so rapidly through the water. If you keep drilled those two bright eyes over which God has made you officer, you will notice something near the fish's eye which keeps opening and shutting like a little door. That little door covers the gills, and it opens and shuts every time the fish breathes. But now comes a question which used to puzzle me—that is, What does a fish breathe?



When I heard, long ago, that fishes cannot breathe if they are taken out of the water, I used to think that they breathed the water; for then I knew no better than the boy who, when he had at last caught a minnow, put it into a bottle with plenty of water, and corked it up tight, in order to keep his prize safely.

Of course the poor little fish was dead before he got home. It died, not from want of water, but from want of air; for fishes draw in and send out the air through their gills, which are to them what your lungs are to you.

Those fringes which you see when the little doors open, are the gills. They are so red because they are filled with blood; indeed, they are made of a great number of little blood-vessels. As the fish swims along with its round mouth open, it does not swallow the water, but lets it run over its gills, and then out it comes at the little doors; the red fringes take the oxygen out of the water, and it goes into the fish's blood. The water is the fishes' atmosphere, and it is only from it that they can get air to breathe; so that if the glass globe were broken, and the pretty goldfish were let fall upon the carpet, unless they were quickly put back into water they would gasp and die from want of air; just as you would, if someone held your head long under water.

So you see that the home of the fish is perfectly suited to it. In the aquarium you would observe that while most of the fishes dart hither and thither, there are some which never rise to the surface of the water. These are the flat-fish; and they keep at the bottom, because for some wise purpose God has made them without the power of rising and sinking like others.

Inside most fishes there is a bag filled with air, as is the india-rubber ball which you delight to bounce so high. The fish can make this little balloon larger or smaller, just as it wishes to be itself lighter or heavier. As it swims along, it is usually about the same weight as the water; but when it wants to dive, the fish squeezes its air-bag tightly together, which causes its body to become heavier than the water—for air pressed closely together becomes heavy, and its own weight sinks it down. When it wants to rise again to the surface, it ceases to squeeze this bag, the air in the little balloon expands, and the diver rises again and floats or swims because its body is now lighter than the water.

Is not this a very perfect and beautiful plan? How true it is that God has provided for the wants of all His creatures, and fitted them for the life designed for them!

But besides rising or sinking when they please, fishes can turn themselves about very quickly. To understand how they do this, you must look at the long bone which runs right through the body, from head to tail. You will see that it is made, like your backbone, of a number of small bones which move upon each other so easily that they enable the fish to turn itself rapidly, as you see it does. The wonderful way in which these tiny bones are fitted together by what is called the "ball and socket arrangement" may best be seen in a large fish, such as the salmon; but a sardine's frame is made in the same beautiful way.

The scales, overlapping each other as they do, serve to protect the fish in its journey through watery ways, and their smooth, polished surface rendered slippery by a sort of natural oil, helps it to move quickly. We have imitated the scales of a fish in the way in which we arrange slates and tiles to keeps our houses dry. You know how the slates on the roof of your house overlap each other, so closely that no rain can get between them.

When I tell you that there are said to be nine thousand different kinds of fish in all parts of the world, you will understand that even in a large aquarium you can see but few varieties. In England alone hundreds of fresh-water fishes are known, while those whose home is in the sea are much more numerous still.

It has been found that if fresh-water fish is taken out of its natural element and put at once into the sea, it will die. But there are some fish, like the salmon, which live in the sea, but go up the rivers to lay their eggs, and then back again to their proper home; taking "change of air," as it were, but taking it gradually, and not plunging into a foreign country all at once.

Some fishes are great travellers. I have heard that what is called a "shoal" of herrings consists of millions of fish, and takes up a place in the sea larger than the area of London. This fish takes its name from an old word which means an army; and the herring-army has to come a long, long march—if we so speak of a journey through "the paths of the seas"—before it, as it were, encamps near our shores.

In winter the herrings are far away north, within the Arctic Circle, but in the spring they go south, travelling in shoals, six miles in length, and three or four in breadth.

When one of these great shoals comes near our northern shores it divides, one part travelling west, the other east. It is in September that the herring fishing begins, and a busy time it is for the fishermen.

The fish are always caught at night, and the darker the night the better chance there is of a good catch. When I was a child I used often to stand and watch the boats setting out about sunset, and many a time did I wish I might be of the party, for I thought no treat could be greater than to be allowed to stay out all night and see the nets full of shining fish drawn in over the sides of the boat. However, the fishermen are too wise to take children with them, for any noise frightens the herrings, so the fishing is done in silence, under the quiet stars. If you saw a herring-net taken in, you might forget yourself so far as to scream with delight at the sight of the fish flashing like silver, and bright with blue and purple hues which no painter could copy. But the rainbow colours, like those you see upon a soap bubble, are almost as soon gone; they will have lost their brilliancy before the boats come in, and the men begin to throw the fish on shore, and to count them.

One fish, "the Arrow of the Sea," is never so beautiful as when it is dying. I have read that the Romans—after they ceased to be a brave people, and became idle and pleasure-loving—used to have these fish brought in before dinner and shown to the guests. The gay, thoughtless ladies, as they clapped their hands with delight at the beauty of the quickly-changing colours—white turning to sky-blue, and then to deep red—cared no more for the suffering of the poor fish, gasping and dying before them, than for the fading petals of a rose; so hard-hearted can people become, who think only of their own pleasure. If poor Jack had been there, it would have made him grieved and angry indeed to have seen one of the "God-made" creatures treated so cruelly, would it not? You remember how he loved all living things, and could not bear that they should be hurt.

From the Gold-fish, with their brilliant, flashing scales, you can form some idea of how brightly coloured the fish in tropical seas are; but the most brilliant fishes have not always the most graceful forms, nor are they so good for food as those better known to us.

It is very interesting to observe that the sea-creatures which live upon the surface of the ocean are bluish or quite colourless and transparent, as some jelly fish, which look as if they were made of glass, and one kind of fish of which I have heard that its body is so transparent that the words of a book can be read through it. Others, not very unlike, but whose home is at the bottom of the sea, have opaque and mud-coloured bodies. We find that many creatures are of the same colour as their dwelling-place; butterflies are bright, like flowers, insects living on leaves are green, desert creatures are yellow or sand-coloured, those which live among the snow are white or grey, while the winter lasts, though some of them change their coats during their short summer. In this way the hunters and the hunted alike escape observation.

Fish have been divided into different classes: there are those which have bony plates instead of scales, as the Sharks and Rays, and many fishes which exist only as fossils; and those called the "splendid" fish, from the brilliancy of their coats of mail, which lock together like ancient armour. Most of them are extinct species, but the Sturgeon is one of these armoured fishes. Then the Mud-fishes form another class. But by far the most numerous is that to which the Bony-skeletoned fishes, with scales like those of the Salmon, belong. A few species are destitute of any bony or scaly covering; and one of them—the Electric Eel of South American rivers—protects itself by giving a sharp electric shock to any creature that comes in its way!

The eyes of fish are sometimes large, and they can see a long way, and also hear very quickly. Turbot, plaice, and other flat-fish, which have no swim-bladder, lie with one side in the mud at the bottom of the sea or rivers—Can you guess in which side of the head their eyes are placed?

"In the uppermost, and sometimes both eyes are there."

You are right, for there would be no use for an eye in the side turned to the mud.

As far as we know, fish are not clever creatures, but I have heard that some kinds, kept as pets, have learnt to know the sound of the dinner bell just as well as the lions and tigers at the Zoo know their bell; and you have seen how they rush about their cages, and roar with hungry impatience when it rings. I have read that some fishes of various kinds, such as Cod and Ling, kept for the use of the owners in a pond to which the tide came, near a house in Scotland, and regularly fed with limpets by an old woman who had charge of them, knew her voice, and would put out their heads and crowd to the side of the pond when she came near, and even let her take them up and stroke their cold backs; but I doubt that you will find your gold-fish so intelligent and affectionate.

I must not forget to speak of the fishes which make nests, for very few such have been discovered, and they are considered curiosities of fish-life. Perhaps when we know more of the habits of the finny-tribe, we shall find that some others provide for the safety of their young in a similar way, but at present I believe the Stickleback, which not only makes a nest but takes care of his young brood until they are six days old and can "find for themselves," is the only one known in Europe. In Demerara, a fish called the Hassar makes a floating cradle of grass or leaves for its eggs, over which it watches carefully, being ready to defend it bravely when attacked; thus in Australia, an eel called the Jew-fish was one day noticed swimming round and round a clear place among the reeds, and it turned out that it was guarding a nest of stones which it had placed in the river bed.

There are one or two strange fishes which you will not see in any shop; though if you have friends who "follow the sea," they may have told you of the Sun-fish, sometimes caught in the west of Ireland; very large and round it is, of a silvery-white colour, so that on dark nights, when the fishermen have seen it shining as it swam, just under the water, it has seemed to them like the sun shining behind the clouds on a showery day; and they have given it this name.

You may too, have heard strange tales of another round fish, called from its shape the Globe-fish, and from its skin the "Sea-hedgehog"; it is covered with sharp thorns, and has the power, by swallowing air, of so greatly increasing its size (without sharing the fate of the poor toad in AEsop's Fable) that it not only can rise to the surface of the water, but float as long as it pleases. Then there are the blue Flying-herrings, with long fins, which you would see if you took a voyage to Australia. These poor little creatures have enemies both in birds and fishes. When the sharks want to make a meal of them, they leap into the air, using their long fins almost as a bird uses its wings, and are able to keep up for some distance; some say they can fly five hundred feet; but alas! when they are on the fin, the sea-gulls are eager and ready to pounce upon them, and they have to take refuge in the sea again. With all their beauty, they have a hard life of it, constantly escaping away from the sea-gull, into the shark!

And now, when we have time, I think both you and I shall be pleased not only to observe carefully the fishes which we see every day, but to read about others; about the sword-fish, which has neither scales for its protection, nor teeth, but whose snout forms a bone, four or five feet long, set with sharp pointed teeth on each side—somewhat like a double-edged saw; this bone is a most formidable weapon when used against large fish, and is so strong that it has even pierced through the planks of a boat; about the tiny Sea-horse, with its head so curiously like that of a horse, and its wing-like fins; about the Whale, which is not really a fish at all (and why it is not will be something for you to find out), besides a great many monsters of the deep of which I have not time to tell you. We have already had a much longer talk about fish than my children had, although it was while we were speaking about fishing, and how the night is the usual time for it, that we read two accounts of great numbers of fish being caught in the sea of Galilee—not at night, but in broad daylight.

One account is given in the gospel of Luke. You know that—the disciples, Simon and Andrew his brother, and James and John his brother, were fishermen, and used to launch their boats upon the Sea of Galilee, and let down their nets into the deep blue water. It was when they had been fishing all night, and had caught nothing, that they left their boats beside the sea, and were busy washing their nets.



Fishermen feel very downhearted and disappointed when the morning comes, after they have been out all night, and finds them with only a few fish in their boats: but these fishermen had got one fish. Peter said, "We have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing."

The Lord Jesus knew all about that long night of toil, as He sat in Peter's boat, and taught the crowds of people who stood on the shore; and He knew how disappointed those tired fishermen must be. Presently He spoke to Peter, and said, "Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a draught. And Simon answering said unto Him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing: nevertheless at Thy word I will let down the net."

Night is the best time for fishing, and all night they had toiled in vain. The empty nets were there; but in Simon's boat was the One who had made the fish, and He caused them to fill the nets in such numbers that the slender cords broke, and both the boats were overladen.

"When Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus' knees, saying, Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord."

He felt what it was to be in the presence of the Lord; how unfit he was to be near Him; but yet he could not bear to let Him go; Jesus said to Peter, "Fear not; from henceforth thou shalt catch men."

"What does it mean?" May asked, when she had read this verse, "How could Peter catch men?"

To find the answer to her question, we read in the second chapter of Acts about the first time Peter preached at Jerusalem, and how he told the very people who had taken Jesus of Nazareth, and "by wicked hands" had "crucified and slain" Him, that God had raised Him from the dead, and "made that same Jesus, whom ye have crucified, both Lord and Christ." We read that while he spoke of Him three thousand people received his word gladly. Surely at that time there was a fulfilment of the Lord's promise to him. Peter had indeed become a fisher of men—rescued from the cold waters of death, caught away from the grasp of Satan, henceforth to belong to Christ for ever.

But before this time there had been that other scene beside the Galilean lake, of which we read at the end of the gospel of John.

Again after a weary night's fishing, the disciples had taken nothing; again, at the word of the Lord, the net was cast over the side of the boat, and drawn in "full of great fishes."

The Lord Jesus, after he rose from the dead, was still the same, always thinking of His dear disciples, and caring for them. You remember that He would not allow the crowds of people, who had come from far to hear them, to go back to their homes hungry and tired, but that He made them rest on the green grass while He fed them with the loaves and the little fishes. Now He knew all about Peter and James, and John and Thomas, and those two others who had gone fishing with them. They had been out all night, and were very hungry, and directly they came to land they could see that their Lord had been thinking of how they would feel; for all that they wanted was ready—a fire of coals on the shore, and fish laid upon it, and bread—and they heard the voice which was so dear to them, that well-known voice which had once come to them across the stormy waves saying, "It is I; be not afraid," now bidding them, "Come and dine." And it was from those kind hands, which had been pierced when He suffered the cruel death of the cross, that they received the bread and the fish which was prepared for them.

What a wonderful time to remember! I think Peter must have been thinking of it when he said to Cornelius, We "did eat and drink with Him after He rose from the dead." Perhaps he also thought of another time when the Lord asked for some food, "and they gave Him a piece of a broiled fish, and of an honeycomb. And He took it, and did eat before them"—to show them, while they yet believed not for joy and wondered, that it was indeed Himself who was standing among them, risen from the dead.

You will find that there are a good many places in the Bible where fish are spoken of. I hope you will have in your list one which was given me by Sharley only; although I had expected that everybody would have found it. It is mentioned in the gospel by Matthew, alone. We are not told what sort of fish it was in whose mouth Peter found the "stater," a piece of money worth about three shillings, which was exactly enough to give, as the Lord told him, to those who had come to ask for money to meet some expenses belonging to the temple. Every Jew paid a fixed sum, and this piece of money in the fish's mouth was just twice that sum. How beautiful that the One who was God, and had power over the fish of the sea, to send them into Peter's net, or to make even a fish bring to Him the coin which was wanted, should put Himself beside Peter, and say, "Lest we should offend them, go thou to the sea, and cast an hook, and take up the fish that first cometh up; and when thou hast opened his mouth, thou shalt find a piece of money: that take, and give unto them for Me and thee"! Ah, but we know that the Lord Jesus Christ was "meek and lowly in heart" and He loved to put His disciples with Himself, as children of God His Father!

A writer who lived at the time when our "King James's" Bible was translated, speaking of the sea as "the great pond of the world," says, "We know not whether to wonder at the element itself, or the guests which it contains."

As we have been learning a little of the ways of the inhabitants of the ocean of air, as well as those that people the world of water, let me close this chapter by quoting an American poet's beautiful verses:—

"TO A WATER FOWL.

"Whither, midst falling dew While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

"Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

"Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

"There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast— The desert and illimitable air— Lone wandering, but not lost.

"All day thy wings have fanned At that far height the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

"And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

"Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

"He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright."

W. C. BRYANT.



THE FIFTH DAY.

FLYING FOWL.

"Gavest Thou the goodly wings unto the peacocks? or wings and feathers unto the ostrich?"

"Doth the hawk fly by Thy wisdom, and stretch her wings toward the south?"

"Doth the eagle mount up at Thy command, and make her nest on high?"—JOB xxxix. 13, 26, 27.

"The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."—SONG OF SOLOMON ii. 12.

It was on the FIFTH DAY of Creation that the silence was broken by the voice of birds. We are so accustomed to the various cries of animals, the buzzing of insects, and above all to the chirping and twittering and singing of birds, that we can hardly imagine what a voiceless world would be like.

I have heard that far away in New Zealand, travellers who try to make their way through the great tangle of trees and creepers which is called the "Bush," speak of the silence and loneliness of the dense forests as dreadful, and they particularly mention that there is no voice of bird to be heard there. Very different is a place I know, where, although the trees in which they perch are by the roadside, and noisy carts and carriages are coming and going all day long, yet the sparrows overhead keep up such a constant chatter and flutter that once as I passed that way a countryman looked up at the trees and smiled, and said to me, "Plenty of company up there!"

When I told the children this they were much amused, and I am sure they thought it would be very dull never to hear the crowing of a cock or the "quack, quack" of a duck—to say nothing of the soft cooing of doves in the wood, and the sweet, rich notes of the thrushes and blackbirds.

A Frenchman, who has written a very large book all about birds, says that if we were not so accustomed to them we should think a bird flying through the air the most wonderful thing we had ever seen—and I think he is right; but before we speak of these wonderful and beautiful creatures, let us read once more the verses in Genesis which tell us of their birthday, beginning with, "And God said," and ending with, "And the evening and the morning were the fifth day."

We have been speaking of the living creatures which the waters brought forth, and now we must think a little of the "winged fowl," which were made to people the "expansion," and are sometimes called the "fish of the air," as the fishes are called the "birds of the ocean."

Of all the happy living things I think none seem so full of joy as the birds. Their very flight has such buoyancy and gladness in it, and their songs seem always to be telling of happiness. Did you ever watch the sea-gulls flashing and darting about, and then floating quietly above your head, or the swallows in their rapid flight, wheeling round and round, and think how beautiful a thing it is just to see them on the wing, fluttering, soaring, floating in that ocean of air which is their home?



Birds are marked off from all other vertebrate animals by the possession of feathers. How wonderful is the wing of a bird; spread wide when it is flying, and folded up like a fan when it is resting, perched upon the branch of a tree, swaying to and fro in the sunshine. But how sad it is to see such a wild, free creature as a lark, or even a thrush or a linnet, pent up in a narrow cage, where there is no room to stretch those wings so strong and light, no swinging branch to rest upon; but all the little prisoner can do is to hop from one perch to another, and beat its wings against the "wiry grate" which shuts it in so hopelessly. I suppose we don't think so much of captive birds as of other captives, because a bird in a cage is such a common sight, and when we hear it sing so sweetly it seems as if it could not be unhappy; but when we say "as happy as a bird," I doubt if it is of birds in cages we are thinking after all.

The cage may be of gilded wires, or of willow twigs; but both are alike prison bars which keep the birdie back from the liberty to which it was born. At least this was what an English sailor felt when he met a man carrying a cage full of birds. He had been a prisoner himself, away in France, and had many a time longed to be free; and now when he saw the birds in their gilded prison, he was not happy until he had made a bargain and got them, cage and all, to do what he liked with. What was the astonishment of the man from whom he had bought them, when he saw the sailor open the cage door and let them out, one by one, until all the little prisoners were free!

As you have watched the birds in their flight, I daresay you have wondered how they can keep themselves up in the air. Even the little wren has some weight; much more the crows which make their nests in the topmost branches of the trees. We say "as light as a feather"; yet the downiest feather has some weight, and will find its way to the ground if not kept up by wind or breath.

It is true that the "feathered fowl," as all kinds of birds are called in the Bible, are very much heavier than the air in which they float and swim, using their wings for oars, just as the fish use their fins. But do you remember that little balloon inside the fish, which enables it to rise through the water? A bird is almost a live balloon; as it flies, it breathes air into every part of its body; this air becomes heated, and is kept warm by the feathers; and as hot air becomes light, the bird is so much lighter than the air which surrounds it, that it can easily rise higher and higher, until, like the skylark, its little quivering body seems almost lost in the far blue sky, and its "waterfall of song" alone shows where it is.



The bones of a bird are very strong, but they are also very light; if you look at the bones of a chicken, you will see that some of them are hollow; when the bird was alive, those hollow places were all filled with air. Take a dead bird and look at the quills at the roots of the feathers; and now watch that swallow as it darts so rapidly hither and thither. The bird is able to fill each tiny quill with air, so that its body becomes like a balloon, and it rises high above the roofs of the houses; then, like the fish, when it wishes to sink, it can breathe out all the air again, and so constantly change its weight, and fly, now high, now low, faster than any train can rush or ship sail.

There is a wonderful bird which sailors have seen a thousand miles from land. It is called the Frigate-bird, and has never been known to rest on the sea; it lives upon sea-creatures, but makes its nest on shore. Each of its wings, if stretched out as when the bird is flying, measures more than the height of a man; yet even such an enormous bird as this does not sink down by its own weight, but flies mile after mile upon its strong wings, every feather of which unites strength and lightness, never resting till its airy voyage is over, and it finds its nest. It is said that when storms sweep over the sea, this "ocean eagle" mounts upward until it has reached the calm which lies above the storm, and so sails upon its untroubled way.

The feathers of birds are to them what its scales are to the fish, and hair and wool to other animals—a protection. They are not only light and strong, but warm, and by their means, as a bird soars into colder regions of air, it is protected from the cold: while for aquatic birds there is a special provision—by pressing with their beaks an oil-gland near the tail they can waterproof their feathers! Now look again at your dead bird; you will see that the wings and tail are formed of quills, while the surface of the body is covered with short feathers—even the ear being protected by a little tuft—and all the spaces between are filled with the softest, warmest down. Could any creature be more beautifully equipped for its journey through the fields of air?

Then this soft, warm, light dress is renewed once or twice a year, generally so gradually that the change is imperceptible—but you may have seen fowls and ducks straggling about the farmyard with half their feathers gone—on the principle of being off with the old coat before they are on with the new.

The eyes of both fishes and birds have an extra lid formed of very thin skin, which can be moved quickly over the surface of the eye, serving to cleanse it and protect it.

There are three thousand distinct kinds of birds, but it would be impossible to learn about so many, they have been divided into five groups—birds of Prey, Perching birds, Scratching birds, Wading birds, and Swimming birds.

I must tell you that Chrissie and Sharley and May had learnt something about these groups from a book of which they are very fond; it is called The First Year of Scientific Knowledge, and there are pictures in it of the different birds, beasts, and fishes which are mentioned.

Now, let us think of some of the birds in the first group. Birds of Prey are those which hunt for their food, and eat the flesh of other birds, or of small animals, such as rats, and mice, or of snakes. All these birds—vultures, hawks, owls—have sharp hooked beaks, and long claws, also very sharp; they fly quickly, and soon overtake their prey, whether they hunt by day or by night.

The two birds of prey most often mentioned in the Bible are the Raven and the Eagle. You remember how, when the terrible flood, which God sent upon the earth because of the violence and wickedness of men, was over, and the Ark rested upon the mountains of Ararat, Noah opened the window of the Ark, and sent forth a raven. This bird of prey could find food for itself, as it "went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth," and it never came back to Noah; unlike the gentle dove who found no rest for the sole of her foot, but twice returned to her refuge, the second time carrying in her bill the fresh green "olive-leaf plucked off," which showed Noah that the waters were indeed gone. How wonderfully God, who feeds the young ravens which cry to Him, used those birds of prey to bring to Elijah "bread and flesh in the morning, and bread and flesh in the evening," all the time that they were commanded to feed the prophet in his lonely hiding-place by the brook Cherith. The Raven is the patriarch among birds; it lives to be a hundred years old—beyond the age of man!

The Eagle, the king of birds, is a large and beautiful creature with very strong wings, and has its home in rocky places, difficult to reach. Like all birds who live upon prey which they catch alive, it is bold and fierce. There is a verse which speaks of it as "hasting to the prey." Eagles seize rabbits, hares, lambs, and young deer, and have even been known to attack a pony. They often carry off ducks and wild birds to their rocky eyrie, as food for their young ones. The Sea-eagle lives upon fish which swim near the surface of the waves; it sees them afar off with its keen eyes, and darts down upon them.



Most likely you remember the story of the Highland mother, whose baby was carried away by a great eagle, and how she climbed the steep rocks until she reached its nest, and rescued her child. Her strong mother-love took away all fear of the dreadful height which even a young sailor feared to climb, and of the wild birds who flapped their great wings at her, and then fled screaming away; but I need not say more of this Scotch story, which you may have so often heard, so I will tell you of what happened once in Switzerland to a little girl about five years old.

She was playing near her mountain home, when a great eagle saw her, darted down, and was just catching her curly little head in its strong talons, when a man with a gun, not far off, fired. He had been watching the eagle, but did not see the child, or he would have been afraid to fire, lest he should kill her. When he came to pick up the dead bird he found the little girl beside it. She had been saved by the shot which killed the fierce eagle; but I have heard that when she had grown to be a woman the scars of deep wounds made by its talons upon her head could still be seen. No doubt she often heard the story of how God had saved her from a double danger, and by-and-by she felt that she must ask Him to make her His servant all her life long, God heard her prayer, and allowed her to go as a missionary to a far-off land.

There is a beautiful verse in the thirty-second chapter of Deuteronomy, in which God compares His care for His people to the way in which the eagle cares for its young ones, and teaches them to fly.

I do not know whether you know many of the second group, the Perching-birds; but I am sure you have seen parrots, and heard them too. These clever, gay birds must look beautiful indeed in their forest home in tropical countries, as they flash and gleam in the sunshine; but their screaming—you know what it is like if you have ever paid them a visit at the Zoo—takes something away from their charm. They have been called "feathered monkeys," because they are so well able to climb trees. Look at their dark grey toes, and you will see that two of them are turned forward and two backward, so as to enable them to take a firm hold upon branch or twig. They have such hard bills because they live upon nuts and seeds. You have seen how Polly holds a nut, and shells it with the sharp point of her beak, keeping her eye on you all the time.



Perhaps you would not think it, but parrots are affectionate birds. A story is told of one that was very fond of a servant girl in the house where he lived. When she had a bad finger he would not leave her, and groaned as he sat beside her bed, as if he were himself in pain; and when she recovered he became quite cheerful again. But I think the account which Dr. Franklin gives of the kindness of a parrot to its mate is more interesting still.

He says he knew two parrots who had lived together four years, when the female became so ill from gout that she could not get down from her perch to reach her food. For four months the male bird went on carrying the food to her in his beak; and when at last she fell from her perch through weakness, he kept constantly near her, trying to raise her, and showing the greatest care for her.

When she could no longer eat, he tried in vain to open her beak, so as to give her food, uttering sad cries; or stood with his eyes fixed on her, mournful and silent. From the time of her death he pined away, and died a few weeks afterwards.

Such stories are very beautiful, because they show, as a lover of animals once said, "what kindness God has put into the heart of His creatures."

Of the Scratching birds, there is none which you know so well as the hen; indeed this group is often called by a Latin name, which means that all belonging to it are of the hen tribe.

Our fowls come from India, but they have been at home in this country for a long time, and are very common in Palestine. If you have ever seen a mother-hen taking care of her chicks, calling them to her when she fears any danger for them, and hiding them beneath her soft warm wings, you will better understand the words which the Lord Jesus spoke when He beheld Jerusalem, the beloved city, and wept over it. Think of these words when you hear the hen call her chickens, and see them all come running to her, and hiding away under her wings, to be kept in safety from some foe which you cannot see, but which she knows to be lurking near, or perhaps hovering above, ready to pounce upon a stray chick and carry it off.



You may often see the Turkeys, Pheasants, Peacocks, and other birds of this Hen-family, scratching up the gravel; and you know, I daresay, that grain-eating birds have a little mill inside them called a gizzard, which grinds their food for them. Birds of prey have no gizzards, because their food does not need to be ground before they can digest it.

The Wading-birds have long bare legs because they live in marshy places, and long necks and beaks to catch the small animals upon which they feed. Snipe and Woodcock have long tapering bills which are alive to the very points with what are called nerves, so that they may be able to feel for worms as they dig for them in the soft sand and mud, where they cannot see them. Two birds of this family, the Stork and the Crane, are mentioned in the Bible in connection with a wonderful power which God has given to some birds, by means of which they know when the time is come for them to leave a country where their food is over and gone, and where the winter is too cold for them, for a warmer land, where they may find food convenient for them, and from which they will know right well how to come back again when spring returns, with its food and foliage. Such birds are called birds of passage; the Swallow is the one you know best, and it also is mentioned in the verse in which so many migratory birds are grouped together, "The stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle and the crane and the swallow observe the time of their coming." It is God who bids these birds "observe the time of their coming": no one knows why they go south for the winter, nor how they can tell their way over land and sea, and come back again to the very place from whence they took their flight.

The Stork must be to the People in Palestine just such a "guest of summer" as the swallow is with us, for it regularly arrives about the end of March, and flies away in the autumn.

Ships make their long voyages to the other end of the world and back with wonderful regularity, but though the helmsman has a compass to guide him, they do not arrive in port so exactly at their appointed time as the little swallow, who has only the sense which we call "instinct" to guide it; only its own light, strong wings to carry it on its swift way, flying a mile a minute—for even to its little bones and feathers, every part of its body is filled with air, rendering it the most buoyant of winged creatures.

I met with a beautiful passage about migratory birds in a book I was reading lately. The writer says, "Were they planets revolving round the sun, their arrival could hardly be more accurately calculated by the astronomer.... The little birds are guided in their flight through the waste, lone wilderness of the sky, and over wide seas, without a compass or a map or a path, by His counsel and will. And they obey that guidance without the slightest inclination to swerve from it or seek a way of their own....

"Migratory birds passing from Africa to Europe over the sea, often alight on ships bound in that direction. Not unfrequently ship-captains tell us that they have seen birds of prey, hawks, and owls, appearing on the masts on such occasions in the company of swallows, goldfinches, and chaffinches; and yet the cruel birds never touched the innocent ones. The migratory instinct seems to subdue for a season the predatory instinct."

I want to tell you more about swallows, and especially a true but sad story of a tame one; but first we will speak of one more group, the Swimming-birds. You may have often noticed a duck's foot, and seen how the "web," or skin between the toes, can be folded up like a fan; or spread out, when the bird is swimming; Geese, Swans, Sea-gulls, the beautiful great Albatross, all these and a great many more of this family; they have a kind of water-wing, which cleaves its way through the streams, and most of them can also fly, although they are heavy birds. I have seen a flock of grey geese sailing on the sea, and the same flock at sunset coming home by a quicker way, looking like dark specks against the evening sky; but it is only wild geese that will fly so far.

Now then, we have had five groups. Let us count them. Birds of Prey, Perching birds, Scratching birds, Wading birds, Swimming birds, and I think I must add one more; for the Passerine, or Sparrow group includes most of the small birds, such as blackbirds and thrushes, nightingales and swallows, larks and magpies, linnets and humming-birds, and I cannot tell how many more "feathered fowl."



Our story of a tame swallow must follow. There are four kinds of swallows—the Swift, the Chimney-swallow, the House-martin, and the Sand-martin; they all look much alike when on the wing, but there are differences, especially in the sort of nest which they build. The house-martin makes its nest of mud, lined with grass or feathers, against the side of a house, and there lays its beautiful white eggs.

A pair of martins built their cosy nest one summer beneath the eaves of a house in the country, just under the window of one of the bedrooms. Swallows rear two broods every season, and one brood was reared successfully in this nest, but the second was not so fortunate. Late in September—and you know the swallows are off to Africa in October—a servant found a poor little shivering bird on the steps. It was plain that it had tried to fly from the nest, with its brothers and sisters, but had not been strong enough. The poor birdie seemed almost dead when it was picked up, but in the family there was a lady who loved "all things both great and small," and she fed the tiny martin, and made a bed for it in a work basket lined with wool. She was delighted when she saw it tuck its head under its wing, puff out its little feathers, and settle itself to sleep in her basket as cosily as if it had been at home in its parents' nest, and she began to think that she might be able to keep this little deserted bird in an English home while all the other swallows had gone over sea for the winter.

I need not tell you that the little martin gave plenty of trouble and anxiety in his rearing; but at last he got on so well that he was allowed to go out in the garden, and sit upon his mistress's hand, while he feasted on any spider, gnat, or fly which was caught for him. It must have been a pretty sight to see the fondness of this pet bird for the kind friend who had saved its life. He could not bear to be away from her, but would sit on her shoulder while she was at work or writing, and sometimes nestle under her chin; tiresome enough in his tricksy ways of pulling at her thread and snatching at her paper, but still always borne with, because he was such a pet.

One day when his mistress was going out for a long walk, and intended to leave her bird behind, he insisted on going too. And go he did, perched upon her finger; but on the way he became so clamorously hungry that she had to take him into a butcher's shop, and get some meat for his dinner.

She often wondered how long he would stay with her. The swallows had not yet gone; and sometimes he would look up and see crowds of them skimming through the air, and darting about overhead. He would watch them, even call to them and answer their wild cry, then sweep round the room in imitation of their rapid flight; but always came back again to his old place on her shoulder. At last, while there were still flies to be caught; be became so grown up as to begin to catch them for himself, though he had had no parent-bird to teach him; but still he was a tame swallow, liking to have his head stroked, and enjoying his morning bath like any canary.

After all the wild swallows were off to Africa, the little tame martin began to feel the cold. This wax what his mistress had been afraid would happen, and she tried in every way to keep her pet warm. She wrapped him in fur, and used to pack him warmly in a little box and take him to bed with her; but she was soon awakened by his creeping out of the box, and nestling under her chin. At sunrise he would career round and round her room, then fly downstairs and begin to make himself very much at home at breakfast, pecking at the butter, and standing upon the edges of the cups; but never so busy as not to dart to his mistress at the sound of her voice. Indeed he was so unhappy when away from her that she used even to take him railway journeys, because she did not like to leave him behind. This way of travelling, however, did not suit the little passenger-bird, for he was always in a fright, and glad to get home again. But many a country walk he took with his mistress, perched on her shoulder or her wrist, much to the wonder of the country-folk, who used to crowd around and ask questions about such a rare bird as a tame swallow. Sometimes they would shake their heads and say, "Well, well; did ever anyone see the like? I'll never shoot another swallow."

As the winter came, all these pleasant walks were over. The poor birdie began to droop; it was impossible to keep him warm, though he often crept under the parlour fender, to get as close to the fire as possible; and in spite of all that loving care could do, before the end of the year his bright little life had been lived, and all his clever tricks, and airy flights and loving ways were over.

The lady missed her pet sorely; and next summer when the low twittering of the swallows was heard again, as they came back to their old home to build once more, she watched them at their work with many a thought of her lost birdie.

This is why I said it was a sad story; but we must not forget that the lady really saved the life of the poor bird, when it had fallen from the nest. If she had stolen it away from its parents, and tried to keep it in our cold country when they had gone to Africa, she would have blamed herself, and felt that she had been the cause of its death. It is cruel to take young birds from the nest, for it is a great grief to the parent-birds to lose their little ones; and it is so difficult to rear them, that they are almost sure to die, in spite of the great care you take of them. Some boys are fond of collecting birds' eggs, and know a great deal about them. A collection of eggs—of all sizes and of all shades of colour, from pure white to bluish green, or speckled grey—is a pretty sight; but if you go nesting, be careful not to spoil the beautiful little cradle which the parent-birds have made with such labour and care. And if you take one, or even two, eggs for your collection, be sure not to touch the others, or it may be that the birds will desert them. I well remember the delight of finding a robin's nest when I was a child; but my brothers and I were not allowed to touch the eggs. We were told they did not belong to us, and this certainly was nothing more than the truth.

It is beautiful to see God's care for all His creatures, especially the helpless ones. When He was teaching His chosen people in the olden times about things which are pleasing or displeasing to Him, He told them a good deal about how they were to treat the animals. You would hardly expect to find anything in the Bible about bird-nesting; and perhaps you might think that if a boy found a nest with eggs or young birds in it, he might take the young ones or the eggs, and if he chose he might take the mother-bird also.

But God said—

"Thou shalt not take the dam with the young: thou shalt in anywise let the dam go, and mayest take the young to thee, that it may be well with thee."

He who cares for the sparrow would not allow the mother-bird to suffer by perhaps seeing her little ones die while she was shut up in a cage, too fluttered and frightened to help them; and He would teach us to be merciful and tender-hearted towards those who cannot defend themselves or plead their own cause, "even as our Father in heaven is merciful."

I should like you to read in some nice book all about birds, a great deal about their ways, and especially about the clever nests they build, of which I have not time to tell you now. Also, I should like you to find out all you can for yourself. You may at least learn to know by sight and by sound some of our own songsters. It is often said that English birds have sober plumage; and so they have, compared with the parrots and the humming-birds that "flit about like living fires, scarce larger than a bee," and the wonderful bird of paradise, which the natives of New Guinea call "God's bird," because it shines with silver and gold—but still we have some very gay birds.

It is true that the goldfinch and the kingfisher are not often seen except in picture-books; but our own little robin is a real beauty, is he not? And what can be gayer than the feathers of some of our cocks, which strut about so proudly? Then, the more you notice the songs of birds, the more you will admire them. The sweet notes begin before daylight in the spring-time, and the cock-bird seems never tired of singing to his mate as she sits on her eggs. By and by, when they are busy with family cares, feeding the little ones, and teaching them to fly, there is not much time for singing. It is said that every bird has a different note or call. I wonder how many you know? I fancy I can guess: the cock, the rook, the swallow, the thrush, the blackbird, the lark; if you do not know the notes or calls of all these, try to learn them.

Then, with regard to the nests; have you not seen rooks and cranes carrying in their mouths the twigs with which they build theirs in the top of very high trees? And have you not watched these nests swinging about in the wind, and wondered that they did not fall? Some of our birds build in holes of trees, some line their nests beautifully with any soft thing they can find; blackbirds and thrushes make theirs of mud. But instead of describing how the nests of our English birds are made, I will copy for you, out of Leslie's poetry-book, a little poem, which will help you to know where to search for the nests of different birds:—

"The skylark's nest among the grass And waving corn is found; The robin's in a shady bank, With oak-leaves strewed around.

"The wren builds in an ivied thorn Or old and ruined wall, The mossy nest so covered in You scarce can see at all.

"The martins build their nests of clay In rows beneath the eaves; The silvery lichens, moss, and hair The chaffinch interweaves.

"The cuckoo makes no nest at all, But through the wood she strays. Until she finds one snug and warm, And there her eggs she lays.

"The sparrow has a nest of hay, With feathers warmly lined; The ringdove's careless nest of sticks On lofty trees we find.

"Rooks build together in a wood, And often disagree; The owl will build beside a barn, Or in a hollow tree.

"The blackbird's nest of grass and mud On bush and bank is found; The lapwing's darkly-spotted eggs Are laid upon the ground.

"The magpie's nest is made with thorns, In leafless tree or hedge; The wild duck and the water hen Build by the water's edge.

"Birds build their nests from year to year, According to their kind; Some very neat and beautiful, Some simpler ones we find.

"The habits of each little bird, And all its patient skill, Are surely taught by God Himself, And ordered by His will."

The other day I saw a lark's nest. It was made upon the ground; for it is true that

"The bird which soars on highest wing, Builds on the ground her lowly nest."

and I had to move aside the grass before I could see it. The parent-birds, I daresay, were somewhere near, but I found only the little ones, looking as if they were almost all mouth, so widely did they open their yellow beaks. If you find such a treasure, and are very careful not to touch, or even to peer and peep too much, you may have the great interest of watching over the rearing of the little family; seeing the parents bring them food, and teach them to fly; and then, when the brood has flown, the deserted nest will belong to you, if you choose to keep it; but I am afraid you would not care for a lark's nest, for it is not beautifully finished, as some birds' nests are, but really only the dry-grass lining of a hole in the ground. The eggs are brown, like the bird itself, which is so beautiful in its song—that lovely song which you can hear even when you can hardly see the tiny singer.

"Far in the downy cloud,"

or but a speck in the deep blue; for the lark will

"Soar up and up, quivering for very joy,"

singing all the time, till he is out of sight—yet never forget that low spot, hidden with grass, where his nest is.

You know why it is said that "the cuckoo builds no nest at all," don't you? May has a verse which calls him "a most conceited bird," because from the time when he comes back from Africa we hear him constantly calling his own name, 'coo-coo, coo-coo!' Still, I don't think the cuckoo should be called "conceited" when it is we who have given it its name from the call which is natural to it; but it is a most unfaithful bird, and leaves its little ones to be brought up by others, not taking the trouble to build a cradle for them, nor will the mother sit upon her eggs. I used to think the reason why we saw so few cuckoos was because this bird laid only one egg; but I have read that she lays eight, each one in the nest of some bird much smaller than herself. The cuckoo is grey, and about the size of a blackbird; but her eggs are small, not bigger than a hedge-sparrow's or a lark's. She lays her egg on the ground, and then lifts it with her bill into the nest which she has chosen. The stranger bird is hatched first, and always behaves as if the whole nest belonged to him. He grows bigger and bigger, until at last he throws the little sparrows over the side of the nest to make room for himself. When the "woolly bears "—the caterpillars on which they feed—are all gone the cuckoos fly off to find them in South Africa.

How different from this bird is the faithful dove, who would not desert her little one, even to save her own life! I must tell you the story of the particular dove of which I am thinking.

When the famous city of Pompeii—which had lain for eighteen hundred years buried beneath the ashes and mud which fell upon it during a terrible eruption of Mount Vesuvius—was brought to light again, as the workmen were digging among the ruins of what had been a beautiful house, in a niche overlooking the garden they found the skeleton of a dove. They were not surprised that, as the sky grew darker and darker upon that dreadful day, and the soft, choking shower of ashes fell more thickly, many of those who ran for their lives should have lost their way in the darkness, and fallen to rise no mare. The skeletons of men and women had been found, just as they had fallen while trying to escape; but this dove, with her swift wings, why did she not flee away? Ah, as they lifted her from her nest the secret was revealed: beneath her lay the egg which the timid, gentle creature, so brave in her love and faithfulness, would not leave.

If you ask me about fossil-birds, I must tell you that very few have been found. However, if you go to the British Museum, look out for a large stone slab covered with footprints of birds. It was taken from a quarry in an American valley, and is a piece of sandstone, which was once soft enough to receive the impress of the feet of the giant wading-bird, probably much larger than an ostrich, which once walked across it with long strides. You will also trace upon it the tracks of smaller birds. In New Zealand very large bones of an extinct bird have been found, but the most remarkable remains have been discovered in Germany of a bird which has been given the name of "Lizard-tailed," because it has a tail with vertebrae, from each joint of which feathers spring. Three claws are attached to the ends of the wing-bones, like the single claw of the bat. What is left of this specimen, which is thought to have been about the size of a rook, is to be seen in the Natural History branch of the South Kensington Museum. I mention this in case you should have a chance of visiting it there.

And now, to speak of those birds which we know best, I think there are none which seem to belong to us so much as these three—the thrush, the blackbird, and the robin; for they are with us all the year. The thrush begins to sing very early, before there are any leaves for him to hide himself among, while the robin's song is heard not only in autumn, but in winter when all others are silent. All these birds feed upon worms and insects, not on grain and fruit like the larks and finches and starlings; but they are very glad of berries in winter when they can get them.

The other day I met a little boy about seven years old carrying a basket with some dozen snails in the bottom of it, and looking as if he had found a wonderful prize.

"What are you going to do with them?" I said.

"Give them to our thrush. He cracks the shells and eats them, he does."

"Does your thrush sing?" I asked.

"Oh, yes!" he replied. "You can hear him all over the house."

The song of even a captive thrush is sweet indeed; but I would rather hear its voice in a choir of birds singing in the woods.

The blackbird's clear note, like the thrush's, may be heard very early in the morning, and on still evenings, as it "sings darkling" in some leafy bower. Its eggs are bluish green, with dark spots, while the thrush's five eggs are light blue. There are white blackbirds—if such a thing can be—in the Alps, and occasionally in this country; with us you may know the cock by its being very black, while the hen is brownish-black, and I think both birds are best known by the "orange tawny" bill. But neither the blackbird nor the thrush is so pretty as the "little bird with bosom red" of which we are all so fond.

"Our thrushes now are silent, Our swallows flown away; But robin's here in coat of brown, And scarlet breast-knot gay."

Some time ago I was reading the account which a boy, who had always lived in town, gave of his first sight of a robin-redbreast. His master told him to write for his composition all about a holiday which the boys had had given them, so he gave an account of how he had gone for a long day in the country with his father and his little sister. Of all the sights he saw that day, none delighted him so much as to see a robin perched upon a clothes'-prop in a garden—for this bird always likes a high perch—singing with all his might and "showing all his red." This boy had read about robins at school, and learnt verses about them; but when he actually saw one, and heard it sing, he says it made him "tremble all over with pleasure."

A lady, who has told many interesting stories about what she has herself observed, says that one day her gardener was struck by the strange conduct of a robin, which the man had often fed. "The bird fluttered about him in so strange a manner, now coming close, then hurrying away, always in the same direction, that the gardener followed, its retreating movements. The robin stopped near a flowerpot and fluttered over it in great agitation. It was soon found that a nest had been formed in the pot, and contained several young. Close by was a snake, intent, doubtless, upon making a meal of the brood."

This little story seems to show that the redbreast understood that the man who had been so kind was not only good enough but also strong enough to save his little ones from the danger which threatened them. Can you learn any lesson from it?

I have not time to tell you of all the feathered creatures mentioned in the Bible, which were found and written down for me in those nice little three-cornered notes, some of which I still have. You will not be surprised to hear that each contained one reference, and some many more; but the text about which we had most talk was found by Chris—those words spoken by the Lord to His disciples to show how precious they were to their Father: "Fear not therefore: ye are of more value than many sparrows"

The boys wanted to know whether these birds were the same as our sparrows, which are so common everywhere, even in the busy streets London, and so mischievous in the country, eating the grain, and stealing the peas, and nipping off the young buds of the gooseberry-bushes.



I could not answer this question; so we got the Bible Dictionary and read there that a great many of our smaller birds, such as the starling, linnet, goldfinch, blackbird, lark, wagtail, and thrush, are found in Palestine, and that the Tree-sparrow has been seen in great numbers on Mount Olivet; while another kind, the Rock-sparrow, is often found perched upon a large stone, all alone, like the solitary bird mentioned in the hundred and second Psalm.

One, of whose work among the poor of Lancashire you may some day hear, tells us that when he was on a visit to America in 1873, he strolled one morning round a miniature park in New York, glad to find shelter from the hot beams of the sun. Looking up, he saw a great many boxes fastened, some to the stems, some to the branches of the trees. Surprised at this, he asked a gentleman on one of the seats, "What is the meaning of those boxes suspended up there?" and he was told that twelve years before, not a single leaf was to be found upon any of those trees, now so full of beautiful foliage. At that time, a small grub called the inch-worm had the disagreeable habit of breeding in the bark, climbing up the boughs and stripping them of every leaf. Thus it was in the orchards, gardens, and parks in many States of the Union.

At length a thinking man who kept his eyes open, suggested a remedy—to import several thousands of English sparrows, providing them with little wooden houses, and feeding them daily until they were settled in, and contented with their new home. Thousands of beautiful little boxes were volunteered and fixed in the trees, and thousands of young sparrows were brought over. A State law was passed inflicting a penalty of one dollar—nearly five shillings—or a week's imprisonment, on any person who killed one; and most happy was the result. The inch-worm was destroyed, the trees became healthy and green, and now the spirited little English birds hop and chirp in every garden and park in the Union!



A restless little House-sparrow would seem an unlikely bird to become tame, but I have heard of one which was rescued, having fallen from his nest, and lived for two years on the happiest terms with his master, who says of his pet bird; "He was only confined to his cage during the morning: from midday until the next morning he was free to go about the house, but was of course mostly kept to one room. He always slept at the foot of my bed, and as soon as it was daylight he would come up and creep into my arms, and nestle there till I rose.... I fed him on seed and sand, but he had food with me besides, such as a little potato at dinner-time, and bread and butter at tea-time."

Does this account of a tame sparrow encourage you to try to attach one of these little birds to yourself? I am afraid it would not be possible unless, as in the case of this birdie, it was one taken from the nest.

The poem about birds' nests tells only of those made by our home-birds, but we can read of wonderful nests made by those in foreign countries. Perhaps the most clever nest-builder is a tiny Indian bird, called the "Tailor," because it actually sews leaves together, using both its bill and its feet, to make a safe hiding-place for its eggs, no bigger than peas, where neither snake nor monkey shall find them. It first chooses a plant with large leaves, then sews a dead leaf to the side of the green and living one, and in the space between the two, it lays its tiny eggs. It gathers cotton from a shrub, and with its long bill and slender little feet works away until it has spun a thread; then, using its bill for a needle, it pierces holes through the leaves, and sews them securely together. Should you not like to see such a wonderful nest, and still more to watch the little tailor—more like a bee than a bird in size—at his work?



I will tell you of one more nest; it is of a very different kind, and is made by a swallow which lives in the islands east of Asia, and is generally called the Java swallow. The other day I was reading how one of our princes was entertained in China, and among the dishes on the table "birds'-nest soup" was mentioned. It made me think of how, long ago (when, as I told you, I was so foolish as not to like to ask questions, for fear the grown-up people should think I knew nothing at all), I heard of this kind of soup, and thought how disagreeable it must be to meet with bits of hay and moss in one's soup, and what queer people the Chinese must be not to mind it. Now I know that these nests, which are sold in China for their weight in silver, are made of a clear jelly which comes from the swallow's mouth. The nests are built against the sides of rocky cliffs, so that it is very dangerous work to procure them. I do not know whether the Duke and Duchess of Connaught liked the soup, but it was offered them as a very great delicacy.

Chrissie and his brothers have a canary, and a very loud singer he is. No doubt he was born in England. but his family are foreigners, as you know, and come from Madeira and the Cape Verde and Canary Islands. But if, as I have heard, they were brought to this country so long ago as the time of Queen Elizabeth, we cannot be surprised that they are so much at home with us now, and will lay their pale blue eggs, and hatch their yellow broods, and live even thirty years in their pretty cages, in which they certainly seem to be as happy as the days are long. I hope if you have a canary of your own, you are very careful to give it its seed and water quite regularly, and to keep its little house as clean as a new pin; for how sad it would be to neglect the happy little creature who is entirely dependent upon you for everything!

I once knew a little girl who had a present of a canary when she was seven years old. I think she was realty too young to have the care of a bird, but she was very, very fond of her Dick, and used to bring him home groundsel and chickweed when she went out for a walk, and often had the pleasure of standing upon a high chair and putting a lump of sugar between the bars of the cage as a special treat for her pet.

All went well until one morning, when she opened the cage door and saw, instead of the pretty, pecking, chirping birdie hopping from his perch to greet her, just a soft yellow ball of feathers lying at the bottom of the cage. Ah, the sad story was soon told—her pet had been starved to death, and she had been the cause! This was what nurse told her, when she ran sobbing to her with the poor dead bird in her little hand. "It is very cruel of you," she said; "you just went to your play, and forgot all about your poor little Dick, and now he is dead; you will never hear him sing his sweet song again."

The poor child was too sorry and too frightened to say anything, and yet in her heart she knew she had not forgotten her birdie; she was quite sure that she had filled his glass with seed and given him fresh water, only the day before. This was quite true; but I will tell you what she had done, and then you will see why I said I thought she was too young to have the entire charge of any living creature. After filling the glass with seed, she had put it back again, as she thought, into its place, where there was a round opening for the bird to come and peck at the seeds. But she had turned the glass round, so that the back of it was towards this hole, and the open part right away from her poor Dick, who might peck and peck against the hard glass, but could not get one seed. I think if nurse had known just how it all happened, she would not have said this little girl was cruel for neglecting her bird; but she was a very careless child, and this thoughtless act cost her pet his life, and his mistress many a bitter tear.

Now for one more true story, and then we must finish our chapter about "feathered fowl." You remember the little girl who was so nearly carried off by a great eagle; this story is about a man whose life was saved by an enormous sea-bird, whose wings when spread out measure about twelve feet across. It is called the "Wandering Albatross," and often follow ships in the southern seas a long way, looking very beautiful and majestic as it seems to float in the air. One of these huge birds had been following a ship on board of which was a regiment of soldiers, on their way home to England. Among them was one man, who, though he seemed to care for nobody, and always laughed at those who read the Bible, was very, very unhappy. God's word says that there is no peace to the wicked, and this poor man never had any rest or comfort, and was constantly disobeying the officers and getting into disgrace. He had no fear of God, and so one morning, when no one was near him, he suddenly jumped over the ship's side into the sea, thinking that he would put an end to his life and his misery.

But just as he sank beneath the waters, God put it into the heart of this poor sinner against his own soul, to cry to Him for mercy; and then in a moment, in His great kindness, He sent the answer to that despairing cry. The great albatross, always ready to pick up anything which was thrown overboard by the sailors came sweeping by. The drowning man put up his hand and caught it by the leg, and such was the strength of the bird that it was able to bear his weight until a boat from the ship came and rescued him. I do not think I should like to tell you this story, which has such a dark and sad beginning, but for its bright ending. It was a long time before this poor soldier recovered; but when he was able to walk about the deck again, all was changed for him. He knew that God had not only, in this remarkable way, saved him from drowning, but there was great peace in that heart which had been so full of trouble; for he had learned to know the Lord Jesus Christ as the blessed Saviour who had loved him and given Himself for him—so I think this is really a very beautiful story.

You will find many of the Flying Fowl of which we have been speaking mentioned in this poem, which reminds us of how God cares for the wildest as well as the weakest of them all.

"WHO PROVIDED FOR THE RAVEN HIS FOOD?

"All the world lay still and silent in the morning grey, And at once a thousand voices hail the glorious day; For the great Sun, glowing crimson, rises o'er the sea— 'Welcome Day!' they sing together, 'Day that is to be!' Oh, how glad and sweet and joyous is that morning hymn! Whilst the golden day is stealing through the valleys dim— Thrush and blackbird, lark and linnet, doves that coo and hum Wild delight and soft rejoicing, for the day is come. Not a thought, of care or wonder what the day will bring, For the Father careth for them in the smallest thing. There upon the pathless mountains is their table spread, All by God are known and numbered, by His hands are fed. Some in deep and tangled forests where the berries glow, Some, where children's crumbs are scattered on the garden snow, Some where, through the river sedges, Mayflies glance and play, Some where mountain tarns lie gleaming in the hollows grey. For the wild and hungry eagle, for the wren so small, All is ready—food and gladness, free to each and all."

FRANCES BEVAN.

Taken by permission, from Hymns by Ter Steegen and others. Second Series.



THE FIFTH DAY.

CREEPING THINGS.

"His hand hath formed the crooked serpent."—JOB xxvi. 13.

"The Lord thy God ... who led thee through that great and terrible wilderness, wherein were fiery serpents, and scorpions."—DEUTERONOMY viii. 15.

"The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, and the lion shall eat straw like the bullock: and dust shall be the serpent's meat. They shall not hurt nor destroy in all My holy mountain, saith the Lord."—ISAIAH lxv. 25.

The "creeping things" which God caused the earth to bring forth on the Fifth Day are so unlike each other in many respects that we might at first sight wonder that they should have been grouped together; but the more we study Reptiles—so called from the Latin word reptilis, creeping—the more we see that there are many things which this great family of vertebrate animals have in common.

There are four chief divisions of the Reptile family—Tortoises and Turtles, Crocodiles, Lizards, and Snakes.

Most reptiles have a tail and two pairs of limbs, but, as you know, Snakes are destitute of limbs, and seem to move along by a motion from inside, so that they have been said to walk on their ribs. Serpents are covered with horny scales; Crocodiles and Tortoises have a bony covering.

The Tortoise—so called from its twisted feet, or its crooked way of walking—has, as you know, an upper and an under shell which covers its body like a coat of mail, protecting it from every enemy except man. This strong shell is, like that of the snail, a house for the tortoise to live in; but this house is formed by arched bones, and is part of the creature itself. The four feet of the tortoise or turtle, and a curious mouth rather like the beak of a bird—without teeth, but with jaws hard enough to make a bite from it very painful—and a little scaly tail; these are the only parts of the animal not covered by the shields of its bony shells.

The Lizard has both limbs and teeth, but no shell. Lizards are wonderfully active, darting away at the least alarm, so that it is not easy to catch them.

We may think of the Crocodile of the African, and the Alligator of the North American rivers, as enormous lizards; though they are now placed in a class by themselves, on account of their horny covering, which is so strong that it is almost impossible to pierce through it, and so smooth that a bullet will glance off from it. Serpents have neither shell nor limbs. Their vertebrae, as you will see, if you look at any skeleton of a snake in the Museum, fit very beautifully one into the other; and owing to this they are able to glide swiftly along the ground, to coil their shining length round trees, and to dart their heads in every direction.

In one respect Tortoises, Lizards, and Serpents are alike—they all lay eggs, only the shell is not made of lime and earth, but is soft like leather. They are also cold-blooded animals, like fish. Of tortoises, some live on land, some in marshy places, some in rivers; turtles live in the sea, their lungs being so made as to enable them to remain under water without breathing.

The common tortoise, often kept in gardens, is found in the south of Europe, and is generally not more than nine inches long. Its upper shield is exceedingly strong. My brothers and sisters and I used often to stand upon the back of a pet tortoise which lived in our garden; it did not seem to feel our weight, but I remember finding it no easy matter to keep my feet together upon its smooth back, and none of us could perform this feat unless the tortoise was pleased to stand still while we balanced ourselves upon him. I can, in imagination, see this little tortoise of ours now, not larger than a crab such as you see at the fishmonger's, with its short legs and feet, and its little tail, all covered with scales, sticking out between its upper and under shells. How we used to laugh, when we saw him draw in his head and feet under the shelter of the shell: the only sign he gave of being annoyed at all our pranks! We were told that our tortoise might not die for a hundred years, and I have heard that some have been known to live twice that time; it is a slow sort of life, but we must not forget that, in the poem about the Hare and the Tortoise, it was "slow and steady" that won the race.

I cannot remember that we ever gave our tortoise anything to eat; it must have catered for itself in the garden where it was so fond of burrowing and hiding away, that we had many a hunt for it when it was supposed to be lost. Mr. Wood speaks of a small one which he used to feed with bread and milk. He kept it, not in a garden, but in his own room, where its favourite place was the rug: for it enjoyed the heat so much, that it made many attempts, with its short legs and heavy shell, to climb over the fender in order to get nearer to the fire. I don't remember that our tortoise ever made any noise; but this one, shortly before it died, went about mewing like a young kitten. Far from living to be a hundred, Mr. Wood's pet died so soon that he had no opportunity of seeing whether it would in time get to know him; but a story is told of a tortoise who did take a fancy to one person, and, though he would attend to no one else, would come creeping along at her call, and tap the boot of his favourite with his beak, in token, we may suppose, of his regard. One lady, who had a long-standing acquaintance with a tortoise, having fed him for thirty years, said he would come to her, and to no one else; which looked rather like "cupboard love," you will say.

You may have often admired the tortoise-shell of which combs are made, with its beautiful wavy lines and markings; it is taken from the outside of the shell of the turtle or sea-tortoise, which is caught not only for the sake of its shell, but because its flesh is so good to eat. You may perhaps have seen, as I have, a small turtle at the door of a shop, and wondered where it came from, and what brought it there. You may be quite sure that it has come a long way, and that the poor creature is soon to be made into soup. Very awkward it looks, poor thing; for its proper home is in the water, and not on the hard pavement; its feet are rather like fins, so that it may be able to make its way rapidly through the water, and it only comes ashore to make its nest in the sand, where it scoops out a great hole with its paddle-like feet, and then covering its eggs over safely, leaves them for the sun to hatch.

I have heard that as many as two hundred eggs have been found in one of these sand-nests; but not all laid by one turtle; for those who hunt for the eggs have watched a crowd of animals come ashore, and have seen one of them dig a deep pit with its broad paws, lay its eggs, and cover them over; then another has done the same, until there have been several layers of eggs: such a nest is a lucky find; for turtle eggs are said to be delicious food, though some I tasted were very "strong" and nasty.



The turtles common in Jamaica, and other islands of the West and East Indies, are great creatures five or six feet long, but they are not difficult to capture, for when once they have been turned over on their backs, the shell is so heavy that they cannot, owing to the shortness of their legs, turn themselves back again, but lie helpless on the sand.

Of Lizards, the second division of the Reptile group, I doubt if you have seen any, except in the Reptile-house at the "Zoo"; for although there are two kinds of these active little creatures in our country, they do not often court our society. The common lizard, about six inches long, with very bright eyes, has a tail which is so brittle, that if you were to catch hold of it, it would break right off, and its late owner would dart away to its hiding-place, leaving the old tail in your hand; itself growing a new one.

The Sand-lizard, also found in England, is about twice the length of the common lizard: it lives on sandy heaths, and like the turtle, lays its eggs in the sand, to be hatched by the sun. But neither of our lizards is so pretty as the little green one so common in the warmer countries of Europe. It may be seen on walls, or by the wayside, basking in the sunshine, and now and then darting at a fly. The whole species are, like the butterflies, summer creatures, and hide themselves safely underground before winter comes.

In the Reptile-house of the Zoological Gardens, I have often stood to look at the largest kind of lizard; for the Crocodile, that huge animal with its green glaring eyes, and its armour made of bony plates with sharp ridges, is but an overgrown lizard. If you wish to form some idea of what it is most like, you can look at one of the beautiful little newts which live in some pond or ditch near you, and fancy it magnified many, many times, and then you will not have a bad notion of the crocodile, the lizard of Africa, or of the Cayman or Alligator, the great lizard of the New World.



The word crocodile means a creature which dislikes saffron; so it would be of no use, I suppose, for us to offer that lazy-looking animal floating in his tank, looking as lifeless as the trunk of a tree, with his nose and a little ridge of his mail-clad back alone appearing above the water, a saffron bun—to say nothing of his being a creature whose appearance does not seem to invite us to come to close quarters, or to hold any communication with him. But we have little idea of what these enormous reptiles are really like, when we see them so far away from their native haunts. It is thought by some that the "leviathan," spoken of in the book of Job, whose "teeth are terrible round about," is the crocodile; for its mouth is larger than that of any other animal, and is armed with very sharp teeth. Dr. Smith tells [Footnote: "Nile," Dictionary of the Bible, p. 621.] us that crocodiles were once so plentiful in the East, that the great river of Egypt swarmed with them, and the Egyptians, who made almost everything into a god, worshipped them and made mummies of them, as they did of birds, cats, and snakes.

I have often thought that when the mother of Moses long ago laid that child who was "fair to God" in his bulrush cradle among the reeds by the river's bank, her heart must almost have failed her as she remembered the terrible crocodiles; but she had faith in God, and He suffered no wild beast to molest that little ark. The crocodile feeds upon fish, and any animals which he can catch, when they come to the banks of the Nile and other African rivers to drink. Though it is clumsy in its movements on land, it makes its way swiftly through the water by means of its tail; sometimes it opens its terrible jaws, gives a great yawn, and then shuts them again with a sound which is heard far away. Mr. Arnot, a missionary in the heart of Africa, tells us that the crocodiles in the great river Zambesi drag the game which they catch under water, and so drown them, and then hide them under the river's banks. He says, "I used to watch these animals come up with perhaps a quarter of an antelope, and by firing at their heads I compelled them to drop their supper, Which my men picked up from their boats." The crocodiles' eggs are about the size of goose-eggs, and are said to be good to eat.

Herodotus, the "Father of History," tells a curious story about the crocodile and the Nile bird. He says, "When the crocodile takes his food in the Nile, the interior of its mouth is always covered with flies. All birds with one exception flee from the crocodile: but this one bird, the Nile bird, far from avoiding it, flies towards the reptile with the greatest eagerness, and renders it a very essential service. Every time the crocodile goes on shore to sleep, and at the moment when it lies extended, with open jaws, the Nile bird enters the mouth of the terrible animal and delivers it from the flies that it finds there. The crocodile shows its recognition of the service by never harming the bird."

I have heard that the flies which molest the crocodile are gnats, and their devourer a kind of plover.

Near Karachi, in India, there is a swamp caused by hot springs, which is inhabited by crocodiles. There are over two hundred in the tank, which has been walled in, as they are considered sacred creatures. Buffaloes stand in the water unharmed, but any other animal which came within reach would be instantly devoured. A rash young Englishman once made the tour of this tank, alive with crocodiles, by walking on their horny backs!