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                           BIRDS AND NATURE.
                   ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
  Vol. XI.                    MARCH, 1902.                       No. 3.




                                CONTENTS


    EASTER CAROL.                                                     97
    SPRING.                                                           97
    THE WINTER WREN. (_Troglodytes hiemalis._)                        98
    VOICES IN THE GARDEN.                                            101
    THE LECONTE’S SPARROW. (_Ammodramus leconteii._)                 107
    EASTER LILIES.                                                   108
    THE CALL OF THE KILLDEE.                                         109
    THE NORTHERN PHALAROPE. (_Phalaropus lobatus._)                  110
    OUR LITTLE MARTYRS.                                              113
    A CARGO OF STOWAWAYS.                                            114
    THE HAIRY WOODPECKER. (_Dryobates villosus._)                    119
    A VARICOLORED FROG.                                              120
    WAS IT REASON OR INSTINCT?                                       121
    OPAL.                                                            122
    THE CROCUS.                                                      127
    MARCH.                                                           128
    THE DOMESTIC SHEEP. (_Ovis aries._)                              131
    THE BEAUTY OF A STORM.                                           133
        The snow-plumed angel of the north                           133
    THE VIOLET.                                                      134
    THE ROUND-LOBED LIVERWORT. (_Hepatica hepatica._)                137
    THE SPRING MIGRATION. I. THE WARBLERS.                           138
    A PET SQUIRREL.                                                  140
    THE ENGLISH WALNUT AND RELATED TREES. (_Juglans regia L._)       143
    AWAKENING.                                                       144




                             EASTER CAROL.


  Hepatica, anemone,
  And bloodroot snowy white,
  With their pretty wildwood sisters,
  Are opening to the light.

  Each blossom bears a message
  That a little child may read,
  Of the wondrous miracle of life
  Hid in the buried seed.

  In the woods and fields and gardens
  We may find the blessed words
  Writ in beauty, and may hear them,
  Set in music by the birds.

  It is Nature’s Easter carol,
  And we, too, with gladness sing,
  For we see the Life immortal
  In the promise of the spring.
                                                         —Anna M. Pratt,
                          From “Among Flowers and Trees with the Poets.”




                                SPRING.


  O beautiful world of green!
      When bluebirds carol clear,
          And rills outleap,
          And new buds peep,
      And the soft sky seems more near;
  With billowy green and leaves,—what then?
  How soon we greet the red again!
                                            G. Cooper, “Round the Year.”




                            THE WINTER WREN.
                       (_Troglodytes hiemalis._)


  How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch
  Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
  Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times.
                              —Isaac McLellan, “The Notes of the Birds.”

The Winter Wren inhabits that part of North America east of the Rocky
Mountains, breeding chiefly north of the United States and migrating at
the approach of winter nearly or quite to the Gulf of Mexico.

This diminutive form of bird life, which is also called Bunty Wren and
Little Log Wren, is a denizen of the forest, and it is more common in
those forests found on bottom lands adjacent to rivers. It is a shy
bird, and does not seek the intimacy of man as will its cousin, the
house wren. It is seldom seen far above the ground. In many places where
it does not seem abundant it may be quite common, for it readily eludes
observation in the underbrush because of its neutral color. It frequents
old logs, where it may be seen “hopping nimbly in and out among the
knotholes and other hollow places, then flitting like a brown butterfly
to another place of refuge on the too near approach of an intruder.”
Some one has said, “Its actions are almost as much like that of a mouse
as of a bird, rarely using its wings except for a short flutter from one
bush or stone-heap to another; it creeps slyly and rapidly about,
appearing for an instant and is then suddenly lost to view.”

The Winter Wren builds its nest in the matted roots of an overturned
tree, in brush-heaps, in moss-covered stumps, or on the side of a tree
trunk. It may be attached to a ledge of rock, and is occasionally found
in some unoccupied building, especially if it be a log hut in the woods.
The nest is very large and bulky when compared with the size of the
bird. Dr. Minot describes a nest that he found in a moss-covered stump
in a dark, swampy forest filled with tangled piles of fallen trees and
branches. This nest was made of small twigs and moss. It had a very
narrow entrance on one side, which was covered by an overhanging bit of
moss, which the bird pushed aside on entering. The nests are usually
more or less globular and thickly lined with feathers and hair.

This little brown bird, which carries its tail pertly cocked on high, is
a notable singer. Many have described this song, or perhaps it is better
to say have tried to do so. But words are too inadequate to portray this
sweetest of woodland sounds. Reverend Mr. Langille says: “I stand
entranced and amazed, my very soul vibrating to this gushing melody,
which seems at once expressive of the wildest joy and the tenderest
sadness. Is it the voice of some woodland elf, breaking forth into an
ecstasy of delight, but ending its lyric in melting notes of sorrow?”

Of this song Florence A. Merriam says: “Full of trills, runs, and grace
notes, it was a tinkling, rippling roundelay. It made me think of the
song of the ruby-crowned kinglet, the volume and ringing quality of both
being startling from birds of their size. But while the kinglet’s may be
less hampered by considerations of tune, the Wren’s song has a more
appealing, human character. It is like the bird itself. The dark swamps
are made glad by the joyous, wonderful song.”

                      [Illustration: WINTER WREN.
                        (Troglodytes hiemalis.)
                            About Life-size.
                    FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]

And Audubon beautifully expresses the song as it appealed to him: “The
song of the Winter Wren excels that of any other bird of its size with
which I am acquainted. It is truly musical, full of cadence, energetic
and melodious; its very continuance is surprising, and dull indeed must
be the ear that thrills not on hearing it. When emitted, as it often is,
from the dark depths of the unwholesome swamps, it operates so
powerfully on the mind that it by contrast inspires a feeling of wonder
and delight, and on such occasions has impressed me with a sense of the
goodness of the Almighty Creator, who has rendered every spot of earth
in some way subservient to the welfare of His creatures.”




                         VOICES IN THE GARDEN.


As the snows were being guarded on the mountain tops by the gentle
herder Spring two small seeds, dropped from the same busy hand, fell so
near together in a fresh furrow that they could hear each other shiver
as they struck the cold, damp earth and were covered over by the same.

“How cold our bed is,” said seed number One, as a cold chill ran down
her back.

“Yes,” replied seed number Two. “But we will soon get used to this cold,
and when Father Sun sends the sunbeams to play on our top cover we will
get warmth from their little hot feet.”

With this thought seed number Two snuggled down in her new bed of earth
and pulled the tiny clods around her and shut her eyes to sleep. But
seed number One still shivered and complained and wished that she was
back in the paper package so loudly that all her companions in the
furrow were disturbed, especially number Two, who was lying so near.

“Aren’t you feeling more comfortable?” asked seed number Two.

“No, I am not. I am freezing, and these cold clods are mashing me. I
wish I was back in the paper though we were crowded on top of each
other.”

“But you could not grow there.”

“No, but I could be more comfortable. If it takes these old black clods
to make me grow I don’t know that I want to grow,” and she gave a sniff
to show her contempt.

“Stop! You don’t realize what you are saying! You are near committing
the unpardonable sin. Do you remember your promise to Mother Nature as
she placed within your bosom the sacred germ of life? That promise which
you gave to grow, at the first opportunity, and to do all within your
power to become strong and vigorous, producing seeds in which she could
place like germs. Then have you forgotten your dying mother’s request
that you live up to this solemn promise?”

Seed number One did not reply, but gave a little rebellious grunt to
show her state of feelings and remained silent.

This was a great relief to the other seeds, who were enduring the
discomforts of their new and chilly environments with as much fortitude
as possible, hoping and believing that their new home would yet become
more comfortable. Finally all became quiet and they shut their eyes and
waited and dreamed.

The cold, dark night was at last over. The seeds in their little dark
chambers could not see this, but they knew it was so when they felt the
warm influence of the sunbeams as it crept stealthily down through the
damp soil and warmed their cold, wet wrappings. Oh, how it did revive
them! They grew larger as they tried to express their thankfulness. The
quickening power within pictured to them bright sunshine, refreshing
showers and warm, balmy nights. But there they lay helpless in the dark,
waiting and dreaming and dimly feeling that—

  Instinct within that reaches and towers
    And, groping blindly above for light,
  Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers.

But the greatest change of all was in seed number One. She had spent the
dark, cold night in thinking of the promise she had given and about
which she had been reminded by seed number Two. Gradually the angry,
rebellious feelings passed away and she began to realize how sinful her
spirit had been. And now that the warm sunshine had turned the cold, wet
clods into a blessing she most heartily felt ashamed of herself and
could get no rest until she gave some expression to this feeling. She
began by snuggling closer down among the clods and trying to make them
feel that she was glad to be among them.

Then she whispered to them softly: “I am so sorry for the rude,
impatient, angry words I spoke yesterday when I first came among you.
Can you forgive me?”

“Certainly we will,” said the big clod that the seed had accused of
mashing her. “I know we are rough looking companions for a tiny seed and
oftimes we are forced, by influences from without, to act rudely. But
Mother Nature knows our needs and will send water to soften our natures
and men will lift and stir us about so that we can do our very best work
in helping you and other seeds to perform life’s obligations.”

“Yes,” replied the seed, “I now remember how my mother used to praise
you and tell us children that the nice juicy food she brought for us to
eat came from the soil surrounding her roots.”

“I am glad you can remember us so kindly,” responded the clod. “Though
we are the lowest of God’s creation, we are also the oldest, and He has
most graciously used us as an instrument in performing His higher works.
We hold a very humble place, and are trodden upon by all of His
creatures, yet we are happy in realizing that we, too, have a direct
commission from him and a part to perform in the creation of the great
living world above us. Our most extensive and immediate work is helping
Mother Nature to produce the vegetable kingdom, to which you belong, and
we want you to feel,” continued the clod, “that you are among friends
who are waiting and anxious to serve you.”

“Thank you,” replied the seed; “you are very, very kind, and I am sure I
shall learn to love you dearly.” Saying this she crept down closer into
the warm little crevice and the clod, absorbing the water that had been
turned into the furrow, melted around her and gave her protection,
moisture and food.

The next night did not seem so cold to the seeds. They had become better
acquainted with the soil and through the influence of the sun and water
were clasped more warmly and tenderly in his arms. There they lay and
waited until the little germ within them began to stir and knock for
egress. The kind soil had by his own virtues softened their walls so
that it was not difficult for the swelling germs to make an opening
through which they stretched tiny white hands and laid them lovingly
into the strong ones of their benefactor. In these handclasps were
pledged mutual co-operation, sympathy and love throughout life. “Useless
each without the other.”

No sooner had these little hands made sure of their hold upon the soil
than there came an irrepressible longing in the heart bud to reach up
and to know another world. In obedience to this call the little bud
peeped out of its own hull and crept softly through the soil, up to the
sunshine and air. There it unfolded two tiny leaves in thankfulness and
praise to One who had made possible this new life. As the fullness of
the higher world was comprehended, other leaves were thrown out until
the little plant became a whorl of praise and gladness.

At this juncture new difficulties arose. These little leaves forgot
their higher mission of love and praise and began to crowd and push each
other, each striving to grow tallest and command the greatest space. As
seeds number One and Two lay very near each other it was not long before
their leaves came together in the air world. They had been so busy
growing that they had talked but little to each other since the first
night. Seed number One had grown so happy, gentle and meek that she was
fast gaining friends on all sides. Every one regretted that they had so
harshly condemned her. But now this new trial was a severe test to her
genuine heart goodness. At first she made some show of patience, for
seed number Two, her closest neighbor, was so unselfish and gentle in
all that she did that there was little excuse to be otherwise. But no
sooner did other leaves come into the space she considered her own than
her leaves began to rustle and complain and to say: “It is no use for me
to try to grow, crowded up like this. I wish I had been planted
somewhere all by myself.”

Then seed number Two gently whispered: “He who took you from your
mother’s dead arms, kept you from freezing during the cold winter months
and prepared for you this nice loose furrow in which to grow had a right
to plant you where He wished and to do with you what He thinks best. As
for ‘growing room,’ there is likely to be plenty of it within a few days
for all those who have the good fortune to be here.” At this there was a
rustle of surprise among the bystanders and they asked what she meant.

“I remember mother telling about her early life,” continued seed number
Two, “how at first she and her companions were so crowded together that
some lost all their beautiful green color and became white and sickly.
But one day a girl, with a bucket on her arm and a knife in her hand,
came and sat down near them. They all held their breath, not knowing
what she intended to do. Then the girl took the knife and, catching a
number of mother’s companions by the leaves, cut them off just below
their bud. This she continued to do until her bucket was full. When she
left there was plenty of room for those remaining to grow, but their
hearts were sad and anxious.

“Each day the girl came back to some portion of the bed and acted in the
same manner until the bunches were so scattering that the leaves did not
touch each other. Each time mother expected that she would be one of the
number and be cut off from the life she loved and in which she was
hoping to redeem her promise to bear seeds for Mother Nature. Finally
she and her companions began to notice that the girl always chose the
largest and freshest looking bunches. Then some of them began to say:
‘What is the use of us trying our best to grow strong and vigorous? That
very state endangers our lives. Mother Nature surely did not understand
these surroundings when she exacted this promise from us!’ One bold,
rebellious spirit said: ‘I am going to have my roots stop their work
that my leaves may turn yellow and brown; and then I will get the wind
to split and break them.’ ‘But,’ said mother, ‘that will be death.’

“‘Well, what does it matter? I would as lief die one way as another,’
gruffly responded the bold speaker.

“Most of mother’s companions nodded their assent, so she said nothing
more until she had time to quietly think over the matter. That night
mother stood, awake, looking up at the stars and trying to know what was
best to do. Finally, when the first whispers of morning could be heard,
they brought her this message: ‘Always and under all circumstances do
your best. Live up to the highest and noblest within you and leave the
result to Him who knows the heart.’

“Then there came peace and courage, and mother rose above the fear of
death and resolved that she would not relax one effort to grow and carry
out in detail the promise she had given. She was convinced that Mother
Nature wanted her best each day rather than a mere existence in order
that she might bear some puny seeds.

“Several days went by and the girl did not appear. The contrast became
greater and greater between mother and her companions. She stood erect,
holding her broad green leaves up to the sun, while in the midst of them
could be seen a young, vigorous seed stalk crowned with the precious
promises of the future. The leaves of her companions were fast turning
yellow and brown and their whole attitude was dejected and forlorn.

“One day they heard voices in the garden. They thought this must be the
girl coming to fill her bucket. All eyes were turned toward mother. They
felt sure she would be the first chosen. But mother was calm and
possessed, rejoicing in the knowledge that she had lived up to her
higher duties and therefore was better prepared to either be cut down or
left standing as fate would decide.

“As the voices came nearer they recognized the owner of the garden and
with her John, who had always been their good friend, pulling up the
weeds and loosening the soil around their roots. The owner and John were
soon standing beside the bed where mother and her companions grew, and
then the voice of the woman could be heard saying: ‘John, this bed is
doing no good. The season is about over, anyway, so you can spade it up
and sow it to early turnips. But look!’ and the woman stooped and
touched mother’s crisp leaves. ‘Isn’t this a beautiful specimen of fine
lettuce? John, you may leave this bunch for seed.’

“So it came about that mother only, of all her companions, was allowed
to complete a natural life and to realize the hope that we all have in
common.”

As seed number Two finished this narrative they were all very thoughtful
and felt more considerate for each other in their crowded condition.

Sure enough, within the next day or two a woman with a pan and knife
came down the row and began to thin out their number. Seed numbers One
and Two trembled as she passed them, but she did not stop to take
either.

That evening seed number One whispered to her companion: “You are very
fortunate to have had such a noble mother. I know now why it is so easy
for you to be patient and good.”

“Ah! you do not know nor understand, or you would not call me good nor
think that it is easy for me to be always patient. I love and honor the
memory of my mother, but she does not possess the power to make me good.
Mother Nature holds each of us responsible for our own acts and judges
us accordingly.”

After a thoughtful silence seed number One said: “I am growing to try to
be good and to grow strong and upright,” and she stretched herself a
little bit higher in her own effort to appear so.

A few days after this a small, tiny worm came creeping and shivering
along the ground and stopped first under the leaves of seed number One
and asked for a nibble.

“No,” replied the seed, “my leaves must be kept whole and beautiful, for
it is only in this way that I can be my best self and thereby win Mother
Nature’s approval.”

“But I am starving,” replied the worm. “I cannot find a morsel to eat
anywhere. Please give me one of your under leaves that I may gain
strength to crawl on and hunt other food. I do not ask your life, but
only a bit of your under leaves, which you can well spare.”

“But it will spoil my appearance,” said the seed, “and Mother Nature
wants me to be beautiful. And then I can’t bear to have a nasty worm
touch me,” and she rustled and drew up her beautiful green leaves to
show her disgust.

“Very well,” said the worm, “I will not take by force what you are not
willing to give through mercy. Some day you will know me better,” and
the worm crawled away.

He stopped at seed number Two and made the same request. At first she
hesitated, but seeing how near starved the poor worm was and how humbly
and meekly he asked for the food, she relented.

“I know,” said the seed, “you will spoil the appearance of my leaves and
I shall look shabby among my companions, but knowing that you, too, are
one of Mother Nature’s children, I cannot believe that she would have me
withhold life from you. Therefore, I give you of my leaves as giving
unto her, leaving the result with her.”

The worm most heartily thanked the seed and began eating. He stayed a
day or two, making several large holes through the under leaves, but at
the end of that time he had become strong and vigorous, and again
thanking her, he crawled away.

Several days after the worm had departed and seeds numbers One and Two
had grown to be quite large bunches, the woman with her knife came down
the row. She seemed to be in a great hurry and was gathering the largest
bunches as she came along. When she reached the two companions she
stooped and laid her knife at the root of number Two, but noticing the
holes in her leaves she quickly changed to seed number One and the knife
went home. Poor seed number One fell over on her side and was gathered
up and placed in the pan. The woman passed on and seed number Two was
left standing, but shaking with the emotions of fear, thankfulness and
regret. For after all, she loved seed number One and was truly sorry
that she had been taken.

All that afternoon seed number Two remained very quiet and her
companions knew why.

“How strange!” they murmured. “What we thought was her degradation and
destruction has really been her salvation.”

And they looked upon her with awe and whispered:

“How strange! How strange!”

                                                      M. Alice Spradlin.

                   [Illustration: LECONTE’S SPARROW.
                        (Ammodramus leconteii.)
                            About Life-size.
                    FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]




                         THE LECONTE’S SPARROW.
                       (_Ammodramus leconteii._)


The Leconte’s Sparrow has an interesting history. It was first
discovered and named by Audubon in 1843. Later, his account seemed
almost a myth, for no more individuals were taken, and even the specimen
on which he based his published report of the new species was lost. It
was not seen again until Dr. Coues rediscovered it in 1873, obtaining
his specimens on the Turtle Mountain, near the border of Dakota.

Of their habits, Dr. Coues says: “In their mode of flight the birds
resemble wrens; a simile which suggested itself to me at the time was
that of a bee returning home laden with pollen; they flew straight and
steady enough, but rather feebly, as if heavily freighted for their very
short wings.”

Its range is quite extensive, for it is found from the Great Plains
eastward through Illinois and Indiana and from Manitoba southward.
During the winter months it frequents the States bordering the Gulf of
Mexico. This Sparrow is often seen in the stubble of grain fields which
have become covered with grass and low weeds, to the cover of which it
will retreat when frightened. In this respect it resembles the
grasshopper sparrow, and like it is easily overlooked. Mr. Nelson found
it on moist prairies that were covered with a growth of coarse grass. It
is also frequently seen in the swampy prairies of the Mississippi bottom
lands.

Mr. Oliver Davie quotes the following description of the bird’s habits
from an observer who studied their habits in Manitoba, where they nest
extensively: “Leconte’s Sparrows are fairly numerous in Manitoba. Their
peculiar note can be heard both day and night in fine weather; the only
sound I can compare it to is the note of the grasshopper. It is one of
the most difficult of all the small birds to collect that I know of.
They are great skulkers. I have often followed them, guided by their
chirping, in the grass until I was sure the bird was not more than a few
yards away; then he would suddenly ‘crowd on all sail’ and dart away at
a high rate of speed, gyrating from side to side in a manner that would
test the skill of any collector.”

The nests are described as concealed in a thick tuft of grass and are
rather deep and cup shaped. They are constructed of fine grass and
fibers.

Though this elegant little Sparrow baffled bird lovers for so many
years, it is now known to be abundant in many localities, and it is only
because of its peculiar and retiring habits, living as it does in grassy
places not easily accessible, that it is not more often observed.




                             EASTER LILIES.


The one delight of Grace Newton’s life was to visit Aunt Chatty White.
Winter or summer, autumn or spring—no matter what the season nor how
bright or how gloomy the weather—there was sure to be found some
unusually fascinating pleasure or employment. There were books of every
description with which to while away the winter days. And in summer the
trees were full of fruit, the yard with flowers, the fields and garden
with good things, while the birds saucily claimed possession of all.

But when she was told by Mamma that she should open Easter with Aunt
Chatty her heart was a-flutter with a joy not known before. Easter—her
first away from home! And she was sure that there would be presents, and
new books to read, and new stories to hear, and rabbits’ nests to visit,
and—well, it would be the gladdest Easter of her life, she was certain.

It was Good Friday when she arrived at her aunt’s quiet country home.
The winter was dying away and spring was making itself known and felt,
while a few birds were venturing to sing of summer’s return. The buds
were swelling, the lawns and meadows were becoming green, and in the
woods Grace was sure she could find, should she try, a violet, a
bloodroot bloom, or a dainty snowdrop. For these were the first flowers,
and sometimes appeared, her mother told her, before the snow was fairly
gone.

A surprise awaited her, however; for, as she was wandering aimlessly
about the garden borders that afternoon, she suddenly came upon a bed of
golden buds and blossoms. After gazing at them a few moments to make
sure she was not dreaming, she hastened away to Aunt Chatty for an
explanation.

“Why, dearie, those are Easter flowers,” laughed her aunt.

“But I thought Easter lilies were white.”

“Not all of them. I have some white ones—in another part of the garden.
Those you saw are daffodils and jonquils.”

“John—who?” queried Grace, in astonishment.

“Jonquils,” repeated Mrs. White, amused not a little at Grace’s
ignorance and wonder. “Come! I’ll show you which is which.”

Grace ran on ahead, and was minutely inspecting the tender young
blossoms when her aunt arrived.

“The large double yellow ones are daffodils. Those across yonder are the
white ones. Wait!” she called, for the impatient child had already
started toward the bed of more familiar lilies. “Here are the
jonquils—these with cups. Really the name for these, both the yellow and
the white, is Narcissus. Presently I’ll tell you how they came to have
that name. There are twenty or thirty kinds, but the most perfect forms
grow in Europe and Japan. Cultivation has done a great deal for the
Narcissus, both in this and other countries, but these of mine are but
the old-fashioned sort that grandmother planted here. Now let’s go see
the white ones. Will they be in full bloom for Easter?”

“Yes,” replied Grace. “See, here are two now. Mamma has this kind,” and
she fondled the snowy blossoms as though they were friends of long
standing.

“These are, without doubt, the ‘lilies of the field’ that Christ spoke
of,” said Aunt Chatty. “Isn’t it nice of them to hurry from the ground
in the spring in time to remind us of the resurrection of Him who
commended them so highly? And their whiteness tells us of His purity, as
though they wish to honor Him as long as they live.”

“But tell me, aunty, how they came to have that other name,” urged Grace
presently.

“Oh, yes. That story was told by the ancients to frighten boys and girls
who were selfish and unkind.”

To the cosy sitting room they repaired, for the air had not yet become
warm enough for so lengthy a stay out of doors. When both were
comfortably settled Aunt Chatty began:

“There was a very beautiful youth, mythology tells us, who was devotedly
loved by a wood nymph, Echo. But she had incurred the displeasure of
Juno, their goddess of the heavens, and by her had been condemned to
have the power to speak only the last word and was forbidden any other.
For this reason she could not address Narcissus, much as she desired to
do so. When he did speak, finally, Echo answered by repeating his last
word. Her heart was full of joy, for she was sure that at last her
opportunity had come. But in spite of her beauty and purity the youth
repelled her, and left her to haunt the recesses of the woods. In her
disappointment she pined for him until her form faded because of grief.
Her bones were changed to rocks and there was nothing left but her
voice. With that she is still ready to reply to anyone who calls to her
and keeps up her old habit of having the last word.

“Narcissus was cruel not in this case alone. He shunned every one else
as he had done poor Echo. One day one of those whom he repelled so
heartlessly breathed a prayer that he should some day feel what it was
to receive no return of affection. The wish was granted.

“There was a fountain, with water like silver, to which the shepherds
never drove their flocks. In fact, nothing ever disturbed its water, and
here one day Narcissus chanced to stop to drink. He saw his own likeness
in the water and, thinking it a beautiful water spirit living in the
fountain, admired and loved it. He talked to it, but it would not
answer; he tried to catch it, but it fled whenever he touched the water.
He could not tear himself away from the spot, for he was so captivated
by the lovely face in the fountain that he ignored all else. So there he
stayed until he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which had so
charmed Echo. She kept near him, however, and when, in his grief, he
exclaimed, ‘Alas! alas!’ she answered with the same words. He pined away
and died. The nymphs prepared a funeral pile and would have burned the
body, but it was nowhere to be found; in its place was a flower, purple
within and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and
preserves the memory of Narcissus.”

When Aunt Chatty had finished, Grace, after gazing out at the white
Easter lilies a few moments, said:

“I like the story, but I don’t like Narcissus. He was too selfish and
ungrateful. I like the story best that you told me in the garden, the
one about the ‘lilies of the field.’”

                                                     Claudia May Ferrin.




                        THE CALL OF THE KILLDEE.


            “Killdee, killdee.”
            The pleasantest sight to me
  Is a little brown bird with a curious word;
  A queer little word that to-day I have heard
  For the very first time this spring, you see,
  And that queer little word is “Killdee, killdee.”
            That curious word is “Killdee.”

            “Killdee, killdee.”
            It is cheery and clear as can be.
  And there’s snow in the gully not melted away,
  And ice in the river; I saw it to-day.
  Yet there he goes dipping and skimming along
  And singing so blithely his queer little song:
            “’Tis spring. Killdee, Killdee.”
                                                         —Mary Morrison.




                        THE NORTHERN PHALAROPE.
                        (_Phalaropus lobatus._)


The Northern Phalarope has a wide range, extending throughout the
northern portion of the Northern Hemisphere and in winter reaching the
tropics. It breeds only in Arctic latitudes. It is a bird of the ocean,
and seldom is observed inland except as a rare migrant early in May or
in October. Then it “frequents slow streams or marshy pools.”

This Phalarope belongs to the shore birds and to a family that contains
but three known species. Two of these are sea birds. The other, Wilson’s
phalarope, is an inhabitant of the interior of North America. Their feet
are webbed, and usually the two marine forms, or sea snipe, as they are
sometimes called, migrate in flocks far from land. Mr. Chapman says: “I
have seen it in great numbers about one hundred miles off Barnegat, New
Jersey, in May. For several hours the steamer passed through flocks,
which were swimming on the ocean. They arose in a body at our approach,
and in close rank whirled away to the right or left in search of new
feeding grounds.”

It is not an exaggeration to say that it is one of the most beautiful of
our aquatic birds. All its motions are graceful. It possesses a quiet
dignity and elegance while swimming in search of food, which it
frequently obtains by thrusting its bill into the water. In this manner
it obtains a large number of marine animals and flies that may be on the
surface of the water. When on the shore it may be seen wading and
swimming in ponds near the coast.

Dr. Coues wrote in an interesting manner of this bird. He said that the
Northern Phalarope is “a curious compound of a wader and swimmer. Take
one of our common little sandpipers, fit it for sea by making oars of
its feet, and launch it upon the great deep, you have a Northern
Phalarope. You may see a flotilla of these little animated cockle-boats
riding lightly on the waves anywhere off the coast of New England.”

Its habits at the mating season are most interesting, and no words can
better describe them than those of Mr. E. W. Nelson: “As the season
comes on when the flames of love mount high, the dull- male moves
about the pool, apparently heedless of the surrounding fair ones. Such
stoical indifference usually appears too much for the feelings of some
of the fair ones to bear. A female coyly glides close to him and bows
her head in pretty submissiveness, but he turns away, pecks at a bit of
food and moves off; she follows and he quickens his speed, but in vain;
he is her choice, and she proudly arches her neck and in mazy circles
passes and repasses close before the harassed bachelor. He turns his
breast first to one side, then to the other, as though to escape, but
there is his gentle wooer ever pressing her suit before him. Frequently
he takes flight to another part of the pool, all to no purpose. If with
affected indifference he tries to feed she swims along side by side,
almost touching him, and at intervals rises on wing above him and,
poised a foot or two over his back, makes a half dozen quick, sharp
wing-strokes, producing a series of sharp, whistling noises in rapid
succession. In the course of time it is said that water will wear the
hardest rock, and it is certain that time and importunity have their
full effect upon the male of this Phalarope, and soon all are
comfortably married, while mater familias no longer needs to use her
seductive ways and charming blandishments to draw his notice.”

Then after the four dark and heavily marked eggs are laid the “captive
male is introduced to new duties, and spends half his time on the eggs,
while the female keeps about the pool close by.”

                   [Illustration: NORTHERN PHALAROPE.
                         (Phalaropus lobatus.)
                              ¾ Life-size.
                    FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]

These birds, which possess such dainty elegance in all their motions, do
not exhibit a corresponding degree of taste in home building. Their
nests, at best, consist of only a few blades of grass and fragments of
moss laid loosely together. Often the eggs are laid in some convenient
hollow, with no bedding whatever except that which happened to lodge
there.

These are a few of the facts in the life history of this bird, which
starts in its career as a little ball of buff and brown and later in
life “glides hither and thither on the water, apparently drifted by its
fancy, and skims about the pool like an autumn leaf wafted before the
playful zephyrs on some embosomed lakelet in the forest.”




                          OUR LITTLE MARTYRS.


  Do we care, you and I,
  For the songbirds winging by?
  Ruffled throat and bosom’s sheen,
  Thrill of wing, of gold or green,
  Sapphire, crimson—gorgeous dye
  Lost or found across the sky,
  ’Midst the glory of the air,
  Birds who tenderer colors wear?
  What to us the free bird’s song,
  Breath of passion, breath of wrong,
  Wood-heart’s orchestra, her life,
  Breath of love and breath of strife,
  Joy’s fantasias, anguish breath,
  Cries of doubt and cries of death?
    Shall we care when nesting-time
  Brings no birds from any clime,
  Not a voice or ruby wing,
  Not a single nest to swing
  ’Midst the reeds or higher up,
  Like a dainty fairy-cup;
  Not a single little friend,
  All the way as footsteps wend
  Here and there through every clime,
  Not a bird at any time?
    Does it matter, do we care
  What the feathers women wear
  Cost the world? For birds must die;
  Not a clime where they may fly
  Safely through their native air;
  Slaughter meets them everywhere.
    Scorned be hands that touch such spoil!
  Let women pity, and recoil
  From traffic, barbarous and grave,
  And quickly strive the birds to save.
                                                        —George Klingle.




                         A CARGO OF STOWAWAYS.


  “Birds of ocean and of air
  Hither in a troop repair.”
                                             —Aristophanes’ “The Birds.”

Passing out of the golden sunrise into a world of blue sky and the blue
waters of Lake Huron, we regretfully assured ourselves that save for the
shadowy gray and white gulls that followed in the wake of our steamer in
search of a breakfast, there would be for us no bird reviews so dear to
the heart of the ornithologist in a strange country, or not at least
until we should have reached the far distant islands in the picturesque
River Sault Ste. Mary, so with the inertia of the blank waters about us
we prepared to be content, but in this instance, as in many others, we
were to learn that conclusions are by no means conclusive, and it was
with joy that we could exclaim with Aristophanes:

  “But hark! the rushing sound of rushing wings
  Approaches us,”

when before our delighted and surprised eyes alighted a bronze grackle,
most majestic of blackbirds, who stepped off across the deck with all of
the pride of a lately promoted major, doubtless glad enough to find
himself on solid footing after the heavy gale of the past night, which
has blown him into unknown seas. His rich metallic plumage gleamed in
the sunlight as he eyed us inquisitively, the while walking calmly about
us picking up the insects of which we seemed to have an abundant supply
aboard. But where is the little wife to whom he was so devoted, and
whose labors of incubation he so materially assisted, taking his “turn”
on the nest with clock-like regularity? But also he shared with her
their rich song notes which so delight us during the courting season.
But our grackle is by no means the only stowaway we were to carry north
with us, for all at once the air was resonant with excited “chips” and
“zeeps” as the different winged passengers arrived. At least half a
dozen pine warblers contentedly flitted onto the deck, filling the air
with their sweet calls, and dancing about like little balls of yellow
feathers. And to delight beyond anything the heart of a bird enthusiast,
far more indeed than can any result of gun, camera or opera glass, was
the fact that exhaustion and hunger had entirely obliterated from these
birds every trace of their dread of the human kind, and they associated
with us as fearlessly as tho’ to the manor born. Particularly was this
true of the pine warblers who hopped about us on the hatchways like
chickens, one venturesome little fellow even becoming so familiar as to
alight on the toe of my slipper, and quietly inspect its steel
embroidery with silent curiosity, occasionally glancing up at me out of
his round, bright eyes as confidentially as though he was a connoisseur
in footwear. Another warbler lit on the corner of a book that one of the
passengers was holding in her hand. This rare friendliness made us feel
that we had not only the bird in the hand, but also the two in the bush,
with still a balance in our favor, for we could study their movements as
intimately as we desired, but I could hardly keep from rubbing my eyes
in amazement, fearing “’twas but a dream,” or that my brain has been
turned, as topsy turvy this morning as was my stomach the night before.
But the experience was certainly uniquely delightful to say the least.
After all of these years of careful peeking and prying to secure a
moment’s observation of some of these birds, to have them now flitting
about me, at my very feet as it were, in this familiar and friendly
fashion was indeed a rare treat. It is Darwin who has said that he had
come to the conclusion that the wildness of birds with regard to man is
a particular instinct directed against him, and not dependent on any
general degree of caution arising from other sources of danger. Birds in
general, however, have had reason to become timid from their experience
of the human biped, and hold with Eben Holden that “Men are the most
terrible of all critters, an’ the meanest. They’re the only critters
that kill fer fun,” and it has become instinctive for them to act
accordingly.

However, we had not yet arrived at the end of our experience with the
sociable bird world, for it seemed that we were to carry a full cargo of
stowaways, for the next arrivals were six or seven juncos savoring of
frost and wintry weather, notwithstanding the heat of the autumnal sun.
Miss Merriam has quaintly styled these busy little birds: “Gray robed
monks and nuns,” though their character does not cleverly carry out that
conception, for they are a pugnacious lot of feathers and blood, and
there were pitch battles going on at every hatch corner, the juncos
playing the part of the aggressor every time, turning and conspicuously
flaunting their stylish white tail markings in the face of their
opponents. The next advent was that of a tiny house wren, who seemed to
have had a good deal of his natural belligerency blown out of him, and
was content to make a peaceful breakfast on the Canada soldiers that
were swarming about. Wrens are noticeable for the interest that they
take in human belongings, and love to make their home among them. At
Marquette I was shown a nest built in an overshoe inadvertently left in
the crotch of an apple tree, and which, I am glad to report, the owner
left undisturbed when she learned by whom it was pre-empted. I thought
of our little stowaway when I saw the nest and wondered how much he
could have told me of its construction. Some one has mentioned a nest
built in an old coat sleeve, and Audubon tells us of a pair that nested
in his parlor, paying him rent in song music. The wren has also received
much “honorable mention” in history, Aristotle being the first, I
believe, to call him the King of Birds, possibly because of the legend
that tells us that to gain his sovereignty in a trial of flight he
concealed himself on the back of an eagle who was one of the
contestants, and after that bird of mighty wing power had reached his
limit the wren, arising from his seat among the eagle’s feathers, easily
flew much higher, thus gaining the race and title. Perhaps not the first
time that high places have been arrived at through duplicity. But, in
justice to his species, mention should be made of the myth that asserts
that in ye golden time the wren was the only bird brave enough to enter
heaven and bring down fire to earth for the benefit of the mortals. In
this philanthropical work he scorched off his feathers, so the other
birds made a donation party and each contributed some spare feathers to
the singed benefactor (but we notice that their generosity, like that of
some others, was confined to donating their plainest apparel), all but
the owl, who refused to part with a single quill, but who for his
stinginess was at once ostracised from good society, and forced to make
his appearance only after nightfall, when the “best people” were not in
evidence.

Of the two other members of the warbler family, who traveled north with
us singly and alone, one was a Blackburnian warbler, silent and dull of
plumage as befitted the season, and the other a dainty black-throated
blue warbler, one of the most dressy and gentlemanly appearing birds of
the warbler species. In his steely blue coat, black stock and evening
vest and wide expanse of white shirt front, he looks as though fully
attired for a swell reception. His two white wing patches closely
resemble handkerchiefs peeping from side pockets, completing the
illusion. He was rather more reserved in his movements than the gang of
noisy associates, and picked daintily at the flies as befits well-bred
superiority. But he, like the rest, showed no apparent distrust of us,
neither did some newly arrived white-throated sparrows, who joined in
the general scramble for insects. But not now do we hear their cheerful
“I-have-got-plenty-to-eat-but-no-che-eze,” as Dr. Brewer interprets
their song. I am sure that they could have had cheese or anything else
they desired on board the Castalia, for on hospitable thoughts intent I
secured some crumbs from the table, but my feathered fellow travelers
would have none of me, passing my humble offerings by in disdain. There
was but one death on the passage, and that was a white-eyed vireo, who
either succumbed to exhaustion or struck the rigging too violently in
boarding the steamer.

But birds were not the only winged creatures who took passage with us.
For several hours a continuous stream of honey bees and yellow-jackets
flew exhausted upon the deck, only to become food for the bee-eating
passengers. The few who escaped and revived sufficiently to crawl up
onto the cabin were so fatigued that one could stroke them gently
without provoking any antagonism. Wafted across the blue waters by
adverse winds came also myriads of common yellow butterflies, tossing in
the gentle breeze like handfuls of shining buttercups, and great troops
of beautiful milkweed butterflies (Anosia plexippus), their brilliant
colors gleaming in the sunlight in all the richness of ebony and
crimson. They hovered about the steamer like gorgeous blossoms cut from
the parent stalk and left poised in mid air at the mercy of treacherous
gales. Funny little atoms of vanity and brightness, whose homes are
among the gardens of peace and sunshine, what business had they here in
this region of seething waters and tempestuous winds?

We looked to have our feathered friends leave us upon the first
appearance of land, but, on the contrary, they remained with us all of
the afternoon, as we sailed in and out among the picturesque islands of
the “Soo” river, and it was not until toward their bed-time and the
setting of the sun that they gradually began to disappear; the last to
leave, and that was at dusk, was the black-throated blue warbler. Just
before reaching the lock a couple of juncos perched on the rail and
engaged in what seemed to us a very heated discussion, until finally one
of them, with a chip of command, flew to the shore, the other following
in a moment with a note of protest. The latter’s idea doubtless was to
remain with a good thing in hand rather than venture into pastures new
of unknown possibilities.

On our return trip, the weather being calm, no birds were:

  “Buffeted and baffled, with the gusty gale,”

hence our only stowaways were a couple of yellow warblers, who spent
most of their time in one of the offices catching flies on the wall, and
we were obliged to resort to other resources for our entertainment, and
found at least artistic as well as botanical enjoyment in looking at the
great bunches of golden rod, yellow cone flowers and pale primroses, a
combination of yellows that formed an exquisite blend, and which covered
the embankment of the great willow dike on St. Clair Flats, that seems
fast running into a state of dilapidation and decay. But it is a
delightful sail down the willow-bordered lane of blue water, a stray bit
of Venice with Venice left out, as it were, and where no angry waters
toss the brave mariner and consequently seasick traveler across mighty
billows, a performance which is a by no means charming accessory to
one’s erstwhile home on the bounding deep.

                                                       Alberta A. Field.

                    [Illustration: HAIRY WOODPECKER.
                         (Dryobates villosus.)
                              ⅔ Life-size.
                    FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]




                         THE HAIRY WOODPECKER.
                        (_Dryobates villosus._)


  The woodpeckers on trunk of gnarled trees
  Tap their quick drum-beats with their horny beaks.
                                 —Isaac McLellan, “Nature’s Invitation.”

The geographical and the breeding ranges of the Hairy Woodpecker are
practically the same. These include eastern North America from the
southern provinces of Canada southward to the States bordering the Gulf
of Mexico and those of the southeastern United States bordering the
Atlantic Ocean. In these States it is occasionally found during the
winter season. Westward its range extends to the Rocky Mountains. It is,
however, most abundant in the forest areas of the Northern and Middle
States, where, as it is a hardy bird and not greatly affected by extreme
cold, it is generally a constant resident. Though occasionally found in
old orchards, its choice feeding grounds are the timbered regions of
river banks and other bodies of water. Here and in the trees at the
outer borders of forests it seeks its food by itself, for it has an
unsocial disposition, and it is seldom that more than a pair are seen
together. “It does not live in harmony with smaller species of its own
kind, and drives them away when they encroach on its feeding grounds,
being exceedingly greedy in disposition and always hungry.” It also is
not adverse to a home in the deeper forests and may even frequent clumps
of trees in the open.

The Hairy Woodpecker is one of the most useful and valuable friends of
human interests. Not only does it feed upon the larvæ that burrow in the
wood and bark of our forest and orchard trees, but also upon beetles and
other insects. It is only in the winter season, when its natural food is
not readily obtained, that it gathers seeds and fruits. It never attacks
a sound tree for any purpose, and the loss caused by the amount of
useful grain destroyed is greatly overbalanced by the good that it does
in the destruction of noxious insects.

The value of this shy and retiring bird is well illustrated by Mr. V. A.
Alderson, who says in the “Oologist” (July, 1890): “Last summer potato
bugs covered every patch of potatoes in Marathon County, Wisconsin. One
of my friends here found his patch an exception, and, therefore, took
pains to find out the reason, and observed a Hairy Woodpecker making
frequent visits to the potato field and going from there to a large pine
stub a little distance away. After observing this for about six weeks,
he made a visit to the pine stub, and found, on inspection, a large hole
in its side, almost fifteen feet up. He took his ax and cut down the
stub, split it open, and found inside over two bushels of bugs. All had
their heads off and bodies intact. Now, why did the Woodpecker carry the
bugs whole to the tree and only bite off and eat the heads, which could
have been done in the open field?”

The Hairy Woodpecker has no leisure moments. He is always active and

  The little tap of busy bill
  The signal of his work and skill.

is ever present

  To rid the soil of every foe,
    To guard the leafy trees.

The movements of this Woodpecker are interesting, for, like its sister
species, it moves with equal facility either upwards or downwards,
sidewise or backwards upon a tree trunk. From time to time it will stop
and seem to listen, and, finally bracing itself with the stiff feathers
of its spiney tail, it will deliver powerful blows with its chisel-like
bill at some point that will be likely to furnish a dainty morsel of
food. There is little doubt that its sense of hearing is very acute and
that it can detect the slightest movement of an insect in the bark or
wood of a tree that to other animals would be imperceptible.

The flight of the Hairy Woodpecker is like that of the other species of
its group. It is wavering and undulating, seldom protracted and usually
consisting of a number of short vibrations of the wings. When alighting,
they grasp the object with both feet simultaneously. This Woodpecker is
the earliest of all the family to build its nest. Mating begins in the
latter part of March, and at this time the birds are exceedingly noisy.
The male when not feeding will resort to some dead limb and vigorously
drum and “the louder the noise produced, the more satisfactory it
appears to be to the performer.”

Regarding the building of the nest, Major Bendire says: “Both sexes take
part in the labor, and it is really wonderful how neat and smooth an
excavation these birds can make with their chisel-shaped bills in a
comparatively short time. The entrance hole is round, as if made with an
auger, about two inches in diameter, and just large enough to admit the
body of the bird; the edges are nicely beveled, the inside is equally
smooth, and the cavity is gradually enlarged toward the bottom. The
entrance hole, which is not unfrequently placed under a limb for
protection from the weather, generally runs in straight through the
solid wood for about three inches, and then downward from ten to
eighteen inches, and some of the finer chips are allowed to remain on
the bottom of the cavity, in which the eggs are deposited. Both dead and
living trees are selected for nesting sites, generally the former. When
living trees are chosen, the inner core, or heart of the tree, is
usually more or less decayed. These nesting sites are nearly always
selected with such good judgment that such obstacles as hard knots are
rarely encountered; should this occur, the site is abandoned and a fresh
one selected.” The male, after the work is completed, will often
excavate one or more holes in the same tree in order that he may have a
resting place at night near to his mate.




                          A VARICOLORED FROG.


An amateur naturalist, amid the ordinary organic forms that he may
encounter in his own country, is often grievously puzzled at curious
specimens of animal life that may be brought under his attention. But
amid the illimitable animal life of the wild region of the upper Orinoco
even the most expert and learned naturalist will often find himself
“stumped” by the many unusual and hitherto undiscovered things that
occasionally beset his pathway.

Among the many curious and quaint animal specimens encountered by the
writer in this region was an arboreal frog of startlingly beautiful
colorings. This little creature rested upon a stomach of orange flame
hue, while the head and back were marked with velvet purple tints, and a
narrow snow-white stripe extended from the point of his nose to the tip
of a tiny tail. With such brilliant colorings it is easily and
distinctly observed, but the snakes, weasels and other arch enemies of
the amphibians have no relish for this handsome specimen. Its weapon of
defense against its would-be enemies is a sweat venom of a most nauseous
odor, which it emits when any one approaches it. This venom is common
among the toads, and the fact is referred to by Juvenal (Dryden’s
translation) of the lady “who squeezed a toad into her husband’s wine.”
It is probable that the beautiful frog of so many glaring colors would
have long since been exterminated by its many enemies and persecutors
but for the poisonous and nauseous fluid ejected from its glands.

                                                    Andrew James Miller.




                       WAS IT REASON OR INSTINCT?


Old Boney is a large shaggy dog of a deep tan color, and a general
favorite among the people in the quarter of the city in which he lives,
while he is honored and respected by every member of the canine race for
miles around. Especially are the little children fond of him; and it
seems to be as much a pastime for him as for his young playmates to
carry the boys and girls on his broad back, their little, chubby hands
buried in his long, matted hair in their half-frightened efforts to keep
from slipping off and tumbling upon the ground.

His owner’s daughter, a young girl just entering her teens, attends the
high school, about three blocks from her home, which is reached by
rather a circuitous route. Boney had often accompanied his young
mistress to the school and was familiar with the way thither as well as
with the main entrance and winding stairway of the building.

It was in the showery month of April, and Etta had repeatedly neglected
to wear her rubbers when she started for school in the morning, a fault
for which she had often been reprimanded.

Now it happened one warm afternoon that a copious shower came down in
due April style. The door leading from the dining room out upon the
veranda was wide ajar, and Etta’s mother, looking out, saw her
daughter’s rubbers upon the veranda floor near the rug where they were
usually deposited when not in use. “There,” exclaimed the mother, “that
child has gone again without her rubbers and will come home with wet
feet.”

This sharp remark aroused the attention of old Boney, for he got up from
his prone condition on the rug, looked at the speaker, sniffed at the
rubbers and lay down again. At this juncture Etta’s father quietly
picked up the rubbers, carried them over to the school building and
handed them to his daughter, whom he met at the upper landing of the
stairway. This had been done more than once, Boney generally lying upon
the veranda floor where he could easily hear and see what was being done
on such occasions, and he had often followed his master and stood by
when father and daughter met at the school building.

Now comes the interesting part of our story. A drenching shower came
down about three o’clock one afternoon and Etta had, as usual, neglected
to take her needed footwear. It happened this time that none of the
family was at home. Boney, however, was keeping house in his accustomed
place on the rug. Now, what do our readers think the noble animal did.
Why, he just picked up both of the rubbers, carried them in his mouth
through the driving rain to the school building, up the winding stairway
and laid them upon the landing. As if this were not enough, he lay down
and faithfully watched his charge till Etta made her appearance, when he
politely dropped her property at her feet.

Thereafter Etta’s father was relieved of this service, Boney regularly
attending to the business himself, and, what is more wonderful still, he
never attempted to discharge his duty on a pleasant day.

Query. Was this reason or instinct? If the latter, what is instinct?

                                                            L. P. Venen.




                                 OPAL.


“The Opal, when pure and uncut in its native rock,” says Ruskin in his
lecture on Color, “presents the most lovely colors that can be seen in
the world except those of clouds.”

While not all of us may share the great art critic’s preference for
uncut stones, there are few probably who will not join him heartily in
his admiration of the brilliant gem from whose depths come welling up
tints of so varied hue that we appropriately speak of them as colors at
play. Our interest in these colors may be heightened by reading what
Ruskin has further to say of them: “We have thus in nature, chiefly
obtained by crystalline conditions, a series of groups of entirely
delicious hues; and it is one of the best signs that the bodily system
is in a healthy state when we can see these clearly in their most
delicate tints and enjoy them fully and simply with the kind of
enjoyment that children have in eating sweet things. I shall place a
piece of rock opal on the table in your working room; and if on fine
days you will sometimes dip it in water, take it into sunshine and
examine it with a lens of moderate power, you may always test your
progress in sensibility to color by the degree of pleasure it gives
you.”

The Opal is indeed one of the most fascinating of gems; yet often
elusive and at times disappointing. Of its freaks and foibles strange
stories are told. Gems of brilliant quality are known suddenly to have
lost their hues never to regain them, while others previously dull and
lusterless have become radiant as the rainbow.

Prof. Egleston, of New York city, relates that a bottle of cut Opals
once given him by a prominent jewelry firm because they had lost their
color, after remaining in his cabinet for a time regained their
brilliancy and retained it. But to have opals regain their color is,
unfortunately, far less usual than for them to lose it. The gem often
exhibits brilliant colors when wet either with water or oil that
disappear when it is dry. Taking advantage of this peculiarity dishonest
dealers often keep opals immersed until just before offering them for
sale. The experience of having stones so treated as well as others which
might with more reason be expected to retain their brilliancy, lose it,
has very likely led to the superstition commonly attached to the Opal
that it is an unlucky gem. Some authorities, however, trace the origin
of the superstition to Sir Walter Scott’s novel, “Anne of Geierstein,”
in which the baleful influence of the Opal plays a prominent part, and
it is stated that within a year of the publication of the book the price
of Opals declined fifty per cent in the European market. Even if the
superstition did not originate in either of these ways it was probably
from a source quite as trivial and it should prevent no one from
enjoying the pleasure to be derived from the beauties of this gem.

Chemically, Opal is oxide of silicon with varying amounts of water, the
water varying from 3 to 9 per cent. It is, therefore, closely allied to
quartz, but differs physically in being softer and not as heavy.
Further, it never crystallizes, and it is soluble in caustic potash,
which quartz is not. It is infusible, but cracks and becomes opaque
before the blowpipe. In sulphuric acid it turns black, on account
probably of the organic matter it contains.

Its hardness is sometimes as low as 5.5 in the scale in which quartz is
7 and its specific gravity is from 1.9 to 2.3, while that of quartz is
2.6. On account of its relative softness a cut Opal often does not
retain its polish well and requires frequent smoothing. Opals when first
taken from the ground are often softer even than the above and for this
reason it is usual and desirable to allow them to harden or “season,” as
it is called, for some time after quarrying, before they are polished.

                          [Illustration: OPAL.
                      LOANED BY FOOTE MINERAL CO.]

  Top row:
    Precious Opal in Matrix (Queensland.)
    Wood Opal (Idaho.)
    Precious Opal (New South Wales.)
  Center:
    Precious Opal (New South Wales.)
    Precious Opal (New South Wales.)
    Fire Opal in Matrix (Mexico.)
  Bottom:
    Prase Opal (Germany.)

Opal as a mineral is quite common, so that no one need suppose because
he has specimens labeled “opal” in his collection that he has as many
precious stones. It occurs in many varieties, and, especially if it
contains foreign matter, in many colors. Nearly all silica deposited by
hot waters is in the form of Opal, so that the geysers of Yellowstone
Park build up cones of Opal and fall into Opal basins. This particular
form of Opal is known as geyserite, and it is often differently 
by different ingredients.

Wood is often preserved by silica in the form of Opal, the siliceous
waters taking away the wood and replacing it by Opal, grain by grain,
with such delicacy and accuracy that the structure of the wood is
perfectly maintained. The minute shells which diatoms make consist of
Opal, and when these dead shells accumulate to form deposits of some
extent we call the powdery substance tripoli and use it for polishing
silverware and other metals. Then there are hyalite, a variety of Opal
looking like transfixed water, so clear and colorless is it; hydrophane,
a translucent variety which sticks to the tongue and becomes more nearly
transparent when soaked in water; cacholong, a porcelain-like variety,
and menilite, a concretionary variety.

Common Opal varies from transparent to opaque, being most often
translucent and sometimes exhibiting the peculiar milkiness of color
which we call opalescence. It has sometimes a glassy, but often a waxy
luster, the latter when pronounced giving rise to the varieties known as
wax Opal and resin Opal. When Opal has the banded structure of agate it
is known as Opal-agate; when it has the color of jasper as jasper Opal,
and when that of chrysoprase as prase Opal. But none of these varieties
are used in any quantity as gems. This distinction is reserved almost
wholly for the variety known as noble or precious Opal. This is Opal
which exhibits a play of colors. No essential chemical or physical
distinction between noble Opal and other varieties is known. In a large
vein of Opal portions will exhibit the play of colors and the remainder
will not, but why the difference has not yet been determined. Neither
can the origin of the varied coloring; i. e., the iridescence, be
determined. Some regard it as due to interspersed layers containing
different percentages of water, which break up the rays of light
somewhat as a prism does, while others think that minute cracks and
fissures through the stone furnish surfaces from which the rays are
reflected in different colors back to the eye. Some Opals which are dull
and lusterless when dry exhibit considerable play of color when immersed
in water, and this fact seems to favor the first theory of the cause of
the iridescence, but the subject is not understood. The character of the
play of colors differs in different Opals, and this gives rise to
different varieties. The true noble Opal has the color quite uniformly
distributed. When the color appears in flashes of red, yellow, etc., the
stone is known as fire Opal; if blue as girasol, and if chiefly yellow
as golden Opal. When the patches of color are small, angular and
uniformly distributed it is called harlequin Opal, and if these are long
and somewhat parallel, flame Opal. These colors are not, of course,
inherent in the stone, its color varying from colorless to opaque white.
The black Opals sometimes seen and highly prized by some are usually
artificial, and are made by soaking ordinary Opals in oil and then
burning oil on them. The brilliancy of the stone is thus increased, but
it is usually fragile and liable to lose color.

Any Opal will lose its play of colors on being heated too highly, hence
possessors should avoid subjecting them to more than ordinary heat. It
is the variety and brilliancy of their changing colors which give to
Opal nearly all its desirability as a precious stone, for, as has often
been remarked, the qualities of hardness, transparency and rich body
color which give to most other gems their value are lacking in the Opal.
But together with the beauty of its changing colors Opal possesses an
advantage over all other gems in that it cannot be successfully
imitated. It is said that the Romans were able to make artificial Opals
closely resembling the real, but, if so, the art has been lost never to
be recovered, and we may hope it never will be. Hence, however much
danger there may be in buying an Opal that it has not been properly
“seasoned,” or may not retain its color, the purchaser may at least be
sure he has an Opal and not an imitation. The stones are usually cut in
the oval form known as en cabouchon, this cutting being found to bring
out their brilliancy better than any facetted form. The brilliancy of
the stone may be increased in setting by giving it a backing of mother
of pearl or black silk. When a number of Opals are placed together they
seem to borrow brilliancy from one another, a fact which is taken
advantage of in settings by placing a number together and also by Opal
dealers to dispose of inferior stones by grouping them with good ones.
For this reason when Opals are purchased they should be examined
separately. The value of Opals depends almost wholly on the brilliancy
of their coloring and their size. Stones without the play of colors are
practically worthless, while stones of ten to twenty carats’ weight,
with brilliant coloring, may bring several hundred dollars. The most
highly valued Opals have long come from the mines of Czernowitza in
northern Hungary. These Opals are often known as Oriental Opals from the
fact that in early days they were first purchased by Greek and Turkish
merchants, and by them sent to Holland. There are, however, no
localities in the Orient where precious Opals are found. The rock in
which the Hungarian Opals occur is eruptive, and of the kind known as
andesite. It is considerably decomposed, and the Opal occurs in clefts
and veins. There is little doubt that it was from these mines that the
Romans obtained the Opals known to them, and the output has been quite
constant since.

It is said that the Hungarian Opals are less likely to deteriorate than
any others. Still the danger of deterioration is not great in any Opal.
The other important countries from which precious Opals are obtained are
Mexico, Honduras and Australia. The Mexican Opals are mostly of the fire
Opal variety. They are mined in a number of the States of the
Republic—Queretaro, Hidalgo, Guerrero, Michoacan, Jalisco and San Luis
Potosi. The oldest mines are in the State of Hidalgo, near Zimapan,
where the Opal occurs in a red trachyte. Most of the Mexican Opals on
the market at the present time, however, come from the State of
Queretaro, where mining for them is conducted on a more extensive scale.
The Opal here occurs in long veins in a porphyritic trachyte, and is
mined at various points. The stones are cut and polished by workmen in
the city of Queretaro who use ordinary grind-stones and chamois skins
for the work and are said to receive an average wage of 23 cents a day.

The Honduras Opals reach foreign markets but rarely and usually uncut.
The mines are in the western part of Honduras, in the Department of
Gracias. They are little worked, but there is no doubt that extensive
deposits exist which might afford a good supply of gems if they were
properly exploited. The Australian Opals come from several localities,
the most prominent at the present time being White Cliffs, New South
Wales. The matrix is a Cretaceous sandstone which has been permeated by
hot volcanic waters. Shells, bones and other fossils are found here
entirely altered to precious Opal, making objects of great beauty. In
1899 Opals to the value of $650,000 were sold from this single region.
There is no doubt that the present popularity of the Opal is due to some
extent to the supply of beautiful stones which has come from these mines
at prices at from one-third to one-tenth those of the Hungarian stones.
Other localities in Australia whence precious Opals are obtained are
places on the Barcoo River and Bulla Creek, Queensland, and occasional
finds in West Australia.

No localities in the United States yielding precious Opals in any
quantity have yet been discovered. Some good stones have been cut from
an occurrence in Idaho, and some other minor finds have been made, but
they possess little commercial importance at present.

Opal does not seem to have been extensively known or used by the
ancients, although we know the Romans prized it highly and ascribed to
it the power of warning against disaster. The Roman Senator Nonius owned
one set in a ring which was said to be valued at nearly a million
dollars. History records that for refusing to sell the stone to Mark
Antony he was sent into exile. The next most famous Opal in history is
one owned by the Empress Josephine which was called “The Burning of
Troy,” on account of the brilliancy of the flames which shot forth from
its depths. The present whereabouts of neither of these gems is known. A
large Mexican Opal, now in the Field Columbian Museum, is carved in the
image of the Mexican sun-god, and has a setting of gold representing the
diverging rays of the sun. This gem is very ancient and is believed to
have been kept by the Aztecs in a temple, so it is probable that the
Aztecs knew and prized Opals.

The Arabians believe that Opals fall from heaven with the lightning’s
flash, a beautiful fancy, indeed. Modern usage makes the Opal the
birthstone of the month of October, some of the properties assigned to
it being that it has the power of making its wearer a general favorite,
enhancing the keenness of his sight and shielding him from suicide.

  October’s child is born for woe
  And life’s vicissitudes must know;
  But lay an Opal on her breast
  And Hope will lull those woes to rest.

                                             Oliver Cummings Farrington.




                              THE CROCUS.


  “Rest, little sister,” her sisters said—
  Violet purple and wild-rose red—
  “Rest, dear, yet, till the sun comes out,
  Till the hedges bud, and the grass blades sprout.
  We are safe in the kindly earth, and warm—
  In the upper world there is sleet and storm.
  Oh, wait for the robin’s true, clear note,
  For the sound of a drifting wing afloat;
  For the laughter bright of an April shower
  To call and wake you, sweet Crocus flower.”

  But brave-heart Crocus said never a word,
  Nor paused to listen for note of bird,
  Or laugh of raindrop * * * In rough green vest
  And golden bonnet, herself she dressed
  By the light of a glow worm’s friendly spark,
  And softly crept up the stairway dark,
  Out through the portal of frozen mold
  Into the wide world, bleak and cold.
  But somehow a sunbeam found the place
  Where the snow made room for her lifted face.
                          —Madeline S. Bridges, in Ladies’ Home Journal.




                                 MARCH.


  The stormy March is come at last,
    With wind and cloud and changing skies;
  I hear the rushing of the blast,
    That through the snowy valley flies.

  Ah, passing few are they who speak,
    Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;
  Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
    Thou art welcome month to me.

  For thou, to Northern lands again,
    The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
  And thou hast joined the gentle train
    And wear’st the gentle name of Spring.

  And, in thy reign of blast and storm,
    Smiles many a long, bright sunny day,
  When the changed winds are soft and warm,
    And heaven puts on the blue of May.

  Then sing aloud the gushing rills
    And the full springs, from frosts set free,
  That, brightly leaping down the hills,
    Are just sent out to meet the sea.

  The year’s departing beauty hides
    Of wintry storms the sullen threat;
  But in thy sternest frown abides
    A look of kindly promise yet.

  Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies,
    And that soft time of many showers,
  When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,
    Seems of a brighter world than ours.
                                                         —Royal Arcanum.

                     [Illustration: DOMESTIC SHEEP.
                             (Ovis aries.)
             ADAPTED FROM A PAINTING BY FRED. WILLIAMSON.]




                          THE DOMESTIC SHEEP.
                            (_Ovis aries._)


It was a little strip of fur which adorned a lady’s cloak. It was soft
and warm and black and curly. The lady called it astrakhan, but the
sheep, whose lamb met an early death that its pleasing fine coat might
become the covering of someone in far away America, still lives on the
steppes of the Far East. Her master and herder belong to one of the
wandering tribes which roam about Central Asia. Had the lamb lived to
maturity its beautiful fine coat would have changed to coarse hair, very
unlike the wool of the sheep we find in America. It would have grown to
a large size; it would have had short horns, a very short, flat tail,
with great bunches of fat on the haunches at either side.

There would have been among its companions some sheep entirely white;
others white with black heads; but in its immediate family all would
have been black throughout.

Imagine the little lamb taking the journey across the Eastern continent!
Should we follow it in its journey we would find many interesting
varieties of its kind. In crossing Syria and Asia Minor we would find
the curious, flat-tailed sheep; their tails are most remarkable to one
unaccustomed to the sight, for they are long masses of fat, sometimes
weighing forty or fifty pounds, and often trailing upon the ground. In
this case they are frequently supported by little sledges to relieve the
animal of its burden. It seems impossible to understand why these tails
should grow to this inconvenient and enormous length, when other breeds
near by have practically no tails at all.

Leaving the country of the broad-tailed sheep and passing along the
south of Europe, we find in Spain a very important and interesting
variety, the Merino sheep. While in the mountains of Spain they are
found in the greatest perfection, the breed has spread over many parts
of Europe and has been introduced into South Africa, America and
Australia. It is noted for the fineness of its wool and is considered by
many to be the most profitable of all sheep.

For some reason the Merino sheep has not found favor in the British
isles, but we find there many other well known round-tailed varieties.

The Shetland and Orkney breeds have in their fleece soft, fine wool,
largely intermixed with hair. They are of small size and horns may be
found on both sexes, although they may be lacking in the ewes.

The soft-wooled sheep of Scotland are a breed nearly extinct; they have
short horns, lank bodies and short wool.

In Wales we find two races of small size; one lives in the higher
mountains, is dark in color, has much hair mixed with soft wool, and
horns are found on both sexes. The other race is without horns and is
covered with a soft wool. Both varieties are hardy and are noted for
their fine flesh.

The Irish Wicklow sheep were originally very similar to the Welsh
variety. Among other Irish breeds the Kerry is best known. It is wild in
disposition, larger than the Welsh sheep, with the horns frequently
absent in the ewes.

The hardiest and boldest of all the British races are the black-faced
Heath breed; these have dark  limbs and faces and coarse and
shaggy fleeces.

The Cheviot breed are hornless, with white limbs and faces; they are
heavier than the Heath breed, but have less endurance.

The old Norfolk breed of the east of England are strong and active, with
horns, which are thick and spiral in the rams; the body and limbs are
long, the face and legs black, and the silky wool is of medium length.

The Dartmoor and Exmoor sheep are “the breeds of the older forests,
commons and chases.” They are of small size, may or may not have horns,
have dark or gray faces and have wool of medium length.

The well known Southdowns have no horns; they have dark brown faces,
ears and limbs; the head is always comparatively small, the lower jaws
are thin and fine and the space between the ears is well covered with
wool.

The Dorset and pink-nosed Somerset breed are in the southwest of
England. They are known by their long white limbs and their white faces;
the muzzle is sometimes flesh- and the wool is of medium length.

Then there are the various long-wooled sheep of which the new Leicester
breed is considered first in respect to form and ability to fatten
readily. Other long-wooled sheep are the Lincolnshire, the Romney Marsh,
the Cotswold, the Devonshire, the Notts and the long-wooled Irish
breeds.

There are other breeds less well known and less important, but the
breeds of the British isles are by no means confined to that locality.
They have been taken to the United States and to other countries. In
fact, some variety of domestic sheep can be found in every land, and no
animal is more useful to its owner.

In spite of the various breeds, the characteristics of all domestic
sheep are similar. They have not the courage and independence of their
cousins, the wild sheep of the mountains. These delight to roam to the
highest altitudes, some species being found as high as 22,000 feet above
the level of the sea. No other animal save the musk ox and the mountain
goat can exist at this height. Doubtless the domestic sheep would thrive
better if it could escape the low levels and the plains, for, like the
wild sheep, it is a mountain-loving creature. It has adapted itself to
the lower altitude, but at a great loss of its original characteristics.
It has to an extreme extent become a dependent animal, unable to care
for itself, totally lacking in courage and resources, very easily
frightened and without marked character. An entire flock is easily
startled by any unusual noise; thunder and lightning completely
unsettles them, and human efforts to quiet them often prove unavailing.

Brehm tells us that “on the steppes of Russia and Asia the shepherds
often have the most arduous tasks in preserving their charges. During a
snowstorm or thunderstorm the panicstricken flocks disperse in a wild
stampede, rushing out into the wastes of the steppe like senseless
creatures, and then resignedly suffer themselves to be snowed under or
to freeze without making any attempt to shelter themselves from the
storm or even to seek for food.” In Russia a goat is generally used as a
leader for a flock of sheep, but even a goat is not always able to keep
the stupid animals under proper guidance. During a thunderstorm they
huddle together and cannot be made to move. “If lightning strikes into
the flock,” says Lenz, “many are killed at once; if fire breaks out in
the sheepfold the sheep do not run out, but, on the contrary, sometimes
rush into the fire.” The best manner of rescuing sheep from a burning
fold or structure is to let the sheep dog to which they are accustomed,
drive them out.

To a certain degree, however, the sheep exhibits mental capacity. It
learns to know its keeper, obeys his call and displays a certain amount
of affection and docility towards him. It seems to have a liking for
music, or at least it patiently and passively listens to the bagpipe
playing of the shepherd, and it has evidently some premonition of
impending changes in the weather.

Sheep thrive best on a diet of various dried plants. The botanist
Linnæus states that they “feed on three hundred and twenty-seven of the
common Central European plants, avoiding one hundred and forty-one.
Ranunculus, cypress spurge, meadow-saffron, shave-grass, wild cabbage or
skunk cabbage and rushes are poison to it. It is fond of salt and fresh
drinking water is necessary to its well being.”

The mother usually gives birth to but one lamb, although occasionally
there are more. The little creature must first have human care, but
later they are permitted to follow their mother, which shows great
affection for her offspring.

A sheep may live to be fourteen years of age, though at nine or ten
years it will lose most of its teeth and cannot maintain itself by
grazing.

                                                           John Ainslie.




                         THE BEAUTY OF A STORM.


The person standing by the window watching the progress of the storm may
see some of its beauty, but he will miss the most vital part—its very
spirit.

Perhaps the majority of people looking out of the window this morning
exclaimed, “What a disagreeable day!” And so it might seem to those who
remained indoors; and, alas! also to many pedestrians who are not
attuned to Nature and who have not yet seen the wisdom of providing
themselves with suitable attire for stormy weather, instead of foolishly
clinging to the old idea that “anything will do to wear on a rainy day.”

These very likely were oblivious to the beauty which surrounded them and
failed to be touched by the spirit of the storm.

To many besides myself, however, I hope it was a “beautiful morning.”
When I started forth to walk the wind, which was quite strong, was
blowing in fitful gusts, while the rain fell heavily, in spite of which
state of things the note of a brown creeper smote my ear cheerily,
assuring me that one little friend, at least, was sharing my enjoyment.

After about two hours, during which time the rain had not ceased to
fall, I set out on my return walk. The first sound to attract attention,
on again setting foot out doors, was the crackling of the needles in a
tall pine tree, and I was surprised to note that the rain was freezing
on the trees. It had not seemed cold enough. Very soon there was sleet
mixed with the rain, which changed again presently to snow and sleet.
Then the snow and the wind commenced a mad frolic, and Oh! how beautiful
they made the world! Who could be deaf to the deep-toned music of the
wind roaring through the upper branches of the trees!

The spirit of the storm entered into my veins and a wild delight seized
me. I could have shouted aloud with the mere joy of living. The
redbird’s call note was as the greeting of a friend, and the hairy
woodpecker’s loud “pique” seemed to say “Hi! down there; this is a world
worth living in!”

It is in such moments as these that our unity with Nature is most
strongly felt and our co-partnership with the elements realized. We are
as much a part of the great and wonderful universe as the stars or the
clouds, the mountains or the sea.

Thus may the storm spirit embrace our spirit as the wind and rain and
snow encircle our bodies. If the invisible and visible parts of our
being be both equally prepared to face the elements, we shall return
from our encounter with them exalted in mind and refreshed in body; with
new life in our veins, and in our hearts new wonder at the beauty of
Nature in her wilder moods.

                                                    Anne Wakely Jackson.


  The snow-plumed angel of the north
    Has dropped his icy spear;
  Again the mossy earth looks forth,
    Again the streams gush clear.
                                               —John Greenleaf Whittier.




                              THE VIOLET.


With the exception of the rose, no other plant is so widely distributed
and at the same time so universally admired as the Violet. Not alone is
it esteemed because of its beauty and fragrance, but a wealth of
romance, of historical associations and mythical lore have clustered
around the purple blossoms, endearing them to the poet and scientist
alike.

The Violet was formally baptized with the ancient Latin name Viola in
1737. Since that time, by some strange oversight, botanists have allowed
the name to remain unchanged. Two hundred and fifty species of the
Violet have been described, although a more careful study of the genus
has reduced the number to one hundred or more species. Three-fourths of
these forms are found in the temperate Northern Hemisphere and the
balance in the Southern. Under these diverse conditions of growth the
plants assume many seemingly unnatural characteristics. Thus, in Brazil
a species of Violet is eaten like spinach, while others found in Peru
are violent purgatives. Among certain Gaelic tribes the plants are
highly esteemed as a cosmetic, and the ancients largely used the flowers
to flavor wines.

Whatever other attributes a plant may possess, it is predestined in
large measure to waste its fragrance on the desert air, unless it
catches the fancy of the minstrel or tips the bolts that fly from
Cupid’s bow. In fact, the Violets were originally white, until they were
accidentally struck by Cupid’s dart, which was hurled at Diana, and
since then the petals have been “purple with love’s wounds.” Hence
Shakespeare calls the Violet “Cupid’s flower of purple dye.” Another
reason for the change from white to purple is found in the jealousy of
Venus, who, envious of Cupid’s admiration of the purity of the flowers,
changed them all to blue.

The Greek myth, however, would certainly not be content if it could not
more fully account for the origin of the Violet, and so it appears from
the classic legend that Ianthea, the most beautiful of Diana’s nymphs,
while dancing in the woodlands, was pursued by the sun god, and in order
to save her favorite the immortal huntress changed her into a Violet.
The name Ion was given to the plants by the Greeks after the nymphs of
Ionia presented the flowers to Jupiter. The Thunderer evidently saw
something more than a mere blossom in the dainty flowers, for it appears
that the Violet became a beautiful priestess in Juno’s temple, known as
Io. In order to protect her from the jealousy of his consort, Jupiter
was forced to change the young goddess into a heifer, and whenever she
lowers her head to feed, the white violet springs from her perfumed
breath as it comes in contact with the soil.

Among the ancients the Violet was the flower of honor. It was the sacred
flower of the Acropolis, and the “Athenian crowned with Violets” was a
distinction much sought after. Pindar writes of “Violet-crowned Athens,”
and in the “Cyprea” it is said that Violets were among the perfumes
employed by Venus to win from Paris the prize of beauty.

No less esteemed were the purple blossoms among the more rugged people
of the North, for a Saxon legend tells how Czernebogh, god of the
Vandals, lived with his beautiful daughter in a stately castle. When
Christianity swept through Saxony, destroying all evidences of the
heathen faiths, the god and his castle were turned into rocks, and the
lovely daughter became a Violet, nestling among the crags. Whoever is
fortunate enough to discover the hidden flower will restore the maiden
and the castle to their original form and may claim this Saxon Flora as
his bride.

                  [Illustration: COMMON PURPLE VIOLET.
                            (Viola obliqua.)
                               LIVERWORT.
                          (Hepatica hepatica.)
                        FROM “NATURE’S GARDEN.”
                           COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
                      DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY.]

In Norse mythology the Violet is called Tyr’s flower, and this is the
first instance in which the modest plant became disassociated from the
realm of love and assumed the guise of war. Tyr’s violet mantle,
however, in later years, fell upon the great Napoleon, who adopted the
flower as his emblem. He was, in fact, called by his followers Pere de
la Violette, and upon going into exile Napoleon assured his friends that
he would return with the Violets. Hence the flower became the sacred
symbol by which his followers recognized each other. When asked, “Do you
like the Violet?” if the reply was “Oui” the answerer was not a
confederate. If, however, the reply came, “Eh, bien,” they recognized a
brother conspirator and completed the sentence, “It will appear again in
the spring.”

During the middle ages the Violet became the chosen symbol to the
minstrel and troubadour, of loyalty and faithful love. A blue Violet was
the first love token passed by Clemence Isaure through a hole in the
wall of her convent garden to her noble lover, Count Raymond, of
Toulouse, and in its association as a bridal flower Milton used it to
carpet Eve’s bower in Paradise.

                                                      Charles S. Raddin.




                       THE ROUND-LOBED LIVERWORT.
                         (_Hepatica hepatica._)


  All the woodland path is broken
    By warm tints along the way,
      And the low and sunny <DW72>
      Is alive with sudden hope,
  When there comes the silent token
    Of an April day—
          Blue hepatica.
                                                     —Dora Read Goodale.

There are many plants that are closely related to the mythology and
folklore of nations. This is even true of many that are native only in
our own young country. The Liverwort, or Hepatica, as it is more often
called, though it is not entirely free from mythical association among
the Indian tribes, does not enter largely into their folklore.

This beautiful plant has, however, been the inspiration of many poets.
Helen Chase calls the Hepaticas

  “Hooded darlings of the spring,
  Rarest tints of purple wearing.”

The delicate blue of the flowers is mentioned by William Cullen Bryant:

  “The liverleaf put forth her sister blooms
  Of faintest blue.”

The life of this plant is poetical. During the summer months a luxuriant
growth of leaves is produced. As cold weather approaches these lie down
upon the ground and are soon covered by the falling leaves, which have
been nipped from the trees by bite of the frost king. Soon, too, they
are covered with snow. In this warm cradle they sleep through the
winter, yet, as it were, with open eyes for the dawn of spring. Had the
Hepatica the power of reason we would say that it longed for spring, for
after the first few warm days that herald the approach of that season
there is activity in every part of the plant. It does not wait to
produce new leaves, but in an incredibly short time sends up its flower
stalk and spreads its blue, purple or white petals to the warm rays of
the sun. The Hepatica is truly a harbinger of spring, and in Eastern
North America, from Southern British America to the Gulf of Mexico, its
appearance introduces the new season. In the northern portion of its
habitat its flowers are among the first to grace the dreary, leafless
forests. This Hepatica is also found in Europe and Asia. It is not only
a flower of the forests of lower altitudes, but is also found in
mountainous regions at an elevation of nearly three thousand feet.

This plant was first described by Linnæus in 1753, who gave it the name
Hepatica, as he saw in the shape of the leaf a resemblance to the form
of the liver.

Of the four known species of Hepaticas but one other is found in North
America. This species has the lobes of the leaves pointed instead of
round. In some localities it is quite as common as the plant of our
illustration, and by many it is considered merely a variety of that
form.

Bishop Coxe has said:

        Flowers are words
  Which even a babe may understand.

The word expressed by the beautiful and hardy Hepatica is confidence.




                         THE SPRING MIGRATION.
                            I. THE WARBLERS.


In two former papers I told you of some of the birds that spend their
winters in the Gulf States. It is my purpose in the present article to
tell some of the features of the great spring migration as viewed from a
Mississippi standpoint; how myriads of the little fellows in yellow,
black, white, and olive-green stop in these forests to rest and feed for
a day or two, then under the impulse of a little-understood instinct
continue their journey to the region of their birth. The migration takes
place in successive waves, till the last one breaks upon us and spring
is over.

In early March the first wave rolls in upon us; happy little creatures
hop about and chatter among the opening buds and feast on the insect
life awakened by the returning sun. On successive days or, perhaps, at
intervals of a few days other waves roll in from the far lands of the
Gulf and the Caribbean Sea, till the final one beats against these hills
and we awake about the first of May to realize that summer, fervid,
tropical, is here. For the months of March and April all is bustle among
the feathered traveling public; after that the summer residents have
things all their own way till the fall migration begins.

As the sun draws near the line you notice that up in the tops of the gum
trees are little birds about the size of a savanna sparrow, and, viewed
hastily, of much the same coloring. You know they are not savannas,
because the savanna never frequents such places. Some of them have
probably spent their winter in this latitude; but just now by their
restless activity they tell us that the sap has begun to stir and that
the great migration is about to begin. Closer inspection with a good
glass will show four spots or patches of yellow, one on the crown, one
under each wing, and another on the rump, hence the bird’s name, the
yellow rumped warbler, sometimes known as the myrtle warbler. A month
later you will scarcely recognize the males of this species, the dull
brown of the winter coat being replaced by the shiny black of his
bridegroom’s suit.

When the beech buds swell and the jessamine puts forth its little yellow
trumpets to announce that spring has actually come, the first great wave
comes flooding into the awakening woods. Here come the first arrivals,
both sexes in coats of grayish blue, with shirtwaists of brilliant
yellow, the male distinguished by a patch of rufous of an irregular
crescent shape across the lower part of the throat and upper part of the
breast. On fine sunshiny days the parula warbler, for that is his name,
loves the topmost branches of the tallest trees; if the day is gloomy he
comes down to the lower branches, affording a better opportunity to
study him. His only note at these times is an insect-like buzz much in
keeping with his diminutive size.

In the lowlands the Halesia or silver bell is putting out its graceful
pendulous racemes of purest white, and it is time to look for the next
migrant, the hooded warbler, one of the largest and finest of his race.
A V of brilliant yellow coming down to the bill, covering the forehead
and running backwards past the eye, bordered by a well defined band of
intense black, and a back and tail of green slightly tinted with olive
make him a marked bird. Unlike the parula, he cares nothing for treetops
or sunshine; a perch on a swinging rattan vine or in a shrub in the dark
woods hard by a canebrake is good enough for him.

As soon as the hooded warbler appears we will see the black and white
creeping warbler, the connecting link (so to speak) between the creepers
and warblers in both appearance and habits. Like our common brown
creeper, he loves the dense woods, but unlike him seems to prefer the
tops and higher branches. Alternate patches and streaks of white and
black without a suggestion of the yellow or olive green so
characteristic of his genus make his identification easy. His note is
simple and short; in fact the sounds that he emits in his journeys are
scarcely worth being called a song.

The flood tide comes about the first of April and lasts two weeks.
Prominent among the multitude of visitors you may see a warbler slightly
smaller than the hooded but of the same general coloring, yellow, black
and green, only in this bird the black is in three patches, one on the
top of the head, the others running from the bill back and down. This is
the Kentucky warbler, a lover of the ground and of the low growths.
There is another that the hasty observer might mistake for the hooded or
the Kentucky, and that is the Maryland yellowthroat. The black on the
latter is confined to broad bands of rich velvety black below the eyes;
the yellow is more of a sulphur than a chrome shade, and the green is
more nearly olive than in the two just mentioned. Many of this species
make their summer home in this latitude, making their nests and rearing
their broods in the mat of vines and weeds along the fence rows. The
usual song is wichety, wichety, wichety, uttered with the cheerful vigor
that makes the Carolina wren so attractive. During the months of April
and May, 1900, I had frequent opportunities to observe two pairs of
yellow throats that had built just inside the fence that parallels the
railroad; the males, as they caught sight of me coming down the track,
would mount the highest weed within reach and sing with all their might,
but as I came opposite their perch would drop suddenly down into the
weeds and remain there till I was well past, then resume their perch and
song as long as I was in hearing.

Another of this family conspicuous for its brilliant coloring is the
prothonotary warbler. Yellow breast, head, neck and shoulders, yellowish
olive wings and back and darker olive tail render him conspicuous
against any woodland background. If you want to see him during these
busy April days we must go where he is, i. e., in the cypress or willow
swamps. The dark gray festoons of Spanish moss (Tillandsia usneoides)
and the tender young green of the cypress leaves afford both contrast
for his bright colors and provisions for his larder. Some of this
species also nest here, choosing for their homes oftentimes the holes
made by some of our smaller woodpeckers in dead willow stubs. I remember
one morning seeing a cheerful flock of prothonotary and parula warblers
and noticing one of the former leave his companions and fly to a clump
of willows where another less brilliantly , presumably the
female, joined him. Together they inspected the willow stubs, running in
and out and up and down the trunks, peering into every cavity. Finally
they found one that met their requirements, then, after a short but
earnest discussion, flew away through the swamp.

Inhabiting the marshes and swamps is the Louisiana water thrush, a
slender brown bird shaped much like the brown thrasher, only much
smaller, being about six inches in length as compared with the
thrasher’s eleven or twelve. A gifted singer, he is very wild and shy,
always resenting the intrusion of the lords of creation upon his quiet
haunts, flitting quietly on before you in the shadows, evincing his
distrust of your motives by an occasional angry “clink.” He well
illustrates the principle of compensation: though denied the brilliant
yellows and greens of his warbler brethren, he surpasses them all in the
quality of his song, as free, as beautiful, as wild as the bird himself.
All the individuals of this species that I saw in three years’
observation were either in the water beeches (Carpinus caroliniana) that
grew so thickly along the creek or in the sweet gums and cypress along
the borders of an immense swamp.

As the Louisiana water thrush is the star soloist of the warbler
contingent, so the yellow breasted chat is the clown of our woodland
troupe. His coloring is vivid but simple, being green with a wash of
olive above, lores black, breast bright chrome yellow, other under parts
white or whitish. Under most circumstances this bird is shy and
difficult to approach, as I learned by personal experience; but when one
of his strange moods comes upon him—perhaps it is the approach of the
nuptial season that so affects him—he doffs much of his shyness and
becomes a veritable clown, making such a profusion and variety of noises
that one would fain believe that there is a whole score of birds in the
bush or thicket from which the medley proceeds. He darts out of his
retreat and flies away over the shrubbery, twisting and turning his
body, raising and dropping his tail as if all his joints were of the
ball and socket pattern, making as many ridiculous contortions and as
many varieties of squeaks and squalls as an old-time elocutionist.

Besides numerous individuals of the species of warblers already named,
in the two weeks between April 9 and 23 I saw one or more of each of the
following: Yellow or summer, bluewinged, worm-eating, magnolia, golden
winged, chestnut sided, prairie, and the redstart. As I write these
names they call up mornings spent in the land of the ’possum and
persimmon while yet the steamy breath of the dew was going up to meet
the fervor of an April sun, and all the air was heavy with the perfume
of the blooming holly, mornings of music from a thousand throats
inspired by “the new wine of the year.” At such times one realizes the
force of these two lines from Richard Hovey:

  Make me over, Mother April,
  When the sap begins to stir.

                                                  James Stephen Compton.




                            A PET SQUIRREL.


“Grandma, what made those little scars on this finger?” asked Nellie.

“Those,” said grandma, reflectively, “were made by a saucy little gray
squirrel.”

“How?”

“When I was a little girlie, smaller than you, uncle gave me a gray
squirrel in a cage for a pet. As we all fondled him he soon became very
tame. We often opened his cage door and allowed him to run around the
house at will. One day he ran upstairs and played havoc in a feather
bed. After that when out of his cage we kept a close watch on him, never
allowing him in a bedroom.

“But he had already learned a new trick which he seemed very loth to
forget. Every time that he could sneak into a bedroom he would make a
bee-line for the bed, tear a hole in the tick and be inside among the
feathers in a flash.

“As I said before, everyone around the place petted and handled him and
he had never bitten nor scratched anyone. But one day while playing with
him he suddenly leaped from my arms and raced upstairs. Just as he
jumped upon a bed I caught him. This angered his squirrel-ship. He
turned and savagely ran his long, sharp teeth through my finger. The
sores were slow about healing and left these little scars. After that
mother would not allow me to let him out of his cage.”

                                                  Loveday Almira Nelson.

                     [Illustration: ENGLISH WALNUT.
                            (Juglans regia.)
                   FROM KŒHLER’S MEDICINAL-PFLANZEN.]

  Description of Plate.—A, twig with staminate and pistillate flowers;
  B, twig with pistillate flowers; C, fruit; 1-6, flowers and floral
  parts; 7-10, fruit and seed (nut).




                 THE ENGLISH WALNUT AND RELATED TREES.
                          (_Juglans regia_ L.)


  Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee,
    Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them
  Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.
                        —William Cullen Bryant: “The Third of November.”

The English walnut, butternut, black walnut, shagbark or shellbark
hickory, mockernut or whiteheart hickory, bitternut hickory and pignut
hickory are closely related, belonging to the butternut family, or
technically the Juglandaceæ. They are large, handsome trees, with
spreading branches and cleancut leaves. They are of comparative slow
growth but hardy and enduring.

The English walnut is a tall, large, handsome tree which undoubtedly
came from India. The name walnut is from Walish or Welsch nut; Juglans
from Jovis glans, meaning the nut of Jove, and regia, meaning royal,
hence the royal nut of Jove. The Greeks dedicated the tree to their
chief deity Zeus, who corresponds to the chief deity of the Romans,
namely, Jove or Jupiter. At a Greek wedding the nuts were scattered
among the guests that Zeus might bless the marriage. The tree was
described by numerous ancient writers, among others by Dioscorides,
Plinius, Varro, Columella, and Palladius. Medicinal and other virtues
were ascribed to the fruit and leaves and even to the shade of this
remarkable tree. Arabian physicians used the hull of the unripe fruit
and the leaves medicinally, Karl der Grosse (Charlemagne) recommended
the cultivation of this plant in Germany about 812. It was introduced
into the Mediterranean countries at an early period and extensively
cultivated. From these countries it rapidly spread to northern Europe,
and about 1562 it found its way into the British Isles, where it is
extensively cultivated. It is cultivated somewhat in the United States.

All the other members of the Juglandaceæ are common throughout the
United States, either growing wild or under cultivation. The wood of the
butternut or white walnut and that of the black walnut is extensively
used in cabinet making, furniture making and interior finish,
particularly the wood of the black walnut. The earlier craze for black
walnut furniture threatened to exterminate the plant, but fortunately
(for the walnut tree) the fashion is waning. The wood is heavy, dark
brown in color, of medium hardness, easily worked and readily polished,
though it does not take the glossy polish of the harder woods, as ebony.
Hickory wood is very hard, tough and durable, but it is not suitable for
cabinet making, etc., because it warps too much. It is an excellent wood
for making handles for tools of all descriptions, oxen yokes, hoops,
walking sticks, whiffletrees, wagon stocks, etc. Its tensile strength is
enormous, being said to be equal to that of wrought iron.

The seeds (kernels) of the English walnut, butternut, black walnut and
shagbark hickory are edible and greatly relished, while those of the
bitter and pignut hickories are not edible. Eating too many of the
kernels causes distressing dyspeptic symptoms because of the large
amount of oil which they contain. Salting the kernels before eating or
taking a little salt with them is said to lessen these disturbances. The
oil of these nuts is expressed and used as a salad oil and by artists in
mixing pigments. The half-grown green fruits of the walnuts are pickled
with spices and eaten, but as such relishes have never come into great
favor. They are too severe in their action on the intestinal tract, due
to the tannin, acids and coloring substances present. The hulls of these
nuts are used in dyeing cloth; also the bark of the butternut and black
walnut. The leaves and hull of the English walnut and the inner bark of
the roots of the butternut are still quite extensively used medicinally.
A decoction of the leaves is said to cure gout, scrofula and rickets.
The hulls are recommended in gout and eruptive skin diseases. Fresh
leaves are applied as a fomentation to carbuncles. The extract is used
as a gargle, wash for ulcerous eruptions and taken internally in
tubercular meningitis. The juice of the green hull has been extensively
employed as a popular remedy to remove warts, as an external application
for skin diseases, and internally as a stomachic and worm remedy. The
medicinal virtues of these plants are, however, apparently limited and
unreliable.

The nut so-called of the English walnut, black walnut, butternut and
hickory nut consists of the kernel (seed) and the inner layer (endocarp)
of the fruit coat (pericarp). The endocarp, which is ordinarily
designated as the shell, is very hard and splits more or less easily
into two equal parts. The shell of the English walnut is comparatively
thin and quite easily removed from the kernel. The shell of black walnut
and butternut is very rough, very dark in color, thick, and not so
easily removed from the seed or kernel. The hickory shell is quite
difficult to remove. The kernels are eaten direct or added to cake, cake
frosting, and other pastry, or encased by sugar and chocolate by the
candy maker. The halves of the shell of the English walnut figure
conspicuously in the well known “shell game” of the gambler who seems to
be the central figure at county fairs and many circuses.

As already stated, the trees belonging to the butternut or hickory
family grow quite slowly, and do not attain their full growth for many
years. In our latitude the nuts are planted in the fall when they begin
to germinate late the following spring. In order to give the trees free
growth they should be planted at least thirty feet apart. They begin to
bear fruit at about the tenth year, few nuts at first, but gradually
more and more each year, and they continue to bear for many years. The
leaves, buds and green fruits have a resinous, characteristic aromatic
odor, recalling the lemon. All who have ever handled leaves, green bark
and fruit will remember that the juice colors the skin a dark brown
which is very difficult to remove.

The fruit of the black walnut and butternut when ripe is gathered, the
hulls removed by stamping with mauls, the nuts dried for a week in the
sun and then stored for use. The hull of the English walnut and the
hickory nut is quite easily removed.

                                                       Albert Schneider.




                               AWAKENING.


        My heart is glad,
  And hopes deemed dead now wake to life again.
          This morn I heard,
        Ere I to conscious thought returnéd had,
  The spring song of the sparrows in the rain.
                                                   —M. Townshend Maltby.




                          Transcriber’s Notes


--Created an eBook cover from elements within the issue.

--Reconstructed the Table of Contents (originally on each issue’s
  cover).

--Retained copyright notice on the original book (this eBook is
  public-domain in the country of publication.)

--Silently corrected a few palpable typos.







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 3 [March
1902], by Various

*** 