*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48367 ***

  BIRDS AND ALL NATURE.

  ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.

  VOL. VII.          MARCH, 1900.           NO. 3.




  CONTENTS.


                                                  Page
  THE ENGLISH SPARROW.                              97
  THE PEACOCK.                                      98
  THE SONG OF THE LARK.                            101
  THE HERALD OF SPRING.                            102
  MARCH.                                           103
  TAMING BIRDS.                                    103
  THE WILLOW PTARMIGAN.                            107
  ANIMAL PETS IN SCHOOL.                           108
  BAILEY'S DICTIONARY.                             109
  STELLER'S JAY.                                   110
  LINEN FABRICS.                                   113
  THE SYCAMORE WARBLER.                            116
  THE RUDDY DUCK.                                  119
  WINGS.                                           119
  I KNOW NOT WHY.                                  119
  THE BRAVE BOAR.                                  120
  GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH THE TEACHER.             121
  THE MUSKRAT.                                     122
  "NOT A SPARROW FALLETH."                         125
  THE TREATING OF WHITEY.                          127
  THE POPPY.                                       128
  THE PRIMROSE.                                    134
  THE EGRET'S YOUNG.                               137
  SPONGES.                                         138
  COMMON MINERALS AND VALUABLE ORES.               139
  THE YOUNG NATURALIST.                            143




THE ENGLISH SPARROW.

F. S. PIXLEY.


    You may talk about th' nightingale, th' thrush 'r medder lark,
    'R any other singin' bird that came from Noah's ark;
    But of all feathered things thet fly, from turkey-buzzard down,
    Give me the little sparrer, with his modest coat o' brown.

    I'll admit that in th' springtime, when th' trees 're gettin' green,
    When again th' robin red-breast 'nd th' bluebird first 're seen;
    When the bobolink 'nd blackbird from th' southland reappear,
    'Nd the crow comes back t' show us that th' spring is really here--

    I'll admit that in the _springtime_, when the groves with
          music ring,
    Natur' handicaps th' sparrer; he was never taught to sing;
    But he sounds th' Maker's praises in his meek 'nd lowly way;
    'Nd tho' other birds come back at times, _he_ never goes away.

    There's a cert'in sort o' people thet, when th' skies 're bright,
    Will hang around 'nd talk about their friendship day 'nd night;
    But if things cloudy up a bit 'nd fortune seems t' frown,
    They're sure t' be th' first t' kick a feller when he's down.

    So when the summer skies 're bright it's easy 'nough t' sing;
    But when it's cold 'nd rains 'r snows it's quite a diff'rent thing.
    In autumn, when th' nippin' frosts drive other birds away,
    Th' sparrer is th' only one with nerve enough t' stay.

    'Nd even in midwinter, when th' trees 're brown 'nd bare,
    'Nd th' frosty flakes 're fallin' thro' th' bitter bitin' air,
    Th' sparrer still is with us--t' cheer us when we're glum,
    Fer his presence is a prophecy of better days t' come.

    Th' sparrer's never idle, fer he has t' work his way;
    You'll always find him hustlin' long before th' break o' day.
    He's plucky, patient, cheerful, 'nd he seems t' say t' man,
    "I know I'm very little, but I do th' best I can."

    What more can you 'nd I do than t' always do our best?
    Are we any more deservin' than th' "little British pest?"
    So, when you talk of "feathered kings" you'd better save a crown
    Fer the honest little sparrer, with his modest coat o' brown.




THE PEACOCK.

    With pendant train and rustling wings,
    Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs;
    And he, the bird of hundred dyes,
    Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize.
                                        --_Bishop Heber._


It was a saying among the ancients, "As beautiful as is the peacock
among birds, so is the tiger among quadrupeds." The birds are of
many varieties, some white, others with crests; that of Thibet being
considered the most beautiful of the feathered creation. The first
specimens were brought to Europe from the East Indies, and they are
still found in flocks in a wild state in the islands of Java and
Ceylon. The common people of Italy describe it as having the plumage
of an angel, the voice of a devil and the intestines of a thief.
In the days of king Solomon his navies imported from the East apes
and peacocks, and Ælian relates they were brought into Greece from
some barbarous country, and that a male and a female were valued at
a hundred and fifty dollars of our money. It is said also that when
Alexander was in India he saw them flying wild on the banks of the
river Hyarotis, and was so struck with their beauty that he imposed a
fine on all who should slay or disturb them. The Greeks were so much
taken with the beauty of this bird, when first brought among them,
that it was shown for money, and many came to Athens from surrounding
countries to see it. It was esteemed a delicacy at the tables of
the rich and great and the birds were fatted for the feasts of the
luxurious. Hortensius, the orator, was the first to serve them at an
entertainment at Rome, and they were spoken of as the first of viands.
Barley is its favorite food, but as it is a proud and fickle bird
there is scarce any food it will at all times like. It lays waste the
labors of the gardener, roots up the choicest seeds, and nips favorite
flowers in the bud. He requires five females to attend him, often
more. The peahen is compelled to hide her nest from him that he may
not disturb her sitting. She seldom lays above a dozen eggs, which are
generally hatched about the beginning of November. Though the peafowls
invariably roost in trees, yet they make their nests on the ground, and
ordinarily on a bank raised above the common level. The nest consists
of leaves and small sticks. From January to the end of March, when
the corn is standing, the flesh is juicy and tender, but during the
dry season, when the birds feed on the seeds of weeds and insects, it
becomes dry and muscular.

In some parts of India peacocks are extremely common, flocking together
in bands of thirty and forty in number, covering the trees with their
splendid plumage and filling the air with their dissonant voices.
Captain Williamson mentions that he saw at least twelve or fifteen
hundred from where he stood.

Peacocks are very jealous of all quadrupeds, especially of dogs. When
they are discovered in a tree situated on a plain, if a dog is loose
and hunts near it, the birds will rarely move but will show extreme
uneasiness. One of these birds in the north of Ireland was a curious
mixture of cruelty and fun. He had four mates but he killed them all
successively by pecking them to death, for what cause no one could
ascertain. Even his own offspring shared the same fate, until his owner
placed the peafowl's eggs under a sitting hen and forced her to hatch
the eggs and care for the young. His great amusement was to frighten
the chickens. There were two iron troughs in which the food for the
chickens was placed daily. No sooner had they gathered about them, when
the peacock would erect his train, rattle his quills together with that
peculiar rustling sound that is so characteristic of these birds, and
march slowly toward them. The poor little chicks would slowly back away
from the troughs as the peacock advanced, not wishing to lose sight of
the food yet not daring to remain in defiance of their persecutor. By
degrees he got them all into a corner, crouching together and
trembling when he would overshadow them with his train, place the
ends of the feathers against the wall so as to cover them, rattle
his quills, in order to frighten them, and then strut off proud of
the trick he had played. He did not care for the food which he left
untouched.

  [Illustration: PEACOCK.
                 1/8 Life size.
                 FROM COL. F. NUSSBAUMER & SON.
                 A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER, CHICAGO.
                 CHICAGO COLORTYPE CO.
                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
                 NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]

The peacock's disposition is as variable as that of many other
creatures, some being mild and good-tempered, while others are morose
and jealous in the extreme. His train, though popularly called his
tail, is in reality composed of the upper tail coverts, which are
enormously lengthened and finished at their extremities with broad,
rounded webs, or with spear-shaped ends. The tail feathers are of a
grayish brown color seven or eight inches in length, and can only
be seen when the train is erected, that being its appointed task.
The female is much smaller than her mate and not nearly so handsome,
the train being almost wanting, and the color ashy brown, with the
exception of the throat and neck, which are green.

The peacock lives about twenty years and the beautiful variegated
plumage of the male's train appears about the third year after birth.




THE SONG OF THE LARK.

ADA M. GRIGGS.


    The peasant girl, her feet all bare,
    With her rustic grace, has a noble air.

    She's queen of the stubble-field and she,
    In mind, is free as the lark is free.

    Her thought, above all meaner things,
    Is soaring with the lark that sings.

    No hampered child of the city streets,
    Who bows his head whomsoe'er he meets,

    Who toils for a pittance with little rest,
    But should envy the freedom in this breast.

    She's the child of nature; vice does not lure;
    She's clothed upon with a life that's pure.

    The wholesomeness of her atmosphere
    Does more for man than his logic drear.

    Who delves in books' philosophic lore,
    Sees nature's problems--but little more.

    'Tis God's own child who has eyes to see
    What is closed to the eye of philosophy.

    The artist who dabbles with color and brush
    Sees but the reflection of nature's flush.

    The skilled musician knows not pure tone;
    He hears but the resonance of his own.

    'Tis the peasant girl, as she hurries along,
    Who hears the lark's good morning song.

    She hears it with gladness; her heart is gay;
    All nature greets her in festal array.

    The lark makes her world a world of song
    His notes in her heart sing her whole life long.

    She's the true musician, artist and seer;
    She looks upon nature with vision clear.

    The lark brings her day without shade or sorrow,
    And crowns each day with a sweet tomorrow.

    He gives a joy only nature can,
    A boon sent down from heaven to man.

    O little lark, sing on! sing on!
    The country dark new life will don.
      The tones thou'lt hurl from thy tiny heart
      Peace will unfurl and new joy impart.




THE HERALD OF SPRING.

CHARLES E. JENNEY.

    Before the snow flies
    A bit of Summer skies
      Comes flitting down
      Through Winter's frown
    To cheer up waiting eyes.


One gray February day, when dirty patches of snow are still lingering
on the north side of rocks and walls, as you gaze across a dreary
landscape, you espy a bit of bright color on the bar-post that
brightens up your spirit. 'Tis the first bluebird, and that means that
spring is coming. His cheery little ditty seems to say, "Spring is
coming, spring is coming, spring is here." He has been farther south
during the winter, for he seldom stays in Massachusetts in December and
January and he thinks it a little chilly just now, for his feathers are
all fluffed up around him so that he looks like an animated dumpling.

He has come back to locate his nest site--to see first if the old nest
hole of past years is suitable, for he is a great home-lover, and, if
not, to select a new one.

In March you will see the bluebirds often investigating rotten
bar-posts, hollow cedars, old woodpecker holes, and decayed apple-tree
stumps. And in the latter part of the month the females are with them.

Then one April day Mr. Bluebird sings always from a limb of a certain
apple-tree, and down in the trunk, in an abandoned woodpecker's hole,
are four pretty light blue eggs.

Every old orchard has its family of bluebirds, and they come back to
the same nest every year until something happens to scare them away
from it. A rotten bar-post or fence rail is a promising site also, and
they peck out a hole with their short bills and round it out quite as
neatly as that feathered carpenter, the woodpecker. When they get in a
little ways you may see the chips flying out of the aperture, though
no worker is in sight, and when it is almost done every now and then a
blue head will pop out with a beak full of loose wood, which is tossed
away. Then a few clean chips are left and the bird's own soft down
lines the home.

Often they will make use of wooden boxes set on poles or placed in the
trees for their benefit. They are very quiet, peaceful birds, so the
entrance to their homes should never be much larger than their own
small bodies require for admittance.

The scrubby cedars that grow along the New England coast make excellent
nooks and corners for the bluebird's home and the berries provide him
with food late in the season. I have even found a pair nesting in a
cedar grove on the extreme end of a rocky point exposed to the full
force of the southeast storms that sweep up Buzzard's bay. Usually,
however, they prefer the green fields and orchards of further inland.

One pair for five or six years nested in a hollow about twelve inches
deep formed in the crotch where a cedar tree branched into two parts.
It could not have been a comfortable or well-chosen home, for it was
open to the weather at the top and it would seem as if it must be
flooded in a heavy rain-storm. But it was only abandoned by the birds
when it had become known to every boy and egg collector in the village
as the hereditary estate of this family.

During April and May the bluebird is everywhere visible and audible,
but in midsummer he is not so often seen. He is essentially a bird of
the spring with us. His familiar contemporaries are the catbird and
the robin, but he is the earliest in the year of them all. Sometimes,
though not often, he stops all winter with us, and his red breast warms
the winter landscape which it dares to challenge.

See him dash from that old fence post after a mouthful of flies or
gnats; or hopping from twig to twig in the cedar tree, selecting the
choicest of the spicy berries. Sometimes he will venture in among the
crowd of talkative sparrows that are harvesting the crumbs in your
dooryard, but if they dispute his right he keeps away. The piece of
suet hung in the tree near the bird-box, however, is his own, and he
views the intruding buntings and trespassing jays from his front porch
or dormer window with much indignation.

However, he says very little, uses no bad language like that of the
jay, and soon regains the sereneness of temper natural to him. And we
like him all the better for it, for, although it is not nice to be
imposed upon and we like to see offenders get their deserts, the one
who takes life cheerfully and uncomplainingly overlooks or forgets the
wrongs he cannot right is the one we like to have as a friend.




MARCH.


    It is the first day of March,
      Each minute sweeter than before;
    The red-breast sings from the tall larch
      That stands beside the door.

    There is a blessing in the air,
      Which seems a sense of joy to yield
    To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
      And grass in the green field.

    Love, now a universal birth,
      From heart to heart is stealing,
    From earth to man, from man to earth;
      It is the hour of feeling.

    One moment now may give us more
      Than fifty years of reason;
    Our minds shall drink at every pore
      The spirit of the season.
                                        --_Wordsworth._




TAMING BIRDS.

GUY STEALEY.


But very few of the boys and girls who watch the many species of our
birds flit about in the summer time and who listen in delight to their
singing, know that by expending a little time and patience they can
make these sweet songsters quite tame. I do not mean that the birds
are to be caught and confined; I never could bear to see a bird in
captivity, and indeed most wild ones will live but a brief time when
so served, but that they can be made gentle in their natural state.
Where I live, in the Rocky Mountains, there are countless numbers of
birds throughout the spring and summer months and, being a great lover
of them, I have naturally observed their habits closely. Trusting,
therefore, that some of the boys and girls who entertain the affection
for them that I do, will see these lines, I venture to give some of my
experiences along the path of bird-life.

Some five years ago I constructed several miniature cottages, with
verandas, chimneys and all, and placed them on the fences around our
garden. The first season two pairs of wrens selected and occupied two
of them; a third was chosen by a pair of bluebirds, and the fourth
left vacant. Wrens, as you all know, are never much afraid of anyone,
but bluebirds are inclined to be shy. After a short time, however, the
pair I spoke of would alight within a few feet of where I was weeding
vegetables, and soon came to know that where the ground was freshly
turned, there were to be found the most worms. Before the summer was
over the wrens and bluebirds and I were the firmest of friends. Daily
they ran and hopped and peeped under the plants and flowers. And
besides giving me their companionship they did a vast amount of good in
the garden by keeping it clear of bugs and worms. It was astonishing
the number of these they carried to their little ones.

But time stops not, and finally there came cold and frosty nights that
warned my little friends, now comprising three families, that the day
of their departure for warmer lands was drawing near; and soon I was
all alone.

Every year since then has been a repetition of this first, only that
I have more houses around now and consequently more tenants. I firmly
believe too, that the first three couples still return to their old
homes, for the same houses are taken by the wrens every spring and the
same one by the bluebirds.

During the winter also, I sometimes have a few bird pets, though they
are others than snow birds. The latter I have never been able to make
friends with. When the weather is severe I often try to feed them,
but with poor success, as they are always very wild. The pets I have
reference to are bluejays and campbirds, or as they are more usually
called, camp-robbers. Both species stay here the year around.

Last winter I had a laughable time with them. Shortly after the first
snow I noticed a pair of camp-robbers--they seem to go in pairs both
summer and winter--around our meat-house. If you have never seen them
you cannot know what comical birds they are, so solemn and innocent
appearing, yet when it comes to stealing--well, they are the greatest
and boldest thieves you can find. If they are about and you chance
to have anything eatable around and turn your back for a moment you
are pretty sure to find it gone when you look again. I remember while
camping one fall, of seeing one of them dart down from a tree and take
a slice of meat right out of the frying-pan on the fire! But it was too
hot to hold long, and Mr. Camp-robber was obliged to relinquish his
dainty dinner before reaching his perch again. Arriving there he sat
for a long while, looking down at me with a wry face.

But I am digressing, and must get back to my story of the camp-robbers
and the meat-house.

A few days after I first saw them, I went in the house to cut some meat
for dinner; while there one of the robbers alighted on a bench placed
at the side of the door, and stood peeping in. I cut a small piece of
meat and tossed it on the step and in a second he had pounced on it and
was away. Everyday, from that time on, just at noon, the pair of them
would be watching for me, and I made it a rule to put some small pieces
of meat or bread on the steps at that hour of the day. As soon as I
retreated a little way they would secure them and fly off.

After they had been with me about a month, a bluejay happened along
one day, and seeing them at their meal, invited himself to partake of
part of it. The camp-robbers seemed somewhat angry at this, but did not
venture to remonstrate. The next day there were two bluejays and by the
end of a week I had two camp-robbers and seven bluejays looking to me
for their daily dinners.

I fed the whole company all winter and when spring came the
camp-robbers would almost take food from my hands; in fact they seemed
to look to me for protection, when eating, from the bluejays, who were
rather overbearing and wanted more than their share.

Whether they will visit me this winter I know not, but I _do_ know that
I should be glad to see them again.




  [Illustration: WILLOW PTARMIGAN.
                 1/2 Life-size.
                 FROM COL. F. F. SPREYNE.
                 A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER, CHICAGO.
                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
                 NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]

THE WILLOW PTARMIGAN.

(_Lagopus lagopus._)

C. C. M.


It has been claimed by some ornithologists that this species of grouse
is not to be found in this country, but it is now well established that
it may be found in northern portions of New Hampshire and northern New
York. In summer it is distributed throughout Arctic America. It breeds
abundantly in the valleys of the Rocky Mountains on the Barren Grounds
and along the Arctic coasts. Davie, who is probably the best authority
we have, says that the winter dress of this beautiful bird is snow
white, with the central tail feathers black, tipped with white. In
summer the head and neck are yellowish red, back black, barred rather
finely with yellowish brown and chestnut, although the most of the
wings and under parts remain white as in winter. Large numbers of the
willow ptarmigan are said in the winter to shelter in willow thickets
and dwarf birches on the banks of lakes and rivers, where they feed on
the buds of the smaller shrubs which form their principal food at that
season. Their favorite resorts in day time are barren, sandy tracts of
land, but they pass the nights in holes in the snow. When pursued by
sportsmen or birds of prey they dive in the loose snow and work their
way beneath its surface.

Nests of this species have been found in the Anderson River region
early in June and as late as June 24. Others have been found on the
banks of the Swan River as late as June 27. One nest was observed July
10 which contained ten perfectly fresh eggs, and another set of eggs
was examined July 22, the contents of which were slightly developed.
The nests were mere depressions in the ground, lined with leaves, hay,
and a few feathers from the birds themselves. These birds often occupy
the same nest in successive seasons. Ten eggs are usually laid, though
the female is said to lay as many as sixteen. The eggs have a ground
color varying from yellowish buff to deep chestnut-brown, more or less
sprinkled, speckled, spotted, or marbled with rich brown or black. The
average size is 1.78 by 1.25.

Hallock says that the various species of ptarmigan are all Alpine
birds, and are only found in the North and on the highest mountain
ranges. They are to be distinguished from all other members of the
grouse family by the dense feathering of the tarsus and toes, by
turning white in winter and by the possession of only fourteen tail
feathers. The bill is very stout and the tail always black. The length
of the ptarmigan is about sixteen inches. It is a most delicious
article of food, whether roasted, stewed, or in white soups. It is
said that visitors to Newfoundland assert that the flavor of a plump
partridge, well cooked, is unsurpassed in richness and delicacy. A
brace of them in season weigh from three to three and a half pounds. On
the first of September they are in prime condition, after feeding on
the wild partridge berry and cranberry, their favorite food.

When on the wing it is said the scarlet tips over the eyes of the male
bird glisten like rubies. The cock exposes himself fearlessly, when
in danger, to save the lives of his offspring. He tumbles along the
ground a few yards in advance of the dogs, rolling there in order to
decoy the sportsman from the brood which the hen is anxiously calling
into the thicket. No more touching instance of paternal affection
could be witnessed, or more touching proof among the lower creation of
self-sacrifice, prompted by love. The poor, feeble bird would almost
attack dogs and men in his efforts to save his children.

At times, in some districts, the ptarmigan is so tame that it can be
killed with a stick, and at others so wild that it will not allow the
sportsman to approach within gun shot.



ANIMAL PETS IN SCHOOL.

A wise old man down in Boston says animal pets should be kept in
public schools to teach children kindness to the weak. The jokesters
are already at work deriding one of the best thoughts anybody has had
about education for a long time because it seems, and possibly is,
impracticable. They call it a reversal of the Mary's lamb doctrine, and
suggest the propriety of letting the children throw paper wads to teach
them accuracy and precision.

Despite both its doubtful practicability and the jester's little fling,
Dr. Edward Everett Hale's proposition is not only founded on a right
theory, but reflects the very way in which nature, says the _Chicago
Journal_, first taught the great lesson of altruism and love.

Most of our scientists and some of our religious teachers nowadays
believe that man ascended from the beasts. If he did, the first
kindness, the first unselfishness, the first compassion for the
helpless, and gentleness toward the weak, that were ever in the world,
the first things that ever differentiated man from brute, were taught
to the parents of the race in exactly the way Dr. Hale would have them
taught to its children.

There never was any human love until there was human helplessness.
There never was any mother-love or father-love until children began to
be born that were feeble.

In some of the lower orders of life the young can take care of
themselves as soon as they are born. There is no reason why anything
should "care for" them, so nothing does. There is no affection for them
nor from them nor among them.

Love was first excited by something that needed care and kindness.
A couple of shaggy savages, animals that didn't know enough to love
each other yet, felt something "akin to pity" for an ugly baby with
a gorilla chin and no forehead, and resolved to do something not for
themselves, but for the hideous infant, and not because they were
proud of its prettiness and wanted to keep it for a plaything, but
because it so obviously needed to have something done for it.

That, the scientists tell us, was the beginning of unselfishness, the
beginning of care for others, the origin of affection and altruism, the
genesis of humanity, the promise of the destiny of man. The baby was
the animal pet that got into the schoolhouse with the children of the
early world and taught the first lesson of love. On its mighty weakness
hung most of those powerful and wonderful forces that have lifted
brutehood into manhood.

Heredity does a great deal, but most of the lesson has to be taught
over to every individual, and it is a more important one than geography
or grammar. Humanity's happiness and further progress depend on the
thoroughness with which it learns the lesson, not of arithmetic or
spelling, but of altruism.

Children are cruel. But they have hereditary instincts of kindness for
the weak that would develop the sooner into love for their fellows if
they had something helpless to exercise them on. When a big, hulking,
selfish boy begins to take a protecting interest in a little yellow dog
he is unconsciously teaching himself the greatest lesson he can ever
learn. Trotting around in that woolly hide, dodging stones, fleeing
to him for protection from the poundman, getting lost, and kicked,
starved, and hurt, is the beginning of the boy's unselfishness and the
man's altruism, and it is not funny, but sad, that the schoolhouse
door must shut it out so that the reluctant master may the better give
his attention to the mysteries of commercial arithmetic and the art
of skinning his fellow-man by means of "brokerage," "discount," and
"compound interest."

Dr. Hale may never see animal pets in the schools, but he has been in
the world a long time, and knows what humanity needs.




BAILEY'S DICTIONARY.

C. C. MARBLE.


This may be called the age of dictionary making. All philological
scholarship seems to culminate in historic derivation. Without
referring invidiously to cultivated foreign languages, each of which
has many such monuments of elaborate, accurate, and patient research,
it may be said with confidence that the English language is unrivaled
in its lexicographers, who at the close of the nineteenth century have
completed works which only a few decades ago were not thought of as
possible. Dr. Johnson prepared his unabridged dictionary in seven years
"with little assistance from the great," an achievement which at the
time excited wonder and admiration, though insignificant indeed in
comparison with present performances. And yet there may be some doubt
about the comparatively greater usefulness to the general reader of
the bulky volumes of the modern publishers. In illustration the reader
might find an analysis of one of the oldest English dictionaries an
interesting example.

For several years I have had at hand "An Universal Etymological English
Dictionary and Interpreter of Hard Words," by N. Bailey, 1747. On
almost all occasions when I have needed to consult a dictionary I have
found it satisfactory, some of its learning, on account of its very
quaintnesses and contemporaneous character, being better adapted to
a particular definition than modern directness. Perhaps its greatest
defect is the absence from it of scientific terms, of which, however,
there were very few at that time.

The introduction is exceedingly learned and the causes of change in
language are discussed with much ingenuity. Many examples of Saxon
antiquities are given, one of which, the Lord's prayer, written about
A. D. 900, by Alfred, Bishop of Durham, we may quote, from which "it
doth appear," says Bailey, "that the English Saxon Language, of
which the Normans despoiled us in great Part, had its beauties, was
significant and emphatical, and preferable to what they imposed upon
us." Here is the prayer:

"Our Father which art in Heavens, be hallowed thine name; come
thine Kingdom; be thy will so as in Heavens and in Earth. Our Loaf
supersubstantial give us to-day, and forgive us Debts our so we forgive
Debts ours, and do not lead us into Temptation, but deliver us from
Evil."

The introduction is in Latin. Greek, Hebrew, and Saxon characters are
used in the definitions. Bailey defines the meanings of proverbs with
far more particularity than is necessary, perhaps, and yet a small
volume could be made up of these curious "common or old pithy sayings,"
as he defines them, many of which are obsolete or unknown to the
readers of the present day. Instance:

"As sure as God's in Gloucestershire." This proverb is said to have its
rise, on account that there were more rich and mitred abbeys in that
than in any two shires of England beside; but some, from William of
Malmsbury, refer it to the fruitfulness of it in religion, in that it
is said to have returned the seed of the gospel with the increase of
an hundred fold. And "Good wine needs no bush." This proverb intimates
that virtue is valuable for itself, and that internal goodness stands
in need of no external flourishes or ornaments; and so we say "A good
face needs no band."

One other, a short one: "All goes down gutter lane." This is applied to
those who spend all in drunkenness and gluttony, alluding to the Latin
word gutter, which signifies the throat.

Not a few of these proverbs, with their explanations, occupy whole
pages of the dictionary, and where they are traced to the Greeks or the
Hebrews the original characters are brought into use as incontestable
evidence of their authenticity. Definitions are numerous of words
which, while perfectly legitimate and of Saxon origin and of common
usage in the age of Elizabeth, are omitted at the present day from
lexicons in deference to the prevalence of a more delicate taste.

The book contains about one thousand pages, is printed in a style
little dissimilar to present unabridged dictionaries, and must have
been of prodigious assistance to the author's successors. He does
not deprecate the labors of his predecessors, whom he acknowledges
to have saved him much trouble, but he claims to have omitted their
redundancies in order to make room to supply their deficiencies to the
extent of several thousand words, "in no English dictionary before
extant," and that he is the first who attempted an etymological part.

This very important contribution to English literature--far more
important then than any similar performance could be now--is, strange
to say, nowhere mentioned in what is regarded as the best history of
English literature. And just here the remark might be appropriately
made that omissions of this kind in standard literary histories and
cyclopædias go far to call in question the qualifications of the
editors. A word may be overlooked or forgotten, but a scholar who has
contributed substantially to the growth and enrichment of a great
language deserves a better fate.




STELLER'S JAY.

(_Cyanocitta stelleri._)

    The jay is a jovial bird--Heigh-ho!
        He chatters all day
        In a frolicsome way
    With the murmuring breezes that blow--Heigh-ho!

        Hear him noisily call
        From the redwood tree tall
    To his mate in the opposite tree--Heigh-ho!
        Saying, "How do you do?"
        As his topknot of blue
    Is raised as polite as can be--Heigh-ho!

        Oh, impudent jay,
        With your plumage so gay,
    And your manners so jaunty and free--Heigh-ho!
        How little you guessed,
        When you robbed the wren's nest,
    That any stray fellow would see--Heigh-ho!


This is an abundant and interesting cousin of the bluejay and is found
along the Pacific coast from northern California northward. It is a
very common resident of Oregon, is noisy, bold, and dashing. The nest
of this bird is built in firs and other trees and in bushes, ten to
twenty feet from the ground. It is bulky and made of large sticks and
twigs, generally put together with mud, and lined with fine, dry
grasses and hair. The eggs are three to five, pale green or bluish
green, speckled with olive-brown, with an average size of 1.28×.85.
There seems no doubt that many jays have been observed robbing nests of
other birds, but thousands have been seen that were not so engaged. It
has been shown that animal matter comprises only about twenty-five per
cent. of the bird's diet.

  [Illustration: STELLER'S JAY.
                 1/2 Life-size.
                 FROM COL. F. KAEMPFER.
                 A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER, CHICAGO.
                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
                 NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]




LINEN FABRICS.

W. E. WATT, A. M.


We had just taken that delightful ride down the rapids of the St.
Lawrence, and experienced the thrill of mingled pleasure and fear which
everyone has at the moment when the vessel is dashing at a furious rate
directly towards a great rock, and we were sure that someone had made
a mistake for once, and no power could save us from being dashed in
pieces, when a sudden whirling current of the stream picked the ship
out of the way of the rock and carried her safely through the boiling
foam into a place of comparative safety.

As we stood among the seagoing shipping of the port of Montreal we
could easily understand why there should be such a great city there.
We took but little stock in what had been said of the great business
enterprise of the early settlers of that town and how they built up
the place till it became a great seaport and an important commercial
center. No doubt they were able and enterprising men, but Montreal was
made by nature the greatest and most important seaport of Canada by the
peaceful deep river and its formidable rapids. Since no ships can sail
up those rapids the boats that came from Europe and all over the earth
were obliged to tie up there and discharge their cargoes.

Wherever there is a ledge of rock to stop the coming up of vessels from
the sea there is always an important town to receive what those ships
bring and to distribute it over the country round about.

We went aboard a ship that had just come in from France loaded with
cases of wines. As the wines were being carried ashore at some of the
gangways loads of something else were being brought aboard at others.
This stuff was done up in sacks longer than a man and very heavy. It
took several men to handle a sack. They were so careless about it that
we wondered that they did not fear breaking the contents of the sacks.
Then we wondered more what sort of stuff could be shipped to Europe in
such sacks and in such great quantities. We inquired; and it took some
little time to make the inquiry, for the men who did the work spoke
something that sounded like French, but our school French did not suit
them. We could find no one at hand who spoke English. We learned that
the sacks contained oilcake.

Linen has been woven since records of what man has done have been
kept. Some historians claim that cotton is the oldest fabric, and give
instances of old records of its use in India and China. Others claim
woolen goods to be the oldest, and yet others claim the honor for
linen. Whoever looks into the matter extensively will be inclined to
give the credit to whichever fabric he studies most, but it is likely
that the figleaf will be credited with the greatest age as a fabric by
most people.

The seed of flax is ground fine, either roasted or raw, and placed
under heavy hydraulic pressure. This brings out the oil, which is a
very important article called linseed oil. The cake is valuable for
feeding cattle and the oil is used in all kinds of painting where the
painted surface has to stand against the weather. Most of the flax
raised in America is cultivated for the seed mainly. In Ohio three
pecks of seed are sown to the acre and from six to twelve bushels are
harvested. There is also a ton or two of straw to the acre, which is
used at the rope-walks and paper-mills. Linen paper is peculiarly
valuable.

The mummies of Egypt were swathed in linen, and much of this cloth
is now in an excellent state of preservation although at least four
thousand years have sped since its manufacture. While Joseph was in
bondage cloth was woven which is still in existence.

There was once some question as to whether certain mummy cloth was of
cotton or linen. But that has been definitely settled by the use of
powerful lenses. The microscope shows that a fiber of cotton is flat
and curly like a ribbon somewhat crinkled, and, like a fine ribbon,
has a beautiful border which differs from the rest of the fiber. A
fiber of flax has a glassy luster and is not flat like cotton, but
rather like an extremely fine bamboo rod, cylindrical and jointed.
When these facts were learned regarding the two fibers the cloth under
suspicion was placed under the glass and showed unmistakably that it
was round, transparent, and jointed. So there could no longer be any
doubt that the ancient coverings of the dead in Egypt were all of linen
with no mixture of cotton even when cotton was well-known.

The dead could not be buried in cerements of wool because there was a
strict law against it, the wool being supposed to invite worms. The
remarkable preservation of the cloth is largely due to the fact that it
was well smeared with wax and asphaltum. But the fibers of flax resist
decay to such an extent that in the ordinary process of preparing flax
for spinning it is moistened and left exposed to such an extent that if
it were as easy to decay as cotton it would become rotten before the
time for spinning.

The earliest records of the business of preparing this useful fabric
are those of the Egyptians as cut in stone on their ancient monuments.
In their hieroglyphics and illustrations they have left us a complete
representation of all their arts, and the processes of gathering flax,
rotting off the bark and coatings of the fibers, cleaning the material
by striking with clubs or whipping it against stones, straightening
the fibers, twisting them into threads, and weaving cloth, are all
beautifully pictured and described.

When William the Conqueror invaded England his wife Matilda made a
record of the principal events of his life by embroidering upon a
linen strip twenty inches wide and two hundred and fourteen feet long
figures of the men, boats, animals, weapons, and other interesting
objects, using woolen thread and depicting all with great clearness
and accuracy. The Bishop of Odo assisted her husband at the battle of
Hastings, and in remembrance of his kindness Matilda presented the work
to the cathedral of Bayeaux. It is now preserved in the public library
of that city.

Two hundred years ago there were spinning schools in Germany. The
teacher sat with a wand in her hand and tapped the children near her
when they lapsed into idleness, and when she noticed any of those
at some distance from her not at work she rang a little bell for an
attendant to enter and take the offenders out of the room for the
purpose of punishment.

The old Dutch settlers in New York made what was called linsey-woolsey.
This was a sort of cloth made with linen warp filled in with woolen
woof. It was better than all-wool goods because it held its shape
better and was stronger. This material was much worn by the early
inhabitants of America, Abraham Lincoln being one of those who were
well-satisfied with home-made garments of this fabric. Irving, in
his "Knickerbocker's History of New York," claimed that some of the
Dutchmen whose names ended in broeck were so-called because of some
peculiarity pertaining to their breeches. For instance, Tenbroeck took
his name from the rare distinction of his possessing and wearing at the
same time ten pairs of linsey-woolsey breeches.

When people began to show their prosperity by purchasing cloth made
up more beautifully than the product of the homestead loom they had
to endure the remarks of others who affected to despise the man who
was so extravagant as to care to dress in "store cloth." So recent is
the use of this old-fashioned material that we find in one of Louisa
Alcott's essays to girls the statement that "Modesty is as sweet in
linsey-woolsey as in linen."

The greatest country in the world for the production of linen of the
best quality is Ireland. Flax there reaches a height often exceeding
two feet and the soil and climate seem to be the very best for maturing
the fiber and manipulating it when gathered. In traveling through the
country I saw a great deal of what at first glance seemed to be some
sort of grain lying on the ground spoiling in the rain. I soon realized
that this was flax and that it was left out on the ground purposely to
give the pulp and bark a chance to rot away from the fiber.

Dew-retting is letting the flax lie in the heavy dews of Ireland till
the work is done. Soil on which flax is raised is rapidly made poor
unless the richness that is taken from it in the flax is restored to
it in some way. Most of this richness is in the seed and the part of
the stalk that is removed in the retting. Where this gets back to the
soil there is little else to be added. Sometimes the flax is retted
in small pools and the water saved to put upon the ground, though the
flax is more discolored by this process than where the work is done in
running water. Recently steam heat and vapor have been used to soften
the stalks, and then the air pump draws the pulp away from the fiber,
so that what once took several weeks to do is now done in a few hours.
By the old process the fiber was sometimes left stacked dry for years
with constant improvement in quality.

The Irish people, who are so proud of their island, point with
additional pride to what some of their linen towns have done. As we
were riding past the little village of Bessbrook a clergyman took pains
to point out to us the evidences of thrift. He said that town lacked
three p's that are very troublesome to other towns all over the world.
They were the pawnshop, the public house, and the police. The good
character of the people made these entirely unnecessary for their town.
But these good qualities are not universal there, for in some of the
larger places intemperance is remarkably bad.

We saw the work in all its stages at Belfast. Queen Victoria gets her
table linen from that city, and we saw several pieces in the loom that
had the royal arms upon them. To get the finest fabric the fiber is
kept moist in both spinning and weaving. Nothing can be more beautiful
than the silky, transparent stuffs made there. Dry spinning is done
where a coarse and heavy grade of goods is desired. American visitors
in Ireland, especially the gentlemen, plan to bring home as large a
quantity of linen collars, cuffs, and handkerchiefs as the customs
officers will allow to pass at New York free of duty.

The finest linen goods are called lawns, and this name is a
modification of the French word _linon_, which sounds much like lawn
when spoken properly. The French make many fine articles from all sorts
of fibers, and seem to have recovered from the blow to their industries
which came on the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Some writers claim
that nearly half a million skilled workers in fabrics left that country
in the years around 1688.

While the battle of Waterloo was raging near Brussels and the people
of rank were so strongly affected by the thunder of the guns of all
Europe there were thousands of women, young and old, in that city and
within hearing of the great contest who kept right on with their work,
making laces. They knew somebody would win the day, and there would be
a market for all sorts of finery, and the linen laces of Belgium were
of much importance to society. There are many kinds of laces made in
Brussels, but the kind you most see as you pass along the streets is
that being made on little cushions by women sitting before their shops
and houses with one eye upon their work and the other on those who are
passing, hoping to get an American to pay a large price for something
that he thinks he has seen made. It is not an unheard-of thing for an
American to buy of one of these attractive lace-makers lace that came
from the machines of Nottingham, England, for machine-made lace is much
cheaper than that made by hand.

Pillow lace was probably invented by Barbara Uttmann, in the middle of
the sixteenth century. She lived in St. Annaberg, Germany, and was a
woman of great natural ability. She was highly honored by the Saxons,
who state with pride that when she died, at the age of sixty, she had
seen sixty-four of her own children and grand-children.

Point lace of the old sort was the highest form of needle art. Holy
men of old gave their lives to architecture, believing they could give
glory to God by work in stone beautifully carved and set in the walls
of monasteries and cathedrals; so it happened that in the thirteenth
century the works of their hands reached the highest point in
architecture. So beautiful is their work even now that those who have
studied the subject but little know the date of a building when they
see its windows. But a century later the nuns had done something of the
same sort. They had produced from the fine fibers of flax marvelous
designs of fleecy lace fabrics that were the wonder of Christendom.
Their art was buried with them. A point lace is made to-day, but it
is far from the excellence of the original work, which was a constant
prayer of those who gave their lives to the making of it.

A Yankee boy of twenty, Erastus Bigelow, thought it would be a good
thing to try to invent a way of making coachlace by machinery. In
forty days he was producing lace at three cents a yard which had cost
twenty-two cents. Then he invented a loom for ingrain carpets; this
made eight yards a day instead of three that the looms of the time
made. In making Brussels carpet he made his chief triumph. Seven yards
a day was considered a good day's work, but he made a machine that
produced twenty-five yards of much better quality in the same time.
He received one hundred thousand dollars for his patents. The body of
Brussels carpet is built on a foundation of linen.




THE SYCAMORE WARBLER.

BELLE P. DRURY.


The last winter was one of unusual severity in the south, as well as
elsewhere. The cold continued until rather late in the spring and
caused the death of numbers of birds that came north too soon. One
day the last of March a sycamore warbler flew in at the open door
of a cottage in the Indian Territory. It settled familiarly on the
dining-table, picking up crumbs from the cloth. It seemed cold and
almost famished, having arrived too early from its winter haunts in
Mexico or Guatemala. After satisfying its hunger it flew about the
room, and presently, instead of flying out, it dashed its breast
against a mirror and dropped to the floor, quite dead. The blow could
scarcely have caused death except for the bird's exhausted condition.
I picked up the wee creature to examine its pretty coat. How dainty
each ash-gray feather! Some were tipped and some marked with white. The
throat had a tinge of yellow; then two colors giving the extra names
of "white-browed" and "yellow-throated" warbler. This bird frequents
marshy lands where sycamore trees flourish. It loves to build its nest
in the topmost boughs, safe from all enemies. Here the male, screened
from view, sings his song, which resembles that of the indigo bunting,
but with a different modulation. When the days became warm I often saw
a happy pair of them, busy, I supposed, in building, but the nests were
too high for inspection.




  [Illustration: RUDDY DUCK.
                 1/2 Life-size.
                 FROM COL. F. NUSSBAUMER & SON.
                 A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER, CHICAGO.
                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
                 NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]

THE RUDDY DUCK.

(_Erismatura rubida._)


Few, if any, ducks have so many popular names as this species, which
is known as spine-tailed, heavy-tailed, quill-tail coot, stiff-tail,
bristle-tail, sleepy-duck, sleepy coot, fool-duck, deaf-duck,
shot-pouch, daub-duck, stubble-and-twist, booly-coot, blather scoot,
hickory-head, greaser, paddy, noddy, paddy-whack, dinkey, hard-tack,
etc., according to the locality or the particular individual who is
asked to name the species. It has characteristics which justify the
use of any one or all of these names. Its range is the whole of North
America, which extends south to Guatemala and Colombia, Cuba and other
West Indian islands. Probably no North American duck has so extensive
a breeding-range as the present species, since it breeds as far south
as Guatemala, perhaps even farther; as far north as Great Stone Lake,
York Factory, and other localities in the sub-Arctic portions of the
continent, and from the Atlantic to the Pacific. According to Professor
Cook it winters from southern Illinois southward. This duck seems to
be equally fond of salt, brackish, and fresh water. In the Southern
states it is found in great flocks. Its flight is rapid, with a
whirring sound, occasioned by the concave form of the wings. It rises
from the water with considerable difficulty, being obliged to assist
itself with its broad webbed feet, and for that purpose to run on the
surface for several yards. From the ground, however, it can spring up
at once. It swims with ease and grace, is expert at diving, and when
wounded, often escapes in this way, hiding in the grass if there is
any accessible. The locality usually selected for a nest is some deep,
sluggish stream, lake, or pond, and the nests are always built close
to the water's edge, being composed of reeds, dry rushes, and grass.
The structure is often made so that it will float, similar to a grebe's
nest. It is asserted that this bird prefers the abandoned nests of
coots for nesting purposes to those constructed by itself. The eggs
appear large for the size of the bird; they are grayish white, oval
in shape, with a finely granulated surface; sizes range from 2.35 to
2.50 long by 1.70 to 1.80 broad. Audubon says that the adult female in
summer presents the same characteristics as the male. He describes the
male one year old as having a similar white patch on the side of the
head; upper part of head and hind neck dull blackish brown; throat and
sides of neck, lower part of the neck dull reddish brown waved with
dusky; upper parts as in the adult but of a duller tint, lower parts of
a grayish white.




WINGS.


    Wings that flutter in sunny air;
    Wings that dive and dip and dare;
    Wings of the humming-bird flashing by;
    Wings of the lark in the purple sky;
    Wings of the eagle aloft, aloof;
    Wings of the pigeon upon the roof;
    Wings of the storm-bird, swift and free,
    With wild winds sweeping across the sea--
    Often and often a voice in me sings--
    Oh for the freedom, the freedom of wings!
                                        --_Mary F. Butts._




I KNOW NOT WHY.


    I lift mine eyes against the sky,
    The clouds are weeping--so am I;
    I lift mine eyes again on high,
    The sun is smiling--so am I.
    Why do I smile? Why do I weep?
    I do not know, it lies so deep.
    I hear the winds of autumn sigh.
    They break my heart, they make me cry.
    I hear the birds of lovely spring,
    My hopes revive, I help them sing.
    Why do I sing? Why do I cry?
    It lies so deep I know not why.
                                        --_Morris Rosenfeld._




THE BRAVE BOAR.

ELLA F. MOSBY.

    "Upstairs, downstairs,
    And in my lady's chamber,"


The French chronicles of the reign of Francis I. tell the following
wonderful story of a boar hunt: "'Twas in a grand forest that stretched
for miles around a castle--an old-fashioned castle of ramparts and
towers, of wide halls and winding stairways.

Oliver, the twelve-year old son of the master of the castle, had set
his heart on going with his father to hunt the wild boar with the
gentlemen of the neighborhood. The forest was the home of a great many
wild creatures, great and small. Squirrels and hares lived there;
wide-antlered stags and timid does with their young fawns beside them,
foxes, boars that feasted on the black acorns and chestnuts that
covered the ground, and fierce gray wolves, seen chiefly in winter. The
boars were the fiercest of all, even the sows would fight for their
young ones, and there was one old boar who was by this time quite
famous for his courage, his cunning and his great age. He was called
Pique-Mort, which means death-thrust, because he had in his savage
onslaughts fatally wounded so many men, horses and dogs.

"Oliver's father had ordered the great hunt against this very old
warrior, who, by the way, had grown so shrewd that he could not always
be roused from his secret lair even by the beaters and prickers who
went ahead of the hunters. But he surely would appear to-day. The
forest was ringing with horns and bugles, the neighing of horses,
the baying of noble hounds, the hallooing and joyous clamor of the
sportsmen.

"Oliver was well prepared for the occasion. Old Bertrand had taught him
all the calls and recalls on bugle and horn, had trained him to thrust
with the long boar-spear, and to use the short, thick sword kept for
the last when the brute was near, and the big boar-hounds Vite-Vite,
and the others, turned and obeyed his voice when it rang out in its
clear, boyish treble. Most important of all, his mother had consented
to his going.

"But alas, and alas! when the morning dawned fair and sweet, poor
Oliver was racked with grievous pain and burning with fever! The chase
swept away with shout and cry and bugle-blast, and Oliver barely heeded
it or turned his head when his father called back: 'We'll bring old
Pique-Mort home with us.' However, by the afternoon the fever had
slackened, and the pain abated, and Oliver lay white and weak on his
couch, and with piteous tears on his cheeks over the mischance that had
held him fast at home. He turned his face to the wall in a burst of
passionate grief as they heard, at first far off, and then nearer and
nearer, the excited yelps of the dogs, then the trampling of horses,
the hoarse cries of the men, and oh, the bugle!--note of 'La Mort!'
which meant victory over the famous boar!

"'Oliver,' said his mother tenderly,--and then all at once came a sound
at which both started, and threw their arms about each other. In the
hall below, up the stairs, came a heavy creature, panting, snorting,
and the furious Pique-Mort suddenly burst upon their amazed vision!
Sinister and savage did he look, the little, round greedy eyes red with
rage, the bristles standing up like a cuirass, the sharp and cruel
tusks ready for assault, and foam and blood churned at their base into
a streaked froth by his heat and anger. He was within the chamber.
Oliver's arm dropped nerveless at his side, and his frightened eyes
sought vainly for any weapon.

"The mother had a quicker wit, and stooping down, she seized with both
arms a large Eastern rug, and threw it over the beast's head, blinding
him for the while, as well as blunting the thrust of the terrible
tusks. As he struggled desperately in its smothering and heavy folds,
the whole following--dogs, men and the master at their head, were up
the stairs also, and the death-stroke was quickly given. It was the end
of the veteran of so many chases in morass and thicket--Pique-Mort was
dead.

"After a moment's half-stupefied stare, the lord of the castle broke
forth:

"'Well, my boy, you were at the finish after all.' The dogs could not
be held off their old foe, and the brave boar was furious at their
baiting, and so broke away. My lady, you have the glory, and Oliver
his wish.'

"Old Bertrand stroked his grizzled beard.

"''Twas a gallant brute,' he said. 'Had he been a man they would have
styled him _hero_. He had a high courage and loved freedom well.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

We have grown since those rough days into more compassion for animals,
but even yet we are not altogether just to their side of the question,
to the recognition of their right to life and its joys as their
merciful Creator has given it to them.




GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH THE TEACHER.

JESSIE P. WHITAKER.


In the summer of 1897, wandering in the woods of Pigeon Cove, on the
outer point of Cape Ann, the prolonged call of a bird often came to my
ears, which aroused my curiosity. I was not then much acquainted with
birds, but was beginning to "take notice" and usually carried my field
glass on my walks, and if I saw or heard a bird unfamiliar to me, tried
to look him up in my books. I had with me "Our Common Birds and How to
Know Them," by John B. Grant; also Florence Merriam's "Birds Through an
Opera Glass"--very good books to aid beginners in identifying birds.
The call of which I speak was so marked and so often repeated that I
eagerly searched for the bird, but could not get a glimpse of him, nor
even locate the sound accurately.

I soon perceived, however, that it was a regular chant, increasing in
an even crescendo, vibrating through the woods. I remembered reading
descriptions of such a call in the books, and soon found my bird to be
the oven-bird, golden-crowned thrush, or teacher bird.

But why "teacher" bird?

I was constantly asking this question, for to my ears the sound always
came as _ti-chee, ti-chee, ti-chee_, with accent always on the final
syllable. By no exercise of the imagination could I make it sound like
"teacher." Never during that summer nor during the two succeeding
summers have I heard these birds at Pigeon Cove say "teacher."

The little brown walker kept out of my sight very persistently
during that first summer, but in September, walking in the woods
near Star Lake in the Adirondacks, I had a good, near view of two
little olive-green birds walking on some low branches. Their white
speckled breasts proclaimed them thrushes, while the beautiful crown
of brownish orange inclosed in lines of black, plainly marked them the
"golden-crowned." Often as I have seen the bird since, his golden crown
has never appeared as conspicuous as it did on that September day by
the mountain lake. But I had to go to Skaneateles Lake in central New
York to hear him say "teacher." On a May morning in in 1899, sitting on
a mountain side overlooking this beautiful sheet of water, the chant
of a bird came vibrating through the woods to my ears, _teach-ah,
teach-ah, teach-ah, teach-ah, teach-ah_ very distinctly.

Accent clearly on the first syllable this time.

Ah! Mr. Burroughs, at last I have found your little "teacher."

Will anyone tell me _why_ this bird with olive back and speckled,
thrush-like breast, is placed in the family _Mniotiltidæ_, or wood
warblers, instead of with the _Turdidæ_, or thrushes? And why is the
"water thrush" also classed with wood warblers, when his olive back
and speckled breast make him seem almost a twin brother to the oven
bird, while both are so unlike other members of the warbler family,
and so much resemble the true thrushes? It was at Glen Haven, beside a
mountain brook tumbling down into Skaneateles Lake that I had my first
and only view of a water thrush.

His clear song, repeatedly ringing out above the noisy music of the
brook, kept luring me onward and upward over the rough banks, till at
length I saw the little walker peering about among the stones for his
food. Another bird closely resembling the thrushes and bearing the
name, yet placed in _another family_, is the brown thrasher, or thrush.
I look in my book for his classification. Family _Troglodytidæ_! I can
scarcely believe my eyes! Can any one give me any earthly reason _why_
the ornithologists in their wisdom have seen fit to place this bird,
with his reddish brown back, speckled breast and beautiful thrush-like
song, in the same family with catbirds and wrens? Truly the mysteries
of ornithology are past my comprehension.

To return to our "teacher." My acquaintance with him has not yet
advanced to the stage of finding him "at home" in his dwelling. As
Neltje Blanchan says, "it is only by a happy accident" that one
might "discover the little ball of earth raised above the ground,
but concealed by leaves and twigs and resembling a Dutch oven, which
gives the bird its name of oven-bird." Last summer at Pigeon Cove the
warning cries of a mother-bird led me to suspect a nest, but I failed
to find it. The brood had evidently left their home, for a sudden
loud outcry from the mother-bird startled me as the little thrushes
scurried out of the path from almost under my feet, while Madame
Thrush fluttered about with a pretense of a broken wing to distract my
attention. Her "trailing" was quite effective, for by the time I had
turned my attention from her performance to the babies, they were quite
out of sight.




  [Illustration: MUSKRAT.
                 1/3 Life-size.
                 FROM COL. F. NUSSBAUMER & SON.
                 A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER, CHICAGO.
                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
                 NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]

THE MUSKRAT.

(_Fiber Zibethicus._)


That part of North America which is included between the thirtieth
and sixtieth parallels of north latitude is the home of this species
of muskrat, which is the most numerous of the family. It is most
plentiful in Alaska and Canada, which are so rich in lakes and rivers.
It is described as a large water mole, with a long tail, broad hind
paws, a blunt snout, and short, hair-covered ears, which may be closed
to exclude water. The fur is close, smooth, soft, and lustrous, the
woolly under fur being extremely delicate, fine, and short; the outer
coat has a strong luster, and is double the length of the former.
Adult males attain a total length of twenty-three inches, the tail
occupying about half of this. Grassy banks of large lakes or wide,
slowly flowing streams and swamps are its favorite haunts, though it
is frequently seen about large ponds, grown with reeds and aquatic
plants, where it erects a permanent home and dwells either in small
colonies or communities of considerable numbers. The mode of life
of a muskrat is in many respects like that of the beaver, for which
reason the Indians call the two animals brothers, and affirm that the
beaver is the older and more intelligent of the two. The burrows of the
muskrat consist of plain underground chambers, with several tunnels,
all terminating under water, or of strongholds above ground. These
are of a round or dome shape, stand on a heap of mud, and rise above
the surface of the water. They are lined with reeds, reed grass, and
sedge, cemented with mud; the interior of the "lodge" contains a single
chamber from sixteen to twenty-four inches in diameter. A tunnel which
opens beneath the water leads to it. In winter it lines its chambers
softly with water lilies, leaves, grasses, and reeds, providing for
ventilation by loosely covering the center of the dome-shaped roof with
plants, which admit a sufficient quantity of fresh air and let the
vitiated air out. As long as the pond or swamp does not freeze to the
very bottom it is said to lead a highly comfortable existence in its
warm habitation, which is often protected by a covering of snow. Some
observers say that the food of the muskrat consists almost wholly of
aquatic plants, but Audubon saw captive muskrats which were very fond
of mussels. They are very lively, playful creatures when in the water.
On a calm night many of them may be seen in a mill-pond or some other
sequestered pool, "disporting themselves, crossing and recrossing in
every direction, leaving long, glittering ripples in their wake as they
swim, while others stand for a few moments on little tufts of grass,
stones, or logs, from which they can reach their food floating on the
water; others sit on the banks of the pond and then plunge one after
the other into water like frogs."

From three to six young are born in a burrow. If caught young they are
easily tamed, and are of an equable and gentle disposition. Although
some people dislike the fur on account of the odor of musk which clings
to it for a long time, it is often used for trimming clothing or in the
manufacture of collars and cuffs, especially in America and China. The
best pelts are deprived of the long outer fur, dyed a dark brown color
and used as a trimming which resembles sealskin. The animal is caught
in traps baited with apples. The Indians know exactly which "lodges"
are inhabited; they only eat the flesh, as the odor does not seem to be
disagreeable to them.




"NOT A SPARROW FALLETH."

GRANVILLE OSBORNE.


No traveler in Palestine, the land of sacred memories, will need an
introduction to the sparrows. They are as tame, troublesome, vivacious,
and impertinent, as their numerous progeny across the seas. They chirp
and twitter, asserting their rights of possession in places where they
are not welcome, industriously building their nests in every available
nook and corner, and defending them fearlessly against every feathered
encroacher. They stop up the stove-pipes and water-gutters with
their rubbish, build nests in the windows, and under the eaves of the
roofs, and have not the least reverence for any place or thing. You
see them perching on the loftiest spires of the Holy City, flitting
in and out of minaret and tower, wherever an opening invites them to
a place of security and shelter for rearing their young. They nest
in great numbers in the bushes on the banks of the River Jordan, and
band together in defending their nests against the rooks and crows
that infest the cane-brakes north of Lake Hulah. They live on terms of
great amity and friendliness with the beautiful "wŭr-war" or bee-eater,
which burrows in the soft earth-banks near the out-go of the Jordan,
from the Lake of Galilee. The nests of sparrow and "wŭr-war" are so
numerous and easy to reach that one might easily gather a peck of their
tiny eggs, and unfledged nestlings, with mother-bird and all, could
they be of use. But the Mosaic Law has a precept especially intended
to protect the "birds of the air." In one portion of the inspired text
he writes: "If a bird's nest chances to be before thee in the way, in
any tree, or on the ground, whether they be young ones or eggs, and the
dam sitting upon the young, or upon the eggs, thou shalt not molest the
dam with the young, that it may be well with thee, and that thou mayest
prolong thy days." You will notice how clear is the precept by which
we are forbidden to molest these nests. We _must_ not, the biblical
law says, and to the obedient is the promised blessing of prosperity
and long life, with contrary calamities clearly implied to those who
transgress. In its meaning this precept includes all birds, and was
intended, like many other prohibitory commands, to cultivate sentiments
of humanity and habits of gentleness. And so it is that in Bible lands
the sparrow is more numerous, and less liable to destruction, than in
our own streets, fields and parks, where every bird of this species is
an object of contempt, and often lured to its death, with countless
thousands of victims, unsuspecting and easily taken like himself.

They flit over the "field of the Shepherds," and build nests in
the "cave of the Nativity." They cover the fields of wild oats by
thousands, and chirp and twitter on the hillside where "Ruth went down
to glean." A colony will be found in every old tree on the Mount of
Olives, and even in the "garden of Gethsemane," they nest in perfect
security above the heads of the black-robed attendants, who are on
terms of great familiarity with them. The first reference to the
sparrow in the Bible is an allusion to this habit of the fearless bird
in building its nest in the most sacred places. It recalls the sad and
pathetic period in David's life, when he fled from Jerusalem pursued
by the army of his son Absalom, "who sought his throne and life." Afar
from Jerusalem, and the temple courts, where he led the people in
their devotions, his heart longed for the peace and holy calm, to be
found only within their sacred enclosures, and he says: "A day in thy
courts is better than a thousand." "My soul longeth for thy courts."
"The sparrow hath found a nest for herself where she may lay her young,
even thine altars." Thus he, the great King David, wished for the rest
and peace enjoyed by the humble birds which he had observed so often,
ministering to their young about the holy altar itself. Again, when
Absalom falls in battle, and word is brought David, in the sadness of
his lament, "O, Absalom, my son, my son!" He compares himself to the
tiny, despised bird, saying: "I watch and am as a sparrow, alone upon
the housetop." He had, no doubt, often seen the sparrow, when one had
lost its mate, sitting on the housetop alone, and lamenting hour after
hour its sad bereavement. So again the _sparrow_ is honored above its
fellows, and its affectionate devotion immortalized. But a "Greater
than David," has drawn from this humblest one of the feathered tribe,
a lesson of trust which has touched tenderly, in all ages since,
the heart of every seeker after truth. "Not a sparrow falleth" is a
sentence that comes very close to the human heart. "Not a sparrow
falleth to the ground without your Father. Not one of them is forgotten
of Him. Fear not, therefore. _Ye_ are of more value than many sparrows."

    "Not a sparrow falleth,"
      How sweet the words and true
    "Without your Father's notice,"
      Who careth still for you;
    O tiny bird, so trustful,
      Teach me such trust as thine,
    That so the wondrous lesson
      I may possess as mine.




THE TREATING OF WHITEY.

BERTHA SEAVEY SAUNIER.


His coat was thin--so thin that his skin showed through in patches. And
the skin was thin--so thin that the bones almost pricked through in a
mute appeal to the public.

He walked the streets until his four little feet dragged with weariness
and he often sat down upon his haunches to rest.

When he stopped people noticed him and many turned as they went past,
watching him--he was so pitiable a sight.

"Mangy dog," somebody said, but he was more than that. He was lost
and he was starving. He was so needy that he had forsaken his alley
haunts and had come up to the boulevards where was greater prosperity,
sunshine, cleanliness, and perhaps love toward man and beast.

In his walks he chanced near the lake and paced the viaduct that leads
out upon the pier. He even went on the pier and looked down into the
dark water as many despairing men and women have looked. It seemed easy
to fall in, but he turned back and walked away. He had learned that if
he kept moving the police and guards did not poke at him with their
clubs.

In crossing Michigan avenue he had to watch his chances, for the rubber
tires of the carriages made no warning sound on the asphalt. And then
he came to Wabash--the noise of the elevated and surface trains, and
of the trucks and drays was so confusing that he had need of more care
than ever. At length he reached State street and sat down to rest.

Lizzie and Mattie were there before him. They, too, were acquainted
with alley ways, though they were not personally acquainted with
Whitey. Evidently they had found nourishment there that Whitey had
missed, for Lizzie was decidedly fat and Mattie was fairly presentable.

Lizzie wore a faded worsted skirt poorly joined to a cotton shirt-waist
with a green silk belt. Her short, fair hair was curled and tied with
a green ribbon and her airy straw hat was bright with flowers. Other
little girls of better fortunes had worn the things and had extracted
their freshness and much of their beauty. But Lizzie felt quite dressed
up beside her friend who wore only a simple calico gown and plain
straw hat. She led Mattie from window to window, pointing out precious
articles and rare jewels, quite as if she had purse connections with
them.

The girls glanced at Whitey as he passed.

"Poor little dog!" Mattie said.

"Yes," returned Lizzie, "I should think the policeman would shoot him."

"Why?" queried Mattie in surprise.

"Oh, he's so bad off."

Whitey was moving slowly. He was rested and he thought to go on.

Somebody in a confectionery store noticed the girls.

"Mamma, I do believe that's my old belt that I threw in the rags one
day, for there's the cross I made on it at school with ink."

"Nonsense," said the lady.

"And, oh, mamma, look at the poor dog!"

Of all the people who were passing four at least were interested in
Whitey. Alley and avenue--but the alley folks first forgot him. They
went back to their diamonds.

Whitey's troubles had made him meek and humble. He did not at this
time expect anything and he was out of hopes and plans. He did not
observe any whisperings at the portals of the big store nor see the
wonder on the face of the porter. What he did see presently was a round
pasteboard box that the porter set down under his very nose. It was
torn a little at one side and what was in the box began to melt and run
down to the pavement.

Whitey moved his ears a little at the sight. It actually looked
eatable. He doubted if it was, but he put out his tongue and touched it.

When Lizzie and Mattie turned again they stood amazed. People were
looking amused as they passed and many a heart was made glad and light.
One could read it in their faces. An unusual kindness is a love-flash
that makes life sweeter to all who get it in their eyes.

"I'll bet there's a quart there," said Mattie.

"No, there ain't nuther. I guess a sick dog couldn't eat a hull quart
of ice cream--it's jest a pint."

"Look how he licks it up. My! I'll bet it's good!"

"He's a gulpin' to beat the band," returned Lizzie.

"He never hed it before, _I'll_ bet."

"Or you nuther, Mattie Black."

"You can't talk much," answered Mattie.

By this time Whitey had cleared up his spread pretty thoroughly. Not a
drop lingered in the circle at the bottom of the box and the pavement
was dry.

Whitey walked over to the side of the building and lay down in the
sun. He put his nose between his paws. His body was as thin and forlorn
as ever, but away at the tip of his pink, shabby tail was a little,
short-lived wag. It was the language of gratitude and hope. It had been
absent for days--ever since he was lost. The little girl who had caused
it was riding home in her carriage, but the alley folks took note of it
and they were appeased. They no longer envied the dog.

As for Whitey, the rich cream worked its work. As he lay in the sun he
felt new hopes and plans revive. Of a sudden he remembered a bakery
where he had chanced to get some plate scrapings. He would go again.
And go he did. His body and his hopes were alike nourished with his
recent treat. Whitey actually walked over to the bakery alley with a
decided and prolonged wag to his tail. The ice cream had placed it
there. It really made the turning point for better times for Whitey.




  [Illustration: POPPY.
                 FROM KŒHLER'S MEDICINAL-PFLANZEN.
                 CHICAGO:
                 A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER.]

     DESCRIPTION OF PLATE.--_A_, flowering plant, white variety; _B_,
     flower of red variety; 1 pistil and stamens; 2, stamen; 3, pollen
     grains; 4 and 5, pistil; 6, ripe capsule; 7, 8, 9, seed.

THE POPPY.

(_Papaver somniferum L._)

DR. ALBERT SCHNEIDER,

Northwestern University School of Pharmacy.

    Sleep hath forsook and given me o'er
    To death's benumbing opium as my only cure.
                                        --_Milton, S. A. l. 630._


The opium-yielding plant or poppy is an herb about three feet in
height; stem of a pale green color covered with a bloom. Branches are
spreading, with large, simple, lobed or incised leaves. The flowers are
solitary, few in number, quite large and showy. The four large petals
are white or a pale pink color in the wild-growing plants. The fruit
is a large capsule, one to three inches in diameter, of a depressed
globular form. The seeds are small and very numerous, filling the
compartments of the capsule. In spite of the general attractiveness
of the plant, the size of the flowers and the delicate coloring of
its petals, it is not a favorite at close range because of a heavy,
nauseating odor which emanates from all parts of the plant, the flowers
in particular. The petals furthermore have only a very temporary
existence, dropping off at the slightest touch.

The wild ancestor of our familiar garden poppy is supposed to be a
native of Corsica, Cyprus, and the Peloponnesian islands. At the
present time it is extensively cultivated everywhere, both as an
ornamental plant and for its seeds, pods, and yield of opium. It has
proven a great nuisance as a weed in the grain fields of England,
India, and other countries--something like mustard in the oat fields of
the central states. There are a number of forms or varieties of the
cultivated poppy. The red poppy, corn poppy, or rose poppy (_Papaver
Rhoeas_) is very abundant in southern and central Europe and in western
Asia. It has deep red or scarlet petals and is a very showy plant. The
long headed poppy (_P. dubium_) has smaller flowers of a lighter red
color and elongated capsules, hence the name. The Oriental poppy (_P.
orientale_) has very large, deep red flowers on a tall flower-stalk.

Various plants belonging to other genera of the poppy-family
(_Papaveraceæ_) are designated as poppy. The California poppy
(_Eschscholzia Californica_) is a very common garden plant. It has
showy yellow flowers and much divided leaves. Horn poppy (_Glaucium
luteum_) is a rather small seaside plant, with long curved pods
and solitary yellow flowers. The Mexican prickly poppy (_Argemone
Mexicana_) is widely distributed. The pods and leaves are prickly,
flowers yellow or white; the seeds yield an oil which is used as a
cathartic. Spatling or frothy poppy (_Silene inflata_) is so-called
because when punctured by insects or otherwise it emits a spittle-like
froth. Tree poppy (_Dendromecon rigidum_) is a shrub six to eight feet
high, with large, bright yellow flowers. Welsh poppy (_Mecanopsis
cambrica_), a plant found in the wooded and rocky parts of western
Europe, has sulphur-yellow flowers and is cultivated for ornament.

The use and cultivation of the poppy dates from very remote times.
The plant was well known in the time of the eminent Greek poet Homer,
who speaks of the poppy juice as a dispeller of sorrows (Odyssey, IV.
l. 220). According to Plinius the word poppy (_Papaver_) is derived
from _papa_, meaning pap, the standard food of infants, because poppy
juice was added to it for the purpose of inducing sleep. The ending
_ver_ is from _verum_, meaning true; that is, this food was the true
sleep-producing substance. Opium, the inspissated juice of the poppy
pods, was apparently not known in the time of Hippocrates, only the
freshly expressed juice being used. It is through Diocles Karystius
(350 B. C.) that we obtain the first detailed information regarding the
use of opium. Nicandros (150 B. C.) refers to the dangerous effects
produced by this drug. Scribonius Largus, Dioscorides, Celsus, and
Plinius gave us the first reports regarding the origin, production,
and adulteration of opium. Plinius mentions the method of incising the
capsules. The Arabians are said to have introduced opium into India. It
appeared in Europe during the middle ages, but was apparently in little
demand. It was much more favorably received in the Orient. In 1500 it
constituted one of the most important export articles of Calcutta.
India supplied China with large quantities of opium, at first only for
medicinal purposes. It is said that the Chinese acquired the habit of
smoking opium about the middle of the seventeenth century, and since
then it has ever been the favorite manner of consuming it.

The poppy is cultivated in temperate and tropical countries. The opium
yield of plants grown in temperate climates is, however, much less than
that of the subtropical and tropical countries, though the quality is
about the same. There are large poppy plantations in India, China, Asia
Minor, Persia, and Turkey. As already indicated, the white-flowered
variety is quite generally cultivated because it yields the most opium.

The plants are grown from seed, and it is customary, in tropical
countries, to sow several crops each season to insure against failure
and that collecting may be less interrupted. Plants of the spring
sowing flower in July. The pods do not all mature at the same time;
this, coupled with the sowing of several crops at intervals of four to
six months, makes the work of collecting almost continuous. Before the
pods are fully developed they are incised horizontally or vertically
with a knife. Generally a special knife with two and three parallel
blades is used. The blades of the knife are repeatedly moistened with
saliva to prevent the poppy juice from adhering to them. The incisions
must not extend through the walls of the capsule, as some of the juice
would escape into the interior and be lost. As soon as the incisions
are made a milky sap exudes, which gradually thickens, due to the
evaporation of moisture, and becomes darker in color. The following
day the sticky, now dark-brown juice, is scraped off and smeared on
a poppy leaf held in the left hand; more and more juice is added
until a goodly sized lump is collected. These sticky, ill-smelling
masses of opium are now placed in a shaded place to dry. The entire
process of incising and collecting as carried on by the Orientals is
exceedingly uncleanly. To the nasty habit of moistening the knife-blade
with saliva is supplemented the filth of unwashed hands and the sand
and dirt of the poppy leaves, which are added from time to time to
form a new support for the juice as it is removed from the knife.
In scraping the gum considerable epidermal tissue is also included.
Each lump of gum opium contains therefore a mixture of spittle, the
filth of dirty hands, poppy leaves, sand, and dust. In addition to
that many collectors adulterate the gum opium with a great variety of
substances. Dioscorides mentions the fact that even in those remote
times adulteration of opium was practiced, such substances as lard,
syrup, juice of lactuca, and glaucium being added. Modern collectors
and dealers adulterate opium with sand, pebbles, clay, lead, flour,
starch, licorice, chicory, gum arabic and other gums, figs, pounded
poppy capsules, an excessive quantity of poppy leaves and other leaves,
etc. After collecting and drying the peasants carry the gum opium to
the market-places, where they are met by the buyers and merchants, who
inspect the wares and fix a price very advantageous to themselves.

The present trade in opium is something enormous, especially in
India, China, and Asia Minor. To the credit of the Chinese and the
discredit of the English it must be said that in 1793 the former
strenuously objected to the introduction of opium traffic by the
latter. This opposition by the Chinese government culminated in
the "Opium War," which led to the treaty of Nanking in 1842, giving
the English the authority to introduce opium into China as a staple
article of commerce. The reason that Chinese officials objected to the
introduction of opium was because they recognized the fact that the
inhabitants very readily acquired the habit of smoking opium. In spite
of the most severe government edicts the habit spread very rapidly
after the treaty referred to.

Gum opium contains active principles (alkaloids), to which it owes its
peculiar stimulating, soporific, and pain-relieving powers. Of these
alkaloids, of which there are about nineteen, morphine and codeine are
undoubtedly the most important. The properties of gum opium represent
therefore the collective properties of all of the alkaloids and are
similar to the properties of the predominating alkaloids just mentioned.

Physicians generally agree that opium is the most important of
medicines. Properly used it is certainly a great boon to mankind,
for which there is no substitute, but, like all great blessings, it
has its abuses. It is the most effective remedy for the relief of
pains and spasms of all kinds. It will produce calm and sleep where
everything else has failed. It finds a use in all diseases and ailments
accompanied by severe pain, in delirium, rheumatic and neuralgic
troubles, in dysentery, etc. It may be applied externally to abraded
surfaces, to ulcers and inflamed tissues for the relief of pain. The
value of opium does not lie so much in its direct curative powers
as in its sedative and quieting effects upon diseased organs, which
tends to hasten or bring about the healing or recuperating process.
In some diseases the physician refrains from giving opium, as in
fully developed pneumonia, since the quieting effect would diminish
the efforts on the part of the patient to get rid of the inflammatory
products accumulating in the air vesicles and finer bronchial tubes. In
fact, the soothing effect is too often mistaken for a curative effect
and the patient is neglected. The Roman habit of feeding children pap
mixed with poppy juice was a pernicious one. Many modern mothers give
their sick and crying infants "soothing syrups," most, if not all, of
which contain opium in some form, as tincture of opium and paregoric.
Too often the poor, overworked mother, who cannot afford to consult a
physician, will purchase a bottle of "soothing syrup" or "cough remedy"
for her child because she knows it produces a quieting effect, which is
mistaken for a cure, when in reality the incipient symptoms are only
masked. Only a reliable physician should be permitted to prescribe
opium in any form.

The harm done through the use of opium by the ignorant, abetted by the
"inventors," manufacturers and sellers of the "soothing syrups" and
"cough remedies," is insignificant as compared with the harm resulting
from the opium habit, which is acquired in various ways. For instance,
a patient learns that the opium given him relieves pain and produces a
feeling of well-being; hence, even after recovering, he returns to the
use of the solace of his sickness when he suffers mental or physical
pain, and in time the habit is acquired. The scholar knowing its
properties makes use of it to deaden pain and to dispel imaginary or
real mental troubles. Any and all classes may acquire the opium habit,
but the majority of opium-eaters are from the lower and middle classes.
As with other vices, the predisposing cause is a lack of moral stamina.
Women are more addicted to the habit than men. After the habit is once
established it is practically impossible to break away from it.

Under the influence of the narcotic the opium-eater becomes mentally
active, hilarious, and even brilliant. Thoughts flow easily and freely.
In time the patient loses all sense of moral obligation; he boasts and
lies apparently without the least trouble of conscience. As soon as the
effects of the drug pass away he becomes gloomy, morose, despondent,
and he will resort to any measure to obtain a fresh supply. The dose
of the drug must be increased continually, until finally quantities are
taken which would prove fatal to several persons not addicted to its
use.

Opium victims take the narcotic in various ways. The Chinese and
Orientals in general prefer to smoke the crude opium in special pipes.
Europeans and Americans usually take it internally in the form of
the tincture or laudanum, paregoric or the powder of the sulphate of
morphine or codeine. Frequently a solution of morphine is injected
under the skin by means of a hypodermic syringe. No matter how it is
taken the effects are about the same.

The treatment of the opium habit consists principally in the gradual
withdrawal of the supply of the drug and strengthening the weakened
system by proper exercise and diet, but, as indicated, the habit, if
once fully established, is very difficult to cure. While, as stated,
most of the opium-eaters belong to the poorer and middle classes,
there are a number from the wealthy idle classes and not a few from
professional classes who are slaves to the habit. The brilliant
and gifted De Quincey was addicted to this habit and recorded his
experience in his "Confessions of an Opium-Eater."

The capsules and seeds of the opium plant are also used. The capsules
are collected at maturity, but while yet green, usually during the
month of July. They are broken and dried in a shaded, well-ventilated
place, and finally in a moderately warm place; they are then broken in
still smaller pieces, the seeds shaken out and the capsule fragments
placed in well-sealed glass or tin receivers. The seeds, which are
known as maw seeds, are collected at maturity and placed in wooden
boxes. The seeds yield an oil which is used much like sweet oil;
artists also use it in mixing colors.




THE PRIMROSE.

PROF. WILLIAM KERR HIGLEY,

Secretary of The Chicago Academy of Sciences.


    What can the blessed spring restore
      More gladdening than your charms?
    Bringing the memory once more
      Of lovely fields and farms!

    Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers
      Of life's unfolding prime;
    Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours;
      Of souls without a crime.
                                        --_Mary Howitt._


Among the many beautiful blossoms to be found in the field, the forest,
or the garden probably none have served to inspire the poet more than
the primrose and its near relative, the English cowslip. Someone has
said that "no flowers typify the beautiful more strongly than those of
the primrose which, though showy, are delicate and seem inclined to
retire to the shade of the plant's leaves."

These plants belong to the Primrose family (_Primulaceæ_) which
includes twenty-eight genera and over three-hundred and fifty species.
Nearly all are natives of the Northern hemisphere, some being found
as far north as Greenland (the Greenland primrose). Some of the
species are Alpine, and a few are found in the southern portions of
South America and Africa. One of the most interesting wild species
of this family is the shooting star or American cowslip, which grows
abundantly on the prairies of the Eastern portion of the United States.
Dr. Erasmus Darwin tells us that "the uncommon beauty of this flower
occasioned Linnæus to give it the name _Dodecatheon_, signifiying the
twelve heathen gods."

The family as a whole seems to have no economic value of importance
and are of use to man simply to beautify his surroundings. Many of
the species are very interesting to the scientific observer, for the
structure of their flowers is such that they are peculiarly adapted
for cross-fertilization. This character has made it possible for the
floriculturist to produce many of the beautiful forms that are found
in cultivation. The generic name of the primrose is _Primula_ from the
diminutive of the Latin word _Primus_, meaning first. The blossoming
of the plants in the early spring led Linnæus to give them this name.
It is said that their name was also applied, during the middle ages, to
the European daisy (_Bellis perennis_.)

This genus, _Primula_, is the type of the family and contains about one
hundred and fifty species from which have been produced, both in nature
and under cultivation, many hybrid forms, one investigator claiming to
have found more than twenty in the Alps alone. The species are found
distributed throughout the cooler regions of Europe and Asia and a few
are natives of North America.

The common or English primrose (_Primula vulgaris_), by careful
culture, produces a wonderful number of variations. The wild forms
produce only yellow single flowers while from those under cultivation
are developed numerous varieties, both single and double, which vary
greatly in color--red, pink, white, purple, and many shades of each.

The cowslip primrose (_Primula veris_) is also a native of England. The
flowers are yellow and nodding, and the plants emit a strong odor of
anise.

The Himalaya Mountains are probably more rich in beautiful and
interesting species and varieties than any other locality. Here
is found the most beautiful of all the primroses, the delicate
rose-colored form (_Primula rosea._)

This species of primrose should not be confounded with the evening
primrose, of which there are about twenty species, all American. The
yellow flowers of the latter appear in the summer, opening at night,
the thin and delicate petals withering the next day.

  [Illustration: PRIMROSE.
                 6/7 Life-size.
                 CHICAGO:
                 A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER.
                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
                 NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]




THE EGRET'S YOUNG.

ELIZA WOODWORTH.


    Beside a quiet stream the egrets build,
      And, friendly, crowd their nests of wattled sticks
    In clustered trees, then patient keep unchilled
      Their sea-blue eggs, and hear the first faint pricks

    Against the shells; and soon each wistful brood
      Beneath the mother's breast will doze or wake;
    And soon each parent pair will wing with food
      From waded shallows brown, and marsh and brake.

    Between the flights they rest and tranquil look
      Far down the glade from boughs or dusky nests,
    And see the deer that wend beside the brook,
      And partridge coveys, with their freckled breasts.

    Oh, lives like sunny hours! Oh, peaceful glade,
      Where glow the early flowers! What hunters steal
    Along the stream, with rifles softly laid
      At hand, while slips the skiff on noiseless keel?

    The shots half-blind the air with curling haze,
      And from his lookout perch the watcher falls;
    The nested mother lifts her head to gaze,
      And wounded, flutters down with hollow calls.

    And, bleeding prone, perchance she mourns her young,
      And hears, as far away, their startled cries,
    And longs for pleasant haunts she lived among,
      While in an anguished dream she slowly dies.

    From off the gentle head they cut the crest,
      They loose the wedding[1] plumes which veil the wings
    And rend the beauty-tuft from out the breast--
      Then each a mangled body downward flings.

    The dimmed white forms strew all the blossomed ground,
      While clustered trees but bear the wailing young;
    Their plaintive little voices shrilling, sound
      From swiftly chilling nests, once gayly swung.

    Unfathered broods! In vain with hunger-calls
      They grieve through woeful hours the helpless air;
    Unmothered nests! How cold the darkness falls
      On harmless, tender heads, uncovered there.

    They live the painful night and feebly stir
      At dawn; with famine shine the golden eyes;
    They gape their mouths and seem to hear the whir
      Of mother-wings speed past through empty skies.

    And no more piteous sight the sun may see
      Than where those parent birds lie dead; nor wakes
    A sadder tone than the forsaken plea
      Of famished broods that o'er their silence breaks.

    Fainter and fainter sink the whispered cries,
      As wanes the life and creeps the deadly chill,
    Till wings are numb, and closed the hungry eyes,
      While droop the downy heads, _and all is still_.

Footnote:

[1] The wedding plumes, which are esteemed the most valuable of all,
are worn by the birds only during brooding time. Hence the special
reason for hunting egrets at that season.




SPONGES.


A sponge when brought to the surface by the diver is a fleshy-looking
substance covered with a firm skin whose openings appear and disappear
at intervals. When the diver cuts it the interior looks like raw meat
with numerous canals and cavities. The first thing they do is to remove
the flesh, and this must be done at once, since otherwise putrefaction
would set in, which would destroy the elasticity. This leaves merely
the skeleton of the animal which has to be further cleansed before it
is ready for the market.

The skeleton is nearly related in structure to silk, and this helped
to settle the ancient dispute as to whether sponges were animal or
vegetable. Their stationary life gave reason to the belief in their
vegetable nature, while they multiply, like plants, by overgrowth and
budding. They puzzled scientists for centuries, and one authority
regarded them as worms' nests. In reality the sponge is a colony of
little animals called polyps which occupy a sort of apartment house
together, rearing families just as other animals do.

The surface of a sponge is covered with little holes, as you have
observed, that are larger at the top than at the bottom, while the
whole mass contains a system of channels. When the animal is alive
water is kept flowing constantly through these channels by means of
minute, hair-like appendages, which the little polyps agitate. The
water thus drawn in brings with it the food.

The finest sponges come from Tripoli, and along the shores of the
Mediterranean, the possessions of Turkey being the best field, the
Spanish, French, and Italian coasts being, strange to say, devoid of
them. The coarser kinds of sponges are found in the West Indies and
off the Florida coast, none of the finest grade existing in American
waters. The average value of Florida sponges is 80 cents a pound,
while those from the Turkey coast are often worth as much as $50 a
pound. There are many sponge beds along the coast of Florida, at
well-protected places fenced in with natural fortifications and dams.
They are carefully watched until reaching maturity, and are finer than
those living wild in the sea.

After three years the sponges are ready for harvest. The choicest then,
the full-grown ones, are pulled up, the others being left to reproduce
until of larger size. Every year the value of a sponge farm increases,
and enormous crops are yielded. It is easy to gather sponges here, for
the water is clear and they are easily raised with a pole or tongs.

It is not so in Tripoli, however. There the work has to be done by
divers, and as the fisheries have been so well worked, it is necessary
for the divers to go deeper and deeper for them every year. Only the
most desperate men are willing to undertake the task, notwithstanding
they are paid ten times the usual wage paid to men in that country.
Out of 600 divers employed, 150 to 200 die each season, either from
asphyxiation, paralysis, or cuts from their knives. The diver in
Tripoli seldom has diving-bells or suits such as are used in Europe and
America. He goes down into the ocean, sometimes to the depth of 100
fathoms, taking with him a flat piece of stone of a triangular shape,
with a hole drilled through one of its corners. A cord from the boat is
attached to this stone and he uses it to guide him. Upon reaching the
growing sponges he tears them off the rocks or cuts them with a sharp
knife, places them under his arms, and then pulls at the rope, which
gives the signal to the men in the boat to haul him up. The work is
said to be done not so well by means of a diving-bell, the utmost care
being necessary that the delicate organisms should not be torn. Sponges
obtained by dragging are torn and sell for low prices. Those secured at
such risk are the best and are used by surgeons in delicate operations.
They do not grow as rapidly in the Mediterranean as in our water, an
ordinary bath sponge, measuring about a foot in diameter, being ten
years old.--_E. K. M._




COMMON MINERALS AND VALUABLE ORES.

IV.--COPPER AND LEAD ORES.

THEO. F. BROOKINS, B. S.


The first metal that was employed by man is copper. It is probable that
prehistoric man made use of the metal in its native condition only,
as no knowledge of metallurgy would be essential in preparing it for
use from that condition. Copper implements have been found in the lake
dwellings of Switzerland, and bronze, an alloy of copper and tin, is
mentioned in the writings of Homeric times.

Cuprum, the origin of our English word copper, is derived from cyprium,
which refers to the occurrence of the metal in especial abundance on
the island of Cyprus, the main source of the metal during the epochs
of early alchemy. In the Hebrew scriptures copper is termed Nehósheth
(from nahásh, meaning to glisten) which is translated by Χαλκος
and by Aes in the Vulgate. Later _Aes cyprium_ was the special
designation, which was finally shortened to _cyprium_, as indicated
above. Thus we see that our present term represents in no sense the
characteristic of the metal at first so noticeable.

Native copper scarcely needs a description. Its occurrence in the
free state provides an interesting subject of conjecture. Briefly
stated, the question of origin is whether the copper was set free by
the decomposition of silicates or was in the form of a sulphide in
the rock. The chief region of occurrence of native copper is the Lake
Superior district. Here are found occasionally large masses of copper,
which, strange as it seems, are practically valueless if too heavy to
transport, since they cannot be divided without great difficulty. Of
the world's total output of copper in 1897, 399,250 long tons[2], a
single mine of the Lake Superior region, the famous Calumet and Hecla,
produced 40,350 long tons.

Montana is now the first copper producing state in the United States.
The state contains the largest mining camp in the world, located in
the town of Butte. In 1897 the mines of Montana produced 102,800 long
tons of copper. The ore chalcocite, sometimes called copper glance,
has a metallic luster, often tarnished green or blue. It is commonly
lead-gray and rather soft. Its streak is a blackish lead-gray,
Chalcopyrite, a sulphide of copper and iron combined, has already
been mentioned under "Iron Minerals" (November issue of BIRDS AND ALL
NATURE.) When copper is much in predominance the color of the ore
is golden yellow. The streak is dark green. The mineral is harder
than chalcocite, but less hard than pyrite, being easily scratched
with a knife. Both chalcocite and chalcopyrite frequently occur in
silver-bearing rocks.

A method of extracting copper from its ores, equally useful with regard
to any of the ores, is known as the English process. The details of
this are too elaborate and technical for consideration here. In brief,
the process consists of six distinct parts--roasting the mixed ores,
fusion of the roasted ores to produce coarse metal, roasting the coarse
metal, fusion of the wasted coarse metal to produce what is known as
white metal, roasting of the white metal to produce blister copper,
i. e., copper filled with cavities, and finally the refining and
toughening of the blister copper until marketable copper is yielded.
The English method of copper smelting is classed among the so-called
"dry" processes, in contradistinction from "wet" processes, or methods
involving the use of solutions.

It may be of interest to know the importance of copper in that curious
problem of ancient alchemy, the transmutation of metals. Metallic
iron placed in certain solutions of unknown composition possessed the
power to precipitate metallic copper. With all the wondrous faith
in the problems of alchemy the phenomenon was interpreted as one of
transmutation and the statement made that iron had been transformed
into copper.

Within the last few years a remarkable increase in the output of the
copper mines of the world has been recorded. This is due mainly to
the demand for copper on account of the great strides in electrical
achievements during recent years. Yet there is no doubt that the
world's supply is wholly adequate to meet demands on it for a long
period to come. The high conductivity of copper renders it especially
useful for conveying electric currents and its most important use at
present is in electricity. However, it is also a common convenience
in many arts. Its alloys are numerous, bronze and brass being the
most common. Bronze is an alloy of copper and tin and brass of copper
and zinc. The manufacturer of bronze bells finds opportunity for an
interesting study of the alloy used in his product. The varying tones
of bells are due to the different percentages of copper and tin used in
the bell metal.

In locality and mode of occurrence lead is somewhat closely allied with
copper, and the ores of lead and zinc are almost invariably associated.
Hence a description of lead naturally follows that of copper and may
also be understood as typical, so far as occurrence and mining methods
are concerned, for that of zinc.

Lead occurs in nature chiefly in the forms of the sulphide, galenite
or galena, the sulphate, anglesite and the carbonate, cerussite.
Galena is lead-gray, quite soft, and frequently occurs in a coarsely
crystalline condition, the crystals often being cubical. The luster is
metallic, hence a superficial examination of a specimen might result
in mistaking the mineral for the copper ore, chalcopyrite, already
described. The streak will serve to identify any specimen, however,
it being a lead-gray of much lighter shade than that of chalcocite.
Anglesite and cerussite are far less abundant than galena. The former
varies from white through gray to yellow and has a resinous luster.
Cerussite is white or gray, resembling anglesite, and has a brilliant,
vitreous luster. Both minerals, like galena, are soft and easily
scratched with a knife.

The ores of lead are widely distributed throughout the United States
and it is difficult to assign boundaries to special districts.
Galena occurs in small quantities--too small for profitable
working--throughout the Appalachian region, and is found in paying
quantities in what is known as the Missouri lead district. In the
Colorado and other western mines the ore is found in silver-bearing
veins. Were it not for the presence of silver in those veins the
production of lead from them would probably practically cease, as the
anglesite, the principal lead ore of the veins, does not occur in
amount to pay for working the mines for that product alone.

White lead, used in paints, is the most important use of the metal.
Painters prefer the product to zinc-white chiefly because it is much
more opaque and possesses a much greater covering power. Much lead is
made into pipes for conveying water. Pure lead is not used for the
making of shot, but instead an alloy of lead and arsenic. Unlike pure
lead, the alloy assumes a spherical form when dropped through the
air. "Shot towers" are constructed to make use of this property in
the manufacture of shot. The demands for lead have not been increased
by recent extraordinary development of any of the arts employing the
metal, hence the world's output of lead during the past decade has had
a normal increase. For the year 1897 the total production of lead was
725,200 metric tons.

  [Illustration: ORES.
                 Full size.
                 Chalcopyrite
                 Anglesite
                 Cerussite coating Galenite
                 Native Copper
                 Galenite
                 Chalcocite
                 CHICAGO:
                 A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER.
                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
                 NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO.]

Footnote:

[2] The common short ton is 2,000 pounds; the long ton contains 2,240
pounds; the metric ton equals 2,204 pounds. It will be noted that
statistics of the production of different metals frequently employ
different tons as units.




THE YOUNG NATURALIST.


BEES.--Honey is made from many substances. Not only do the flowers give
up their nectar to the honey bees, but various other sources of sweets
are visited by bees with profit. Clover honey is one of the most common
kind, although it is all white clover honey, for the honey bee has too
short a tongue to reach into the long tubes of the red clover which the
bumble-bees are so fond of. Sweet-clover yields nectar which makes good
honey. A dark variety of honey comes from the flowers of buckwheat, and
the basswood tree which the German poets sing about, calling it by the
name of linden, bears such a wealth of flowers which the honey bees
like that it is swarmed day after day by so many bees that the tree
seems to hum with pleasure. You can often hear the bees in a basswood
tree before the tree itself is in view in the forest. Orange trees are
also favorites with the honey-makers.

Broken fruits are often sucked by bees to get material for honey, and
cider left in a dish where they can get at it will be visited by them.
A mixture of almost any sweet liquid will attract honey bees, and they
are so careless of its exact nature that they have been known to store
up and make into honey substances that are not good for human beings
to eat. One of the favorite forms of adulteration among those who keep
bees for profit is to place glucose and water where they can get at it.
They will readily fill their combs with this cheap material and seem
to do very much more work in the course of a season by having placed
within easy reach a mass of material that they do not have to work for.

Margaret Warner Morley, in her charming little book, "The Bee People,"
which has just come from the press of A. C. McClurg & Co., Chicago,
tells how bees frequently make honey from "honey dew." This is a sweet
and sticky substance that is found upon the upper side of all sorts of
leaves in some localities and has caused a great deal of wonder as to
where it comes from. The writer tells of the mountain children she saw
in the Carolinas plucking these leaves and licking the honey-dew from
them, enjoying their treat much as city children enjoy what they get at
the candy store. She says the honey-dew is made by the little insects
called ants' cows or aphides. The sweet liquid is thrown out from their
bodies, and ants are so fond of it that some of them have been said to
keep "cows" and take great care of them in order to enjoy the sweet
they get from their bodies.

The aphides eat the juice of the leaves they rest on and change it into
honey-dew. Resting on the under side of a leaf and feasting royally,
they become so full that the honey-dew spurts from their bodies and
showers the upper sides of the leaves below. Sometimes the insects are
so thick upon the leaves of a magnolia tree that a shower of sweets
comes down upon its lower leaves and the grass below. Trees and bushes
shine with the dew, and when dust settles upon the sticky surfaces it
is decidedly disagreeable.

Pliny, the first great naturalist, said he thought honey-dew was "the
perspiration of the sky, the saliva of the stars, or the moisture
deposited by the atmosphere while purging itself, corrupted by its
admixture with the mists of the earth." Bees gather it and make it up
into honey. Squirrels are fond of it, and gather the leaves one at a
time, hold them up in their paws, and lick them with apparent relish.

There are so many truly wonderful things about bees which this talented
writer has collected and told in simple language that her book is
one of the most valuable of recent contributions to the libraries of
those who enjoy the wonders of nature. Although written evidently for
children it is of absorbing interest to adults, and furnishes a fund of
material for conversation and observation which will make it very much
in demand among teachers and parents.

The growth of the bee, the drones, the workers, and the queens, with
all the details of their structure as revealed by the microscope, the
making of their curious homes, their odd customs and habits, their
strange enemies, and a thousand other interesting features, make the
subject one of great interest, and we cannot sufficiently honor the
memory of the blind naturalist, Huber, who found out more things about
bees after he lost his sight than all the world ever knew of them
before his time.

BAD GERMS.--In our bodies is constantly going on a great fight between
germs of various sorts, if we are to believe those who know most on
the subject. Microbes are all about within us, some of them apparently
striving to do us good and others trying to kill us. In a few cases men
of science have been able to find one kind of germ that will destroy
another that is hurtful to the human system. By cultivating many sorts
of germs together and separately they have come to know a great deal
about what microbes like and what they cannot bear. The so-called
poisons of diphtheria and typhoid fever have been recognized as having
certain forms and characteristics, and a way of killing them off at
wholesale has been found, and so we are not so much afraid of these
diseases as we were before these discoveries were made. The germs of
cholera and yellow fever are now well enough known to be controlled by
sanitary measures, and the doctors are hot on the track of the bacillus
of consumption. What relief the world will have when these germs are
killed before they have had time to do their deadly work!

A DESERT LIGHT.--In Arizona there is an important well which stands
in the desert where its presence would not readily be known, but for
the fact that a light now swings from a tall cotton-wood pole so as
to light travelers who are within several miles of it in the night.
Before the lantern used to be hung there many people died when they
might have reached its waters if they had only known how near and in
which direction the well really was. Some have died horrible deaths of
thirst when only a short distance from its refreshing waters. In order
to pass that point travelers have to carry large loads of water to
quench their thirst until they reach this well. The number of gallons a
company has means either life or death to all. Some time ago a German
boy staggered up to the tanks shortly after dark. He had lain down
expecting to die with thirst in despair of getting to water, when he
saw the light of the cabin of the keeper of the well. So Joe Drew keeps
his lantern up at night that others may see the signal from afar and
come without delay to the waters.

MINER'S LUCK.--One of the most profitable mines in South America is the
Penny mine in Bolivia. Penny was a run-away Scotchman from a man-o'-war
who had nothing and hoped for nothing but to keep away from service on
the sea. He did odd jobs about the country for awhile and was brought
low with fever. He was faithfully nursed through the disease by a
native woman who could not speak a word of English. Out of gratitude
he married her and treated her well. She rewarded him by taking him
into the mountains and showing him an old Spanish mine that had been
hidden for years. He began working it and became a millionaire. With a
fellow-workman by the name of Mackenzie he brought the mine into a good
state of productiveness, and then left for the old country. Mackenzie
was made superintendent of his mine, and Mackenzie's son went with Mr.
and Mrs. Penny to Scotland. He arrayed his Indian wife in the most
costly attire, and made his visit to Scotland memorable by his many
acts of generosity. He adopted a nephew and insisted that both young
men should take his name and become his heirs. He suddenly died and
left his wealth all to his wife, with directions that the two sons
should be amply provided for. Complications followed, and the Indian
mother died under suspicious circumstances, while the boys contended
for possession of the mines. With all the good fortune and excellent
intentions of the father the two boys proved to be bad Pennies.
They sold out their interests for $500,000 each and are now killing
themselves with drink.




  +----------------------------------------------------------------- +
  | Transcriber's Note:                                              |
  |                                                                  |
  | Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.     |
  |                                                                  |
  | Other correction: De-Quincy changed to De Quincey (page 133).    |
  |                                                                  |
  | Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant |
  | form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.    |
  |                                                                  |
  | Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.            |
  |                                                                  |
  | Mid-paragraph illustrations have been moved between paragraphs   |
  | and some illustrations have been moved closer to the text that   |
  | references them.                                                 |
  |                                                                  |
  | Italicized words are surrounded by underline characters,         |
  | _like this_.                                                     |
  |                                                                  |
  | The Contents table was added by the transcriber.                 |
  +------------------------------------------------------------------+





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Birds and all Nature Vol VII, No. 3,
March 1900, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48367 ***