near my carriage and others alighting on trees in a farm-yard. I thought they were pinched by hunger to go out before the dusk of evening in search of food, though hunger would not have made them approach dwellings, had they been native owls. They had migrated from a region uninhabited by man, and did not know their danger. Screech-owls are the most taciturn birds of my acquaintance, and my efforts to convince them of my good-will have been beset with difficulties. In my wanderings when a boy, through wood and field, after a snowfall, in search of adventure, it occurred to me to explore the cavities of some hollow trees that came in my way, wherein goldenwinged woodpeckers and red polls were wont to build in summer. I expected to surprise a flying-squirrel or stray deermouse, but found that they were in possession of screech-owls. I had always wished to have some tame owls about the barn-now was my chance. With the aid of a companion a number of them were secured and borne, vigorously protesting, to the upper story of the granary, a large room where they could fly about at night, were shielded from the rigors of winter, and could supply their larder from the numerous mice that infested the place for the catching. Being strangers to the place, and fearing they would not get enough to eat at first, I carried them pieces of fresh meat and fowl, which promptly disappeared after dark. Mice may have eaten them, but in the end the owls were not the losers, I take it. They soon lost their fear of us, when approached by day, and seemed to accept the situation as not so bad after all. Sitting silent and grave on the beams overhead, they passed the days in sleep and meditation. When approached at night with a light they were wide-awake and alert in their movements. They were liberated in the spring, and a door left open that they might return at their will, which they often did; having become in a manner domesticated, they flew about the lawn at night with little sense of fear.

Again, in later years, one cold winter evening some owls of the same kind appeared on the lawn, sitting on the outer branches of cedar-trees, wherein they had passed the day. They seemed starving. Their destitution created great concern, and to relieve their distress some mice

were caught and offered them upon the tips of long sticks. The scheme did not succeed as well as could be wished at once, but when the mice were left on the sticks overnight they were gone in the morning. By our aid, and what little they picked up on their own account, they managed to live through the winter. They seemed to feel our good-will, and did not change their abode with the return of summer. Three of them, often in the twilight of summer evenings, would group themselves on a limb in the most charming poses, such as no imaginary pictures from the owl country ever equalled.

I have often sought some explanation why many birds remain here and endure the severe winters, when a flight of a few hours would carry them beyond the snowline. This is one of the secrets of bird life that I cannot fathom. Winter may have its compensations, and the South its disadvantages that are not apparent. Perhaps it is the home instinct, the love of the once verdant wood and fields, where they first saw the light, and carolled their first notes, that will make them endure cold and hunger here in preference to the easy conditions of existence in the South.

The love of home, as I have discovered it among the lower creatures, is touching. Many birds and animals will wander far by day in search of food or pleasure, but will return at night to their accustomed bower or bed, where perchance they meet loved ones, and where, at least, rest and sleep are always sweeter. Children who live in the country with the wild things around them, if taught, will soon learn to care for and protect the birds, instead of trapping or killing them when hunger makes them easy victims.

As soon as the snow-storm is over, wind-swept spots of ground and places on the sheltered side of buildings or stacks may be cleared, and a meal of hay seed from the barn, bread crumbs, or small grain spread for the little waifs. They will not be long in finding it, and will come to look for it daily. The little boy takes great pleasure in feeding and caring for the starving birds. He discovered some snow-birds and Canada sparrows on the porch roof, drawn thither by some crumbs from the invalid's tray. The roof was cleared of snow and a generous meal set for them. A few came at first, then more,

until there would be fifty to breakfast, nearly as many to dinner, and a few transients all the time. We watched them through the window; they ate heartily, and brought all their hungry friends to the feast. Their table manners, while not always decorous, were fair for hungry birds. True happiness comes through making others happy, and though the subjects were but little birds, somehow the dark days were a little brighter, even to the invalid, who had to be propped on her couch to watch them.

One of the larger native birds that remains through the winter is the blue-jay, but he is not a frequent visitor. Occasionally he will come to the corn-crib and get a meal by reaching through the slats and plucking the grains from the ears of corn. Again he will proclaim from the top of a tree near by some important message or warning in shrill tones; always in a great hurry, sometimes shouting as he flies. I think this habit of going through life in haste must have gained for him the report, among the colored ones, that he goes to the devil and back nine times every Friday. The bird is not such a bad fellow, and I cannot imagine what alliance he could have with the evil one. From his military dress and carriage, I take it, he is a free lance, who takes his chances for acorns, beechnuts, etc., among the squirrels and chickarees. The bonny bluebirds disappear upon the approach of cold weather, to return as soon as it moderates and the sun shines bright again. Upon such days they visit their building-places of last year, make feints of building nests, uttering sweet spring notes, and generally showing their conviction that spring is at hand. Soon clouds obscure the sun, cold winds sweep through the bare trees, there is a vanishing streak of blue, and the sanguine prophets are gone. Like other weather prophets, these pretty birds are usually inaccurate, though never discouraged. During a mild portion of one winter a whole family of bluebirds were friends of ours. The intimacy was brought about through some wood-worms found under decaying bark on the firewood. These worms were placed on pieces of bark and laid on the outer ledge of a second-floor window. They were soon discovered, and there was a demand for more. When not forthcoming, every window of the second floor was visited, and soft brown eyes peered

pleadingly within. When a meal was placed out for them, three or four were always in waiting, and would keep up a great twittering until the window was closed, then pounce down on the viands, each bird scrambling for the largest worm. There was mutual regret when the supply of worms gave out.

The cardinal-bird never leaves us; winter has no terrors that it will not brave for love of its native place. Of all the wild creatures that are destined to inhabit the snow-clad regions of the earth, none that I am aware of is so unprotected by reason of contrast in color to its setting. This glaring contrast of red and white is almost an anomaly in nature. Apart from being a conspicuous mark for birds of prey, its striking beauty makes it coveted by persons of depraved taste for personal adornment. Again, in winter from hunger it falls into the trap of the greedy pothunter, to be sold to misguided people, who will confine it in a cage to fret and wear its life away. This is another instance of beauty and anguish going hand in hand. Few country homes but what are cheered in winter by visits of the red bird, flashing gleams of red here and there, always in contrast, whether to sombre clouds or glistening white snow. They are timid, and follow in the wake of the other birds without finding much to eat. though they never seem despondent. I have often left a few grains of pop-corn here and there in their way without telling the crows and blackbirds. There may be a legend, like the fable of the hoopoes and their golden crowns, wherein it is told that the cardinal-bird, to gratify some vain impulse, purchased fatal beauty with the price of peace.

One day in early winter a crowd of children, headed by the little boy, were in pursuit of some dark object across the lawn. It proved to be a buzzard, disabled as to flight from some cause, but otherwise unharmed. Its fate was soon settled by the leader. "I know what's the matter with this buzzard; it's been hurt and can't fly, and it 'll get killed, or starved, if I don't keep care of it. I am going to put it under the porch and feed it until it gets well. I can get enough scraps from the butcher's for it to live on. Won't it be a funny pet? And it don't smell bad, like they say buzzards do." He took the grewsome thing by the tip of one wing and urged it toward the house, while

the other children followed in mute wonder. At home he was severely criticised, ordered to change his raiment and go into quarantine, though it proved there was no necessity for either. The little boy's scheme failed, as the best - laid schemes will, and his worst fears were probably realized. Some one left the infirmary door open, and the poor thing wandered away in the night. He told me a pathetic tale, long afterward, of having found in a lonely churchyard a skeleton, which he believed was that of his poor buzzard. Why it should have come to a tragic end in this lonely spot puzzled the child. "Did it know it was going to die, and go there on purpose to be with the other dead? Or did it just happen to die or get killed there?"

During the blizzard of 1895, while the storm was still raging, I witnessed a tragedy among the birds. Standing at my office window, I saw a large bird, about the size of, and not unlike a blue-jay, carrying something in its beak, light in a japonica bush. My first thought was of the butcher-bird, and seizing my gun, I went in pursuit. It had flown, and was making for the wood, carrying its victim, when I reached the spot. I took a snapshot through the driving snow. One shot-number four-took effect in the head. It flew several rods and tried to light in a thorn bush, but fell dead. I picked up the murderer and his victim together. In death only did he relax his cruel grip. The victim was a snow-bird, still warm, its spinal column crushed at the base of the skull, and the tail feathers gone, torn away in its struggle for life. The murderer proved to be a shrike, or butcher- bird, of the loggerhead variety, and was the largest specimen I had ever It was sent to a taxidermist, and as it now appears is almost twice as large as any shrike in the collection in the National Museum. It was thoughtless not to send the snow-bird too, as the little boy pointed out. This pariah among birds is "a wolf in sheep's clothing," as Mr. Burroughs truly remarks, except for the cruellooking beak. The fauna of this region is not numerous, and is all of the smaller kind.

seen.

Whatever days Uncle Remus may have hit upon were not like these, inasmuch as Brer Rabbit now no longer, as of yore, by his wisdom and sagacity, dominates the world of wild things, even to circumvent

ing Brer Fox. Brer Rabbit is well enough in his way, with a fairly good character, inclined to be domestic in his tastes, and given to the accumulation of much fat upon the approach of winter.

Brer Fox, on the contrary, even as long ago as the days of Æsop, had a shadowy reputation, which through the ages, somehow, he has not managed to improve. Whatever sins or shortcomings Reynard may have to answer for, like a certain United States Senator, a fool is not one of them. For a great mind and personal beauty he commands our admiration. Running before hounds or taking a spin across the open country is a picture never to be forgotten; it is flight without wings

the poetry of motion. I never witness the sight without a feeling of awe. The sluggard was referred to the ant as an example of industry; as well might the statesman or warrior learn strategy from the fox.

His boundless resource is the result of ages of heredity. With every man's hand raised against him, eternal vigilance is the watchword. Winter increases the number of his enemies, or makes them more aggressive, as well as curtails his supply of meat. Then, too, this is a season when the neighbors bring in nothing. What is to be done? You would not have him turn cannibal and devour his own kith and kin. Well, then, I think a few wild hares more or less do not matter, though I should be very sorry if hunger compelled him to draw upon those that take refuge in the brush-pile at the back of the pasture-lot.

When snipe-shooting one day in spring I sat down beside a large tree to rest, and, concealed by it, I surprised a fox carrying a shad. I did not seek to kill or frighten him, though he was near enough to me. He expected the worst, and the look of terror that came over the poor hunted creature as, bewildered and tottering, it strove to flee, was pitiful. But when I made no motion to harm him, he threw me a grateful look as he glided away. No doubt he had come by the fish honestly; it was the spawning season with the shad, and they were running up into shoal waters, where he may have sprung in and seized one. Though the situation was tragic, his presence of mind did not desert him, nor did he drop his quarry, but bore it homeward, where doubtless he displayed it with as much pride as I did mine on my return. After

ward, when there was a meeting of the animals upon the "council rock," this story may have been related, and I hope the feeling toward me was like unto the grateful look the fox had given me.

Gray squirrels are winter neighbors, but very shy ones. I have tried to coax them to come into the yard for walnuts by leaving out a supply under the trees there and gathering all from other trees, but they were too well supplied with nuts in the wood. I did succeed in gaining their confidence through a pair of tame squirrels that had been raised in a cage by a neighbor. I induced the neighbor to set them free, and apparently to reward me they took up their abode in the tall cotton wood and poplars about the lawn, but more likely because the neighbor had no large trees. While they remained, an occasional wild squirrel would call or spend the day in the great trees with my tame ones. But the villanous pot-hunter and his worthless cur destroyed my pets, and drove the visitors back to their wild state. The gray squirrel is not as provident as the little ground squirrel, who toils through the long days of summer and fall to provide himself a home and lay up a store for winter use. What little the gray squirrel does lay by for a rainy day is not stored in his den, but scattered here and there about the wood, like the prudent housewife afraid to put all the eggs in one basket. I learned from my tame squirrels their method of hiding nuts. The nut is carried in the mouth, and some time and thought are given to the selection of a likely place to hide it. When the spot is finally decided upon, a hole the size of the nut is dug in the ground, the nut thrust in and pushed down hard with the nose, a little earth pressed and patted down, and leaves or grass tossed about the place in the most natural way. Before leaving, the locality is carefully scanned to see if another squirrel has been watching, in which case the nut is taken up and eaten or buried in a more secret place. It is very difficult for one watching the squirrel to find the nut, so artfully is it concealed. Their keen scent and unerring knowledge of locality enable them to find their hidden stores long afterwards. Going into the wood after a snowfall, their tracks will be found in every direction, from the den trees to all parts of the wood. Following these trails one will find many little holes

in the snow, where hidden nuts have been dug up. Other trails go by long leaps. These are made by visitors going about among the neighbors to hear the news and indulge in gossip.

The red squirrels or chickarees are sometimes found in woods near dwellings, though they are not strictly treedwellers, an old building or stone wall often suiting their purposes better. Noisy, loquacious fellows, given to pilfering from any winter garner within reach. I once took up the case of a red squirrel, without a retaining-fee, upon a charge of removing some walnuts through a broken pane in an attic window convenient to the limb of a tree. I was implored by the colored boy to "shoot dat 'spis'ble chickaree; he gwine take eb'ry las' one dem wanuts." I saved the squirrel by a confession from the boy as to how he came by the walnuts. They were not stolen "jes took" from Mr. Tom's trees without permission after night. The boy withdrew his prayer when it was decided that he and the squirrel were guilty and liable to the same punishment, being shot.

The woodchuck or ground-hog is entitled to notice as a weather-prophet. It goes into winter quarters at the approach of cold weather with no other store than weather-wisdom and the adipose of its own body, promptly to appear on the 2d of February to take observations and determine the state of the weather for the coming six weeks. Punctuality is to be commended even in a ground- hog. The accuracy of his weather-bulletins is not verified, though in this line he should be a success for the same reason that the dog was good for 'coons - because worthless for everything else. There is a story that once upon a time the animals all lived in a country to themselves, and had a king to rule over them. Some hares had a burrow near to that of a ground - hog, who made himself odious by digging and throwing dirt back on their premises, stopping up their doors and filling the little hares' eyes with sand. This coming to the ears of the king, the ground-hog was warned not to let it happen again. Whereupon he sulkily retorted that he "would chuck" his dirt where he pleased. Hence the name "woodchuck." There may be "another story" about the wild things, if they will give up their secrets, "for beast and bird hath seen and heard the things man knoweth not."

Annie Day stepped out on the porch beside her music-teacher. The sun was very bright, but Annie's face could bear the glare: she was only sixteen. May Elliot was thirty-three, a tastefully dressed young woman with a sallow complexion and bright dark eyes. She was still the belle of the village. The Days had not lived in Milford long, but Annie had heard of May's admirers. She had never had a lover herself, however. Now as she looked across the street at the weatherbeaten cottage behind the row of mapletrees she hesitated.

"I shouldn't wonder if a young married couple were going to housekeeping over there. Ma thinks so," she volunteered. "A real kind of nice-looking girl came yesterday, and she was so particular about training the vine over the door, and everything, we-we think she's coming there bride."

"Goodness! They must be strangers, for no one I know's going to be married." "Oh, they are strangers, or at least he is, for when she came over here to get a pail of water ma questioned her, and she said the young man who owned the place had been living out West, but that he was coming home now; then ma knew right off how it was, and she took hold of her hand and told her that she mustn't work too hard-that he wouldn't like that; and I see this morning she's got an old man raking." Annie, fairly started, told her story with sweet volubility. She did not observe the strained consciousness of May Elliot's face.

"Oh, that's 'Lecta Douglas!" cried May, and there was a tone of relief in her voice. "Your guess is all wrong, Annie. Dave isn't going to be married. She probably heard he was coming, and thought she'd fix up things for him. 'Lecta always was very friendly to Dave," and May laughed. "I guess I'll go over and speak to her a minute." There was a bright dash of color on her cheeks, but Annie's pretty face wore a baffled expression, and before May reached the gate she called after her,

"You'll come back and tell me if I'm right-won't you?"

"Yes, if you're right; but you're not." There was a little wind, and the dust blew up from the road in a cloud. The sun gave it the tangibility of a veil, and Annie saw the Crane cottage through it. Since Electa Douglas's coming it had assumed unwonted beauty in her eyes. The maple-trees seemed to gird it about in delicate isolation, like the setting of a gem. The very honeysuckles over the door, to her girlish fancy, had appeared more richly red and gold than others. But now, divested of the romance which she had woven about it, the cottage suddenly seemed as the other houses on the street. Wistfully she turned within, and the measured tinkle of scales broke the noon stillness.

Electa Douglas had vanished almost immediately, but May pressed on unhesitatingly. All the doors and windows stood open, and there was a straight passage through the house, yet the air, when she stepped in, was damp and penetrating.

How d'ye do, 'Lecta? My, isn't it lovely and cool in here!"

The other started. She had been dusting old Mrs. Crane's work - basket with tender reverence, but when May spoke

"Oh, she's not pretty exactly; she's too thin and round-shouldered; but she's got lovely hair, and- There she is now!"

May and Annie peered across the street at the slender figure which appeared for a moment in the door of the Crane house. Beneath the green shade cast by the maple-trees the girl's head showed like a tropical flower.

VOL. XCIV.-No. 563.-79

her face pale with surprise above the little dark shawl thrown over her shoulders. "Oh, it's you?" she said, slowly.

"Yes, it's me," repeated May, not without a trace of confusion.

She crossed the room easily and took a chair-a low cushioned rocker. Electa's expression changed; she looked as though she would have protested, but May stared about her unconcernedly. The room had