The Project Gutenberg eBook of Birds and All Nature, Vol 7,

No. 2, February 1900

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Title: Birds and All Nature, Vol 7, No. 2, February 1900

Author: Various

Release date: February 21, 2015 [eBook #48331]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Christian

Boissonnas, The Internet Archive for some images and the
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BIRDS AND

ALL NATURE, VOL 7, NO. 2, FEBRUARY 1900 ***
 BIRDS AND ALL NATURE.

ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.

Vol. VII. FEBRUARY, 1900. No. 2.

 CONTENTS.
Page
A BABY HERON. 49
THE KILLDEER. 50
COTTON TEXTILES. II. 53
THE CINNAMON TEAL. 59
A SCRAP OF PAPER. 59
THE CLAPPER RAIL. 62
THE SWINGING LAMPS OF
DAWN. 62
THE LATE DR. ELLIOTT
COUES. 65
BOBBY'S "COTTON-TAIL." 67
"THE COUNTRY, THE
COUNTRY!" 68
THE GOPHER. 71
HANS AND MIZI. 72
GEOGRAPHY LESSONS. 73
THE MINK. 74
THE NEW SPORT. 77
MOLE CRICKET LODGE. 78
SNOW BIRDS. 79
VEGETATION IN THE
PHILIPPINES. 80
COMMON MINERALS AND
VALUABLE ORES. 83
FEBRUARY. 85
LICORICE. 86
A WINTER WALK IN THE
WOODS. 90
THE SCARLET PAINTED CUP. 92
THE YOUNG NATURALIST. 95
WASHINGTON'S MONUMENT. 96
 A BABY HERON.
REST H. METCALF.
OW many of the boys and girls who read Birds and All Nature
ever saw a baby heron? I am sure you would like to see ours. He
measures from tip to tip of his wings, that is, with his wings spread
just as far as we could stretch them, five feet and ten inches, and
from the tip of his bill to the tip of his toe very nearly five feet. Now, isn't
that a little baby? He is nearly full-grown but has not on the dress of the old
birds; that is why we call him baby. He is called a crane by some people,
but his right name is great blue heron, and his scientific name is Ardea
herodias. Shall I tell you about his dress? His head is all dusky now, but
when he puts on his new dress his forehead and central part of the crown
will be white enclosed by a circle of black—a fine black crest with two
elongated black plumes that make him appear to be very much dressed up.
His back and wings are blue-gray, but like his head will be decorated with
elongated scapulæ feathers, when he gets on his dress suit, and his long
neck, which now has a rather dingy look, will have a beautiful collar of
cinnamon brown tinged with purple and a white line in front from throat to
breast. The tail is short and very inconspicuous. He really is a beautiful bird
in spite of his long neck and long legs.
He is the largest of our New England herons and is not very abundant. You
may find him about large bodies of water, and during the daytime he prefers
the solitude of the forests and sits quietly in tall trees for hours, but in the
early mornings and late afternoons he may be seen standing motionless at
the edge of the water until a fish or a frog appears, when, with unerring
stroke of his long beak, as quickly as lightning, he seizes it and beats it until
dead, then swallows it; this act is often repeated. He varies his diet with
meadow mice, snakes, and insects, so he certainly does not lead a very
monotonous life. Our baby ate for his last breakfast four good-sized perch.
Wasn't that a fine breakfast? I know you would like to hear about his early
home. It was in a terribly dismal swamp, where it was almost impossible to
reach, through mud to your knees and through briers and tangled bushes
high as your head. There, several feet above your head was a nest, nearly
flat, made of different sizes of twigs put together in a loose and lazy
manner. Usually there are three or four light bluish-green eggs. Only one
brood is reared in a season.
There are some people who say that the blue heron is good for food, but
those who have once tried it do not care for another plate. They are the most
suspicious of our birds and the hardest to be approached for they are
constantly on the lookout for danger and with their long necks, keen eyes,
and delicate organs of hearing, they can detect the approach of a hunter long
before he can get within gunshot. They have a very unmusical voice, their
call being a hoarse guttural "honk."
Once they were found in larger numbers, but now are seldom seen but in
pairs or singly, and what a pity that foolish fashion of trimming ladies' hats
has nearly exterminated so many varieties of beautiful birds! God gave us
many beautiful things to enjoy in this world, and are they not more
beautiful when we can see them alive in nature just where God placed them,
than they are when dead and taken by pieces to adorn our heads?
 THE KILLDEER.
(Aegialitis vocifera.)

R. LIVINGSTONE described a relative of this bird which he met

with in Africa as "a most plaguey sort of public-spirited individual
that follows you everywhere, flying overhead, and is most
persevering in his attempts to give fair warning to all animals
within hearing to flee from the approach of danger," a characteristic which
has caused the killdeer to be an object of dislike to the gunner. It is usually
the first to take alarm at his approach and starts up all other birds in the
vicinity by its loud cries. It can run with such swiftness that, according to
Audubon, to run "like a killdeer" has in some parts of the country passed
into a proverb. It is also active on the wing and mounts at pleasure to a great
height in the air, with a strong and rapid flight, which can be continued for a
long distance. In the love season it performs various kinds of evolutions
while on the wing.
This plover is found throughout temperate North America to Newfoundland
and Manitoba, nests throughout range, and winters south of New England to
Bermuda, the West Indies, Central and South America. From March to
November, and later, it is resident, and is very abundant in spring and
autumn migrations. These birds are generally seen in flocks when on the
wing, but scatter when feeding. Pastures and cultivated fields, tracts of land
near water, lakesides and marshes seem necessary to it. The sound uttered
by it, kildeer, kildeer, dee, dee, is almost incessant, but it is often low and
agreeable, with a plaintive strain in it. When apparently in danger the voice
rises higher and shriller. Cows, horses, sheep, and the larger poultry that
wander over a farm are said not to alarm these birds in the least. But they
are wild in the presence of man wherever they have been persecuted. They
will often squat till one is close upon them, and will then suddenly fly up or
run off, startling the unwary intruder by their loud and clear cry. In winter
the killdeer is an unusually silent bird, in which season it is found dispersed
over the cultivated fields in Florida, Georgia, the Carolinas, and other
southern states, diligently searching for food. Davie says that it may often
be heard on moonlight nights. The nest is placed on the ground, usually in
the vicinity of a stream or pond, often on an elevated spot in the grass or in
a furrowed field. It is merely a slight depression in the ground. The eggs are
drab or clay color, thickly spotted and blotched with blackish brown and
umber, small and quite pointed. They are generally four in number,
measuring 1.50 to 1.60 long by about 1.10 broad.
The plovers resemble the snipe in structure, but are smaller, averaging about
the size of a thrush. Their bills also are shorter. They have three toes
usually; their bodies are plump; short, thick necks, long wings, and in some
instances they have spurs on the wings. They pick their food, which is
largely of an animal nature, from the surface of the ground, instead of
probing for it, as their shorter bills indicate. The flesh of the killdeer is not
highly regarded as a food.

FROM COL. F.
COPYRIGHT
KAEMPFER.
1900, BY
A. W. KILLDEER. NATURE
MUMFORD, ⅔ Life-size. STUDY PUB.
PUBLISHER,
CO., CHICAGO.
CHICAGO.
 COTTON TEXTILES. II.
W. E. WATT, A. M.
OTTON is spun and woven into so many useful forms that we could
hardly live without it since we have become so thoroughly
accustomed to the comforts and luxuries it supplies to us. From the
loose fiber that we use in treating our teeth when they get to
troubling us to the delicate lace handkerchief which is such a dream of the
weaver's art we use cotton for our commonest and our most extraordinary
purposes.
Muslin takes its name from Mosul, in India, where it was first made.
Although muslin is now made in both Europe and America in great
quantities, the kind that is most famed for its fineness is that from Dacca,
India. To get an idea of the fine threads used in making the rarest of this
muslin we must note that one pound of cotton is spun into three hundred
eighty hanks of thread with eight hundred forty yards of thread in each
hank. This means that one pound of cotton is spun out to the length of
319,000 yards, or over one hundred eighty-one miles.
One pound of this thread would, if it could be stretched out without
breaking, reach from New York City up the Hudson to Albany, and there
would still be enough of it unused to reach over to Saratoga. Ten pounds
would reach from New York city to Omaha, with enough left over to reach
back to Chicago.
It is even possible to exceed this in fineness if we do not care for use. To
show the perfection of a machine, a thread of the fineness of 10,000 has
been spun. If this could be strung out, as suggested above, it would reach
4,770 miles. One pound of the finest fiber has thus been spun so that it
would reach from New York to Naples, Italy, and there would still be
enough of it left to reach half-way back to London on the return trip.
Where three hundred and eighty hanks of thread are spun from a pound the
muslin made from it is called three hundred eighty-degree muslin. But even
this is not the finest muslin made. It is the finest made by the old hand
processes, but the perfections of machinery have made it possible for us to
have seven hundred-degree cotton. A strange thing about our finest
machine-made cotton is that it does not seem to the eye or the touch to be as
fine as the Dacca. There is a peculiar softness which cannot be imitated by
the machine.
I went the other day into one of our great dry-goods stores to see how fine a
piece of cotton I could buy. I was surprised to find that the gentlemanly
clerks knew very little about where the goods were made and almost
nothing at all about the processes. They were very obliging, but their
business of selling does not seem to require any knowledge of those things I
was so desirous of learning.
The finest things I found were India linen and Swiss mull. The India linen
has a remarkable name, seeing it is not linen and is made in Scotland. The
Swiss mull is nearly as well named, for it is also made in Glasgow. Whether
these goods sell better because their names seem to indicate that they are
made somewhere else I cannot say, but the truth seems to be that they were
called by these names innocently enough by those who first made them,
being proud that they could produce mull equal to the finest worn by the
ladies in Switzerland or equal to the finest products of the Indian looms.
It is well known that in the dry-goods business it seems to be greatly to the
advantage of the merchant to have fine names for his wares, the larger
houses regularly employing women who do nothing but find fancy names
for the things that are for sale. Goods are sometimes displayed with one
name for several days without finding a purchaser, but the namer soon
comes in with a new name to attach to the goods and some of the very
shoppers who do not care for them under the first name buy them readily
under the new one.
A lady recently asked me to tell her the difference between muslin and long
cloth. I thought there might be a difference, but have been unable to find
anyone who can tell what it is. Both names are applied to white cotton
goods of various degrees of fineness. Long cloth is of a superior quality of
cotton, and so is muslin when intended for dress goods. Some of the names
under which white cotton goods are sold are muslins, tarletans, mulls,
jaconets, nainsooks, lawns, grenadines, saccarillas, cottonade, cotton velvet,
and velveteen.
Cotton is rarely manufactured where raised. It is carried to the seacoast as a
rule by river steamers, though there have been instances where the laziness
and ingenuity of man have combined to send it down-stream in bales
completely covered with india rubber wrappings, so they floated to their
destination with little care and no harm from water.
With all our boasted Yankee shrewdness and cunning in mechanics we do
not make up the finer grades of cotton very extensively. As a rule the
coarser kinds of cloth that take much material and less skill are made here,
while the finer grades that get more value out of the pound of cotton are
made abroad, chiefly in Great Britain.
As an indication of this the figures taken in the year 1884 form a striking
illustration. The average amount of cotton spun by each spindle in Great
Britain that year was thirty-four and a half pounds, while the amount
consumed by each spindle in America averaged just sixty-five pounds,
showing that the products of our spindles are just twice as heavy on the
average as those of the English and Scotch. A fortunate thing about our
goods when sent abroad is that they are accurately marked and prove to be
very nearly what they are represented. This is not the case with goods
shipped out of Great Britain, where their long experience in handling cotton
has made them more expert than we in stuffing their goods with sizing and
other adulterations which make the goods deceptive. There is so little
tendency in this direction among American manufacturers that our good
name has given us an advantage in China and India, where our
manufactures are much more readily sold than what purport to be the same
of British make.
Most of our cotton that is not exported is made up into yarns, threads, and
the coarser goods, such as shirtings, sheetings, drills, print cloths, bags, and
so forth. Yet there are several of our mills, especially in the North, that turn
out the finer fabrics with great credit to the country. Large quantities of
cotton are, of course, used up in woolen mills, where mixed goods are
made, and hosiery mills, felt factories, and hat works consume it largely.
Much cotton also goes into mattresses and upholstery.
It comes from a boll having three or five cells. This bursts open when it is
ripe. Cotton fiber is either white or yellow, and varies in length from a little
over half an inch to two inches. When gathered it is separated from its
clinging seeds by the cotton gin, and is then pressed firmly in bales
weighing about five hundred pounds each, although in some countries the
customary sizes of bales vary two or three hundred pounds from this
weight.
Of the twenty or more varieties of cotton but two are given much attention
in the United States. These are the famous sea island cotton and the
common, woolly-seed kind. The sea island cotton grows on the islands off
the coast of South Carolina, in Florida, and on the coast of Texas. The
peculiar salt air and humidity of these coasts seem necessary to its
perfection, for when it is planted in the interior it quickly loses its best
qualities and becomes similar to the common variety. Its fibers are long and
silky, and used for the finest laces, spool cotton, fine muslins, and such
goods, but there is so little of it as compared with the woolly seed cotton
that it is but an insignificant part of our great crop.
Cotton is the only fibre that is naturally produced ready to be worked
directly into cloth without special chemical or mechanical treatment. It is
the great article of comfortable and cheap covering for man's person. When
gathered and baled it is in a knotted and lumpy state, from which it is rather
difficult to extricate the fibers and arrange them for spinning. As we follow
the cotton through the mill we come to these machines in the following
order: It goes to the opener first, where it is beaten and spread out so that a
strong draft of air drives out much of its impurities; it then goes to the
scutcher after being formed into laps; the lap machine makes it into flat
folds; the carding engine not only cards it but straightens the fiber and gives
it another cleaning; in the drawing frame it is arranged in loose ropes with
the fibers parallel; then the slubbing frame gives it a slight twist; the
intermediate and finishing frames twist it still farther, especially when
preparing it for the higher numbers; the throstle frame prepares coarse
warps; and on the mules, either self-acting or hand, the coarse or fine yarns
are spun. In some systems several operations are performed by the same
machine.
Weaving follows. It consists in passing threads over and under each other as
a stocking is darned, the main difference being that in darning the needle
passes up and down to get over or under the threads it meets, while in
weaving the threads met by the moving thread move out of the way so the
shuttle may pass straight through the whole width of the cloth. As the
shuttle comes back the threads are reversed so that the ones that were up
before are now down and those that were down are now up. The machine
that holds many threads for this work is the loom.
An English clergyman by the name of Edmund Cartwright has the credit of
inventing the power loom. His description of his labors is interesting. We
copy from one of his letters: "Happening to be in Matlock in the summer of
1784, I fell in company with two gentlemen of Manchester, when the
conversation turned on Arkwright's spinning machinery. One of the
company observed, that as soon as Arkwright's patent expired, so many
mills would be erected, and so much cotton spun, that hands never could be
found to weave it. To this observation I replied, that Arkwright must then
set his wits to work and invent a weaving mill. This brought on a
conversation on the subject, in which the Manchester gentlemen
unanimously agreed that the thing was impracticable; and, in defense of
their opinion, they adduced arguments which I certainly was incompetent to
answer, or even to comprehend, being totally ignorant of the subject, having
never at that time seen a person weave. I controverted, however, the
impracticability of the thing, by remarking that there had lately been
exhibited an automaton figure which played at chess."
"Some little time afterward, a particular circumstance recalling this
conversation to my mind, it struck me that, as in plain weaving, according
to the conception I then had of the business, there could only be three
movements, which were to follow each other in succession, there would be
very little difficulty in producing and repeating them. Full of these ideas, I
immediately got a carpenter and smith to carry them into effect. As soon as
the machine was finished I got a weaver to put in the warp, which was of
such material as sail-cloth is usually made of. To my delight a piece of
cloth, such as it was, was the product. As I had never before turned my
thoughts to anything mechanical, either in theory or practice, nor had ever
seen a loom at work or knew anything of its construction, you will readily
suppose that my first loom must have been a most rude piece of machinery.
The warp was placed perpendicularly, the reed fell with a force of at least
half a hundred weight and the springs which threw the shuttle were strong
enough to have thrown a Congreve rocket.
"In short, it required the strength of two powerful men to work the machine
at a slow rate and only for a short time. Conceiving in my great simplicity
that I had accomplished all that was required, I then secured what I thought
a most valuable property by a patent, 4th of April, 1785. This being done, I
then condescended to see how other people wove. And you will guess my
astonishment when I compared their easy mode of operation and mine.
Availing myself, however, of what I then saw, I made a loom, in its general
principles nearly as they are now made; but it was not until the year 1787
that I completed my invention, when I took out my first weaving patent
Aug. 1 of that year."
As usual this worthy man, who had won the right to the title he received,
was not the only discoverer or inventor of the thing credited to his name.
Long before his time a description of a similar loom had been presented to
the Royal Society of London, but he had no knowledge of it. He spent
between £30,000 and £40,000 bringing his invention to a successful stage,
but failed to make it profitable to himself. A small return was made to him
later, at the suggestion of the principal mill-owners of the country, when he
received from the government the sum of £10,000. His work has been much
improved in detail since, but it has never been altered in its main principles.
But with all our arts and marvelous machines the most beautifully fine
cotton fabric is yet the Dacca muslin. It is called "woven wind," and when
spread out upon the grass it is said to resemble gossamer. It used to be made
for the Indian princes before the days when the British took possession of
the country. It was made only in a strip of territory about forty miles long
and three miles in width. With the change in rulers the weavers largely
dropped the work which they and their ancestors had done for centuries,
handing down their art from father to son; they took to the business of
raising indigo, as their soil and climate were well adapted to its production
and the demand was good.
Yet there are some of them weaving at this day, though not in sufficient
numbers to produce the muslin as a regular article of commerce. A bamboo
bow strung with catgut, like a fiddle string, is used to separate the fiber
from the seed. It is carded with a big fishbone. The distaff is held in the
hand and the loom is a very old-fashioned affair, home-made of bamboo
reeds, so simple that a few shillings will purchase one, though a lifetime
will not make one able to use it.
The weaver chooses a spot under the shade of a large tree, digs a hole in the
dirt for his legs and the lower part of the "geer" and fastens his balances to
some convenient bough overhead. His exceedingly fine threads will not
work well except in such a shady spot and early in the morning, when there
is just the right amount of moisture in the tropical air. There is no line of
hand work in which there is such a contrast to-day as in the business of
making cotton goods. Machinery has vastly outstripped the hand in quantity
of product and accuracy, yet the old ways prevail in the manipulation of the
very finest of web. Although Whitney's saw gin made a revolution in the
industry, yet the long and delicate fibers of sea-island cotton are separated
from the seed in the old way of passing seed cotton between two rollers
which are going in different directions. The smooth seeds of this cotton pop
away from the fiber quite readily without breaking it. If it were pulled
through Whitney's gin there would be more or less tearing and breaking. So
the great invention does not apply to cleaning the very finest material. The
short wool fibers of common cotton are not so much hurt by the saw teeth
and the amount of work done by the gin makes this damage of no account.
At the Atlanta Cotton Exposition in 1882 the old and the new were
strikingly contrasted. The mountain people of the South, in many instances,
live after the old fashions of colonial times. They make homespun cloth
which is a revelation to us. Some of these people were induced to show
their work at the exposition, and they were as much astonished at the
apparel of their visitors who gazed upon them and their strange labor as
were the visitors at the work and manners of the mountaineers.
Two carders operated hand cards, two spinsters ran the spinning-wheels and
one weaver made cloth upon a hand loom. In ten hours these five people
made eight yards of very coarse cloth.
FROM COL. F.
COPYRIGHT
KAEMPFER. CINNAMON 1900, BY
A. W.
MUMFORD,
TEAL. NATURE
½ Life-size. STUDY PUB.
PUBLISHER,
CO., CHICAGO.
CHICAGO.
 THE CINNAMON TEAL.
(Anas cyanoptera.)

AVIE says that the geographical distribution of this beautiful teal is

western America, from the Columbia river south to Chili,
Patagonia, and Falkland Islands; east in North America to the
Rocky Mountains; casual in the Mississippi Valley, and accidental
in Ohio. It is abundant in the United States west of the Rocky Mountains,
breeding in Colorado, Utah, Nevada, California, Idaho, and Oregon. Its
habits are similar to those of the blue-wing. Its favorite breeding-places are
in fields of tall grass or clover, not far from water. The eggs range from nine
to thirteen, and the nest is so completely woven of grass, feathers, and down
that it is said the entire structure may be picked up without its coming apart.
Oliver Davie, the well known ornithologist, says that it gave him pleasure
to be able to add this beautiful duck to the avifauna of Ohio as an accidental
visitor. On the 4th of April, 1895, a fine male of this species was taken at
the Licking County reservoir by William Harlow. On the 6th Mr. Davie
skinned and mounted it and it is now one of the rare Ohio birds in his
collection. It proved to be good eating. This, he says, is the first record of
the cinnamon teal ever having been taken in the state.
The eggs of this species are creamy-white or pale buff, the average size
being 1.88×1.38.
 A SCRAP OF PAPER.
ELANORA KINSLEY MARBLE.
"A bluebird sings on the leafless spray,
Hey-ho, winter will go!"

E ARRIVED that year very early in the season. It was about the
twelfth of February that I first heard his plaintive note far up in the
maple tree. Could it be Mr. Bluebird, I questioned as I hastened to
the window opera-glass in hand? Yes, there he stood, not too
comfortably dressed I am afraid, in his blue cap, sky-blue overcoat and
russet-brown vest edged with a trimming of feathers soft and white.
There had been a slight fall of snow during the night, and I fancied, from
his pensive note, that he was chiding himself for leaving the Mississippi
Valley, to which he had journeyed at the first touch of wintry weather in
Illinois.
"If it wasn't for the snowdrops, the crocus, the violets, and daffodils," he
was saying in a faint sweet warble, "I'd linger longer in the South than I do.
They, dear little things, never know, down in their frozen beds, that winter
will soon give place to spring till they hear my voice, and so, no matter how
bleak the winds or how gray the sky, I sing to let them know I have arrived,
my presence heralding the birth of spring and death of winter. It well repays
me, I am sure, when, in March under the warm kisses of the sun their pretty
heads appear above the ground, and, smiling back at him, out they spring
dressed in their new mantles of purple and yellow."
At this moment from the topmost branch of an adjoining maple came a low,
sweet, tremulous note very much indeed like a sigh.
"Ah," said he, surveying the new-comer with flattering attention, "that is the
young daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird who nested in Lincoln Park last
summer. For some reason they decided not to go South this season but
remained in Chicago all winter. She strikes me as being a very pretty
young-lady bird, and certainly it will be no more than friendly upon my part
to fly over there and inquire how she and her family withstood the rigors of
a Northern winter."
From Miss Bluebird's demeanor, when he alighted upon a twig beside her, I
concluded she greatly disapproved of his unceremonius approach. Prettily
lifting her wings and lightly trembling upon her perch she made as if to fly
away, but instead only changed her position a little, coyly turning aside her
head while listening to what the young gentleman had to say.
Encouraged by this Mr. Bluebird's manner became very friendly indeed,
and very soon, reassured by his respectful demeanor and sentiments uttered
in a voice of oh, such touching sweetness, the young-lady bird unbent,
responding at length in a very amiable manner, I noticed, to her
companion's remarks.
The conversation which followed may have been very commonplace or
very bright and sparkling, but as there is always an undercurrent of sadness
in the bluebird's note, and an air of pensiveness expressed in its actions, one
could only conjecture what the tenor of this one might be.
The pair, to my intense satisfaction, the next day met again in the top of the
maple tree exchanging confidences in low, tremulous strains of surpassing
sweetness, uneasily shifting their stations from time to time, lifting their
wings, as is their pretty habit, and trembling lightly upon their perches as
though about to rise and fly away.
The following morning, which was the fourteenth day of February, Mr.
Bluebird's manner when he greeted his new acquaintance appeared to
offend her very much. She was cold and distant, whether from maidenly
coyness or a laudable desire to check his too confident, proprietorship sort
of air, who can say? In no way daunted, that gay bachelor pressed his suit
warmly, picturing in tones of peculiar tenderness the snug little home they
would establish together, what a devoted husband he would be, attentive,
submissive, following her directions in all things. Miss Bluebird shook her
head.
It was all very well, she replied, for him to talk of poetry and romance, but
he knew well enough that upon her would devolve all the serious cares of
life. While he would be very active in hunting for tenements, submitting, no
doubt, to her choice, was it not the custom of all the Mr. Bluebirds to fly
ahead in quest of material, gayly singing, while their mates selected and
carried and builded the nest? What poetry would there be in life for her, she
would like to know, under such circumstances, and then, when all was
done, to sit for hours and days on the eggs she had laid in order to rear a
brood. Oh, no! She was not ready to give up all the pleasures of life yet, and
then—and then—Miss Bluebird lowered her eyes and stammered
something about being too young to leave her mother.
What argument Mr. Bluebird brought to bear against this latter reason for
rejecting his suit I cannot say, but being a wise bird he only stifled a laugh
behind his foot and continued more warmly to press it. Again and again he
followed her when she took a short flight, quavering tru-al-ly, tru-al-ly, no
doubt telling her of the many good qualities of the Mr. Bluebirds, how
devoted they were, how they ever relied upon the good judgment and
practical turn of their mates, never directing, never disputing, but by
cheerful song and gesture encouraging and applauding everything they did.
Then, too, unlike some other husbands that wear feathers, they regularly fed
their mates when sitting upon the nest and did their duty afterward in
helping to rear the young.
As he talked Miss Bluebird's coldness gradually melted till at length she
coyly accepted his invitation to descend and examine a certain tenement
which, hoping for her acceptance, he had the day previous, he said, been to
view.
"We can at least look it over," he said artfully, noticing the elevation of her
bill at the word "acceptance," "though of course it is too early in the season
to occupy it. Mr. Purple Martin lived in it last year and——"
Miss Bluebird interrupted him, a trifle haughtily, I thought.
"Is the tenement you speak of in a stump, fence hole, or tree cavity?" she
inquired.
"Neither," he hastened to answer; "it is a box erected by the owner of these
premises."
"Ah," said she, graciously, "that is another matter," and very amiably spread
her wings and descended upon the roof of the box in question.
"You see," explained Mr. Bluebird, "the man who put up this dwelling knew
what he was about. He had no intention the sparrows should occupy it, so
he built it without any doorsteps or piazza, as you have no doubt remarked."
"Really," replied Miss Bluebird, "in my opinion that is a great defect. A
house without doorsteps——"
"Is just what certain families want," interrupted Mr. Bluebird, smilingly.
"Our enemies, the sparrows, cannot fly directly into a nest hole or box like
this, as we can, but must have a perch upon which first to alight. It is for
that reason, my dear, this house was built without doorsteps. No sparrow
families are wanted here."
Miss Bluebird at this juncture thought it proper to be overcome with a
feeling of shyness, and could not be prevailed upon to enter the box.
More than once her companion flew in and returned to her side, singing
praises of its coziness as a place of abode.
"With new furnishings it will do capitally," said he; "we might even make
the Purple Martins' nest do with a little——"
Miss Bluebird's bill at once went up into the air.
"If there is anything I detest," said she, scornfully, "it is old furniture,
especially second-hand beds. If that is the best you have to offer a
prospective bride, Mr. Bluebird, I will bid you good-day," and the haughty
young creature prettily fluttered her wings as if about to fly off and leave
him.
"Do not go," he pleaded; "if this house does not please you I have others to
offer," and Miss Bluebird, moved apparently by his tender strains, sweetly
said tru-al-ly and condescended to fly down and enter the box.
It was scarcely a minute ere she reappeared, and, flying at once to her
favorite branch in the maple tree, called to him to follow. A scrap of paper,
woven into his nest by the Purple Martin the past season, fluttered to the
ground as she emerged from the box, and while the pair exchanged vows of
love and constancy up in the maple tree, I picked it up and saw, not without
marveling at the sagacity of Mr. Bluebird, who probably had dragged it into
sight, a heart faintly drawn in red ink, and below it the words:
"Thou art my valentine!"
 THE CLAPPER RAIL.
(Rallus longirostris crepitans.)

HIS bird, sometimes called the salt-water marsh hen, is found in

great abundance in the salt marshes of the Atlantic coast from New
Jersey southward. It breeds in profusion in the marshes from the
Carolinas to Florida, and has lately been found breeding on the
coast of Louisiana on the Gulf of Mexico, Dr. A. K. Fisher having taken an
old bird and two young at Grand Isle in 1886. The clapper rail arrives on the
south-eastern coast of New Jersey about the last of April, its presence being
made known by harsh cries at early dawn and at sunset. Nest-building is
commenced in the latter part of May, and by the first of June the full
complement of eggs is laid, ranging, says Davie, from six to nine or ten in
number, thirteen being the probable limit. Farther south the bird is known to
lay as many as fifteen. On Cobb's Island, Virginia, the clapper breeds in
great numbers, carefully concealing the nest in high grass. The color of the
eggs is pale buffy-yellow, dotted and spotted with reddish-brown and pale
lilac, with an average size of 1.72 × 1.20, but there is a great variation in
this respect in a large series.
At the nesting-season the rails are the noisiest of birds; their long, rolling
cry is taken up and repeated by each member of the community. The thin
bodies of the birds often measure no more than an inch and a quarter
through the breast. "As thin as a rail" is a well-founded illustrative
expression.
"To get a good look at these birds in their grassy retreats," says Neltje
Blanchan, "is no easy matter. Row a scow over the submerged grass at high-
tide as far as it will go, listen to the skulking clatterers, and, if near by,
plunge from the bow into the muddy meadow, and you may have the good
fortune to flush a bird or two that rises fluttering just above the sedges, flies
a few yards, trailing its legs behind it, and drops into the grasses again
before you can press the button of your camera. A rarer sight still is to see a
clapper rail running, with head tilted downward and tail upward, in a
ludicrous gait, threading in and out of the grassy maze."
The rail can swim fairly well, but not fast. Its wings are short, but useful,
and it is so swift-footed that dogs chase it in vain.

FROM COL. F.
NUSSBAUMER COPYRIGHT
& SON CLAPPER RAIL. 1900, BY
A. W. NATURE
MUMFORD, ⅖ Life-size. STUDY PUB.
PUBLISHER, CO., CHICAGO.
CHICAGO.
THE SWINGING LAMPS OF DAWN.
REV. CHARLES COKE WOODS.

Anear the threshold of my home

A wily foe had strayed,
And on a rose-tree in the loam
A wondrous thing he made;
Beneath the cover of the night
He built a silken gin,
And at the break of morning light
Bade all the homeless in.

Each shining cord was made with skill,

And woven with such grace,
That none would dream he meant to kill,
In such a royal place;
The beauty of that bright bazar
No one could ever fear,
Its mirrors caught the morning star,
That glistened crystal-clear.

Its swinging lamps were globes of dew,

Enkindled by the dawn,
And when the morning breezes blew
Across the velvet lawn,
The shining lamps swung to and fro.
Enravishing the eye,
Till garbed in light-robes, all aglow,
Was every flower and fly.

But when the lights began to wane,

As sea-tides slowly ebb,
I heard the minor notes of pain
Issuing from a web;
And as my cautious feet drew nigh,
I heard the dying song
Of one deluded, wayward fly
That watched the lamps too long.
 THE LATE DR. ELLIOTT COUES.
C. C. MARBLE.

ELLIOTT COUES

HE subject of this sketch, whose death occurred on Christmas,

1899, at Baltimore, Md., was one of the few men who have become
famous both in physical and psychical science. He had long been
recognized as one of the leading naturalists of America, and of late
years had acquired equal distinction as a philosopher.
Early in April last Dr. Coues supplied us with the material for a sketch of
his life, to which we are indebted chiefly for what this article contains. He
was born in Portsmouth, N. H., Sept. 9, 1842, and was the son of Samuel
Elliott Coues and Charlotte Haven Ladd Coues. His father was the author of
several scientific treatises which anticipated some of the more modern
views of physics, astronomy, and geology; so that young Coues would seem
to have inherited his bent of mind towards study and research. The name is
of Norman French origin. Dr. Coues' father was a friend of Franklin Pierce,
and early in the presidency of the latter received from him an appointment
in the United States patent office, which he held nearly to his death in July,
1867. The family moved to Washington in 1833 and Dr. Coues had always
been a resident of that city, excepting during the years he served in the West
and South as an army officer or engaged in scientific explorations. As a boy
he was educated under Jesuit influences at the seminary now known as
Gonzaga College. In 1857 he entered a Baptist college, now Columbian
University, where he graduated in 1861 in the academic department, and in
1863 in the medical department of that institution. To the degrees of A. B.,
A. M., Ph. D., and M. D., conferred by this college, his riper scholarship
added titles enough to fill a page from learned societies all over the world.
His taste for natural history developed early in an enthusiastic devotion to
ornithology, and before he graduated he was sent by the Smithsonian
Institution to collect birds in Labrador. Among his earliest writings are the
account of this trip, and a treatise on the birds of the District of Columbia,
both published in 1861, and both papers secured public recognition in
England as well as in this country, thus making a beginning of his literary
reputation.
While yet a medical student, Dr. Coues was enlisted by Secretary Stanton as
medical cadet, U. S. A., and served a year in one of the hospitals in
Washington. On graduating in medicine in 1863, he was appointed by
Surgeon-General Hammond for a year as acting assistant surgeon U. S. A.
and, on coming of age passed a successful examination for the medical
corps of the army. He received his commission in 1864, and was
immediately ordered to duty in Arizona. His early years of service in that
territory, and afterward in North and South Carolina, were utilized in
investigating the natural history of those regions, respecting which he
published various scientific papers. Though he wrote some professional
articles, during his hospital experience, Dr. Coues seems never to have been
much interested in the practice of medicine and surgery. After about ten
years of ordinary military service as post surgeon in various places he was,
in 1873, appointed naturalist of the U.S. northern boundary commission,
which surveyed the line along the forty-ninth parallel from the Lake of the
Woods to the Rocky mountains. In 1874 he returned to Washington to
prepare the scientific report of his operations. He edited all the publications
of the United States geological and geographical survey of the territories
from 1876 to 1880 and contributed several volumes to the reports of the
survey, notably his "Birds of the Northwest," "Fur Bearing Animals,"
"Birds of the Colorado Valley," and several installments of a universal
Bibliography of Ornithology. The latter work attracted especial attention in
Europe, and Dr. Coues was signally complimented by an invitation, signed
by Darwin, Huxley, Flower, Newton, Sclater, and about forty other leading
British scientists to take up his residence in London and identify himself
with the British Museum.
Dr. Coues also projected and had well under way a "History of North
American Mammals," which was ordered to be printed by act of Congress
when suddenly, at the very height of his scientific researches and literary
labors, he was ordered by the war department to routine medical duty on the
frontier. He obeyed the order and proceeded to Arizona, but found it, of
course, impossible to resume a life he had long since outgrown. His
indignant protests being of no avail, he returned to Washington and
promptly tendered his resignation from the army in order to continue his
scientific career unhampered by red tape.
As an author he is chiefly known by his numerous works on ornithology,
mammalogy, herpetology, bibliography, lexicography, comparative
anatomy, natural philosophy, and psychical research. He was one of the
authors of the Century Dictionary of the English Language, in seven years
contributing 40,000 words and definitions in general biology, comparative
anatomy, and all branches of zoölogy. During the last few years he
contributed several volumes on western history, in all twelve volumes, and
by study and research was enabled to correct many errors. In 1877 he
received the highest technical honor to be attained by an American scientist
in his election to the Academy of National Science and was for some years
the youngest academician. The same year saw his election to the chair of
anatomy of the National Medical College in Washington, where he had
graduated in '63. He then entered upon a professorship and lectured upon
his favorite branch of the medical sciences for ten years. He appears to have
been the first in Washington to teach human anatomy upon the broadest
basis of morphology and upon the principle of evolution. Nearly all his life
Dr. Coues has been a collaborator of the Smithsonian Institution of
Washington, his name being most frequently mentioned in that connection.
Many of the numberless specimens of natural history he presented to the
United States government were found new to science and several have been
named in compliment to their discoverer.
At the height of his intellectual activity in physical science the spiritual side
of Dr. Coues' nature was awakened. He became interested in the phenomena
of spiritualism, as well as in the speculations of theosophy. Belonging
distinctively to the materialistic school of thought and skeptical to the last
degree by his whole training and turn of mind, he nevertheless began to feel
the inadequacy of formal orthodox science to deal with the deeper problems
of human life and destiny.
Convinced of the soundness of the main principles of evolution, as held by
his peers in science, he wondered whether these might not be equally
applicable to psychical research, and hence took up the theory of evolution
at the point where Darwin left it, proposing to use it in explanation of the
obscure phenomena of hypnotism, clairvoyance, telepathy and the like. He
visited Europe to see Mme. Blavatsky, founded and became president of the
Gnostic Theosophical Society of Washington, and later became the
perpetual president of the Esoteric Theosophical Society of America. In
1890 he published an exposé of the impostures of Blavatsky, and from that
time his interest in the cult gradually ceased.
Most men can do some things well, but nature is seldom so lavish of her
gifts as to produce a genius who does all things equally well. It is rare to
find a man like Dr. Coues, who was capable of incessant drudgery in the
most prosaic technicalities, yet blessed with the poetic temperament and
ardent imagination, able to array the deepest problems in a sparkling style
which fascinated while it convinced. His literary labors would have killed
most men, but to his grasp of mind nature had kindly joined a strong,
healthy body that proved capable of any demand upon his physical
endurance that his intellectual activity might make. He was tall, well-
formed, classic in features, straight as an arrow, with the air of the scholar
without the student's stoop, betraying no trace of mental weariness—a man
with the tastes of a sybarite and the soul of a poet; to quote from a leading
journal, "the imagination of a Goethe and the research of a Humboldt."
In conversation he was fascinating, possessing much of the personal
magnetism ascribed to James G. Blaine. It was the pleasure of the writer to
have many interviews and to enjoy a somewhat intimate correspondence
with him almost up to the time of his death.
BOBBY'S "COTTON-TAIL."
GRANVILLE OSBORNE.

I.
Name's Bobby Wilkins; I'm a-goin' on six years old;
Aunt Polly says 'at I'm a-gettin' purty pert 'n bold;
She 'aint er might uv use fer boys 'at's jest er-bout my size;
If Tabby'n me hev eny fun her "angry pashuns rise," 'n
When I try ter make some sparks fly out uv Tabby's tail
Aunt Polly says, "Bad boys like you are sometimes put in jail;"
But I don't mind her not a bit, an' make jest lots uv noise,
An' nen she looks so cross an' sez, "Deliver me frum boys."

II.
My Aunt Polly likes her cat er-nough sight better'n me, 'n'
Keeps a-coddlin' it 'ith cream 'n' sometimes catnip tea.
Seen some tracks behin' ther shed, an' nen I sez, sez I,
"I'll catch yer, Mister Cotton-Tail, to make a rabbit pie;"
So me'n' Tommy Baker found er empty cracker box;
Thought we'd hev it big er-nough fer fear he wuz er fox,
An' nen we propped ther cover up 'n' fixed it 'ith a spring
'At shut it suddin' 'ith a bang ez tight ez anything.

III.
We cut er fresh green carrot top 'n' put it in fer bait,
Wuz both so sure we'd ketch him 'at we couldn't hardly wait;
Pounded in some stakes each side 'n' made it good 'n' stout;
If Mister Cotton-Tail got in he never could get out.
Tom staid 'ith me till mornin', an' almos' 'fore it wuz light
We run behin' ther shed 'n' foun' our trap all shet up tight;
An' nen I shouted, "Got him!" 'n' Tom threw up his hat—
Blame 'f that ol' rabbit wasn't my Aunt Polly's cat!
 "THE COUNTRY, THE COUNTRY!"
FROM A CLUB OF ONE, BY A. P. RUSSELL, L. H. D. [A]
REES! Think of them! In the United States thirty-six varieties of
oak, thirty-four of pine, nine of fir, five of spruce, four of hemlock,
two of persimmon, twelve of ash, eighteen of willow, nine of
poplar, and I don't know how many of the beautiful beech. I once
counted over thirty different varieties of trees in the space of one acre. And
the leaves—their number, their individuality, their variety of shape and tint,
the acres of space that those of one great tree would cover if spread out and
laid together! In the autumn to watch them fall—how slowly, how rapidly!
Yet they say nobody ever saw one of them let go. Homer's comparison to
the lives of men—how fine! Better than Lucian's to the bubbles. I remember
very well one October day in Ohio. It was long ago—"in life's morning
march, when my bosom was young." (I like to quote from that poem of
Campbell's, it is incomparable of its kind.) A delightful tramp! Elderberries.
(The great Boerhaave held the elder in such pleasant reverence for the
multitude of its virtues, that he is said to have taken off his hat whenever he
passed it.) Grapes. Haws. Pawpaws. (Nature's custard.) Spicewood.
Sassafras. Hickory nuts. Nearly a primeval forest. Vines reminding one of
Brazilian creepers. Trees that were respectable saplings when Columbus
landed. The dead roots of an iron-wood—so like a monster as to startle.
Behemoth I thought of. "He moveth his tail like a cedar.' Thistle-down.
Diffused like small vices. Every seed hath wings. Here and there a jay, or a
woodpecker. Grape-vines, fantastically running over the tops of tall bushes,
grouping deformities, any one of which, if an artist drew it, would be called
an exaggeration, worse than anything of Doré's. Trees, swaying and bowing
to one another, like stilted clowns in Nature's afterpiece of the seasons.
Trees incorporated, sycamore and elm, maple and hickory, modifying and
partaking each other's nature; resembling so much as to appear one tree. A
jolly gray squirrel, hopping from limb to limb, like a robin; swinging like an
oriole; flying along the limb like a weaver's shuttle; scared away, at length,
by a scudding cloud of pigeons, just brushing the tallest tree-tops, as if
kissing an annual farewell. Clover. Sorrel. Pennyroyal. A drink of cider
from a bit of broken crockery. ("Does he not drink more sweetly that takes
his beverage in an earthen vessel than he that looks and searches into his
golden chalices for fear of poison, and sleeps in armor, and trusts nobody,
and does not trust God for his safety?") "All is fair—all is glad—from grass
to sun!" Not a "melancholy" day. Keats' poem on Autumn comes to mind;
and Crabbe's
"Welcome pure thoughts, welcome, ye silent groves;
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves."

Indian summer. Balzac's comparison to ripe womanhood. The significant

worn walk round the mean man's field; its crooked outline impressively
striking. All in all, a white day. Memory of it supplies these notes. They
might be expanded into an essay. The country, the country! Though the man
who would truly relish and enjoy it must be previously furnished with a
large and various stock of ideas, which he must be capable of turning over
in his own mind, of comparing, varying, and contemplating upon with
pleasure; he must so thoroughly have seen the world as to cure him of being
over fond of it; and he must have so much good sense and virtue in his own
heart as to prevent him from being disgusted with his own reflections, or
uneasy in his own company. Alas!
[A] By permission.
FROM COL. F.
COPYRIGHT
KAEMPFER.
GOPHER. 1900, BY
A. W.
NATURE
MUMFORD, ⅚ Life-size. STUDY PUB.
PUBLISHER,
CO., CHICAGO.
CHICAGO.
 THE GOPHER.
HE name of gopher, according to Brehm, is applied in some
American localities to various other widely variant rodents. The
zoölogists, who first described the animal, obtained their specimens
from Indians, who had amused themselves by cramming both
cheek pouches full of earth, distending them to such a degree that if the
animal had walked the pouches would have trailed on the earth. These
artificially distended pouches obtained for the gopher its name; the
taxidermists who prepared the dead specimens endeavored to give them
what was supposed to be a life-like appearance by following the practice of
the Indians in distending the cheek pouches, and the artists who delineated
the animal followed the models which were accessible to them, but too truly
in their drawings. Owing to these circumstances, the pictures of gophers of
even recent date represent really monstrous animals, when they honestly
intend to familiarize us with the gopher.
The gopher may be found east of the Rocky Mountains and to the west of
the Mississippi river, between the thirty-fourth and fifty-second parallel of
north latitude. It leads an underground life, digging tunnels in various
directions. Tunnels, of old standing, says Brehm, are packed hard and firm
from constant use. Lateral passages branch off at intervals. The main
chamber is situated under the roots of a tree at a depth of about four and
one-half feet; the entrance tunnel is sunk down to it with a spiral direction.
This chamber is large, is lined with soft grass, and serves for a nesting and
sleeping-place. The nest in which the young, numbering from five to seven,
are born about the beginning of April, is lined with the hair of the mother. It
is surrounded with circular passages from which the tunnels radiate. Gesner
found that a passage leads from the nest to a larger hole, the storeroom,
which is usually filled with roots, potatoes, nuts, and seeds. When throwing
up the earth the gopher exposes itself to view as little as possible and
immediately after accomplishing its purpose plunges back into its hole.
According to Audubon it appears above ground to bask in the sun. We have
seen it sit at the entrance to its den with an air of bold indifference to the
approach of danger and then suddenly vanish under ground. Its acute sense
of hearing and great power of scent protect it from surprises.
Audubon kept several gophers in captivity for months, feeding them on
potatoes. Their appetites were voracious, but they would drink neither water
nor milk. They made incessant efforts to regain their liberty by gnawing
through boxes and doors. They constantly dragged clothing and other
similar objects together, utilizing them as bedding, first gnawing them to
pieces. One of them, straying into a boot, instead of turning back, simply
gnawed its way through the tip. The habit of gnawing was unendurable and
Audubon incontinently got rid of them.
The gopher is very destructive to valuable trees and plants, for which reason
man is its most dangerous enemy, the only other foes it has to fear being
water and snakes.
This pretty little rodent is often found in populous neighborhoods. A few
years ago the writer saw one rush into a hole under the root of a large osage
orange bush in Woodlawn, Chicago. Curiosity led him to watch for the
reappearance of the animal, which soon put its head cautiously above the
entrance and eyed the intruder with as much interest as a weasel will often
show under like circumstances. For several weeks the gopher was visible in
the morning hours. We pointed it out to several persons, each of whom
declared it to be a ground squirrel. There is a great difference in these small
animals, but they are frequently confounded.
The name of gopher is applied in some American localities to various other
rodents.
 HANS AND MIZI.
DR. ALBERT SCHNEIDER.
ANS was a little blue-eyed German orphan who had been
"adopted" by a man and wife because they thought they could
make good use of him; but to their chagrin they were disappointed.
Hans had been told again and again that he was an ungrateful,
lazy, good for-nothing. This was also the reason why his master whipped
him so frequently. Now Hans was only nine years old and, of course, he
could not know that he was so thoroughly bad unless he was told and the
telling of it accompanied by cuffs, in order to impress this fact more fully
upon his dull brain.
It was really true that Hans was lazy and perhaps queer in many ways. He
disliked hard work, preferring to wander about the fields and meadows, the
ditches, pastures, and the trees of the nearby forest. He had been discovered
lying in the grass watching the fleeting clouds overhead and listening to the
sighing of the wind in the tall grass and the overshadowing trees. In his
imagination the breezes whispered soothing words, soft and low. He
watched the busy bees, the ants, and the black carrion beetles tugging great
loads up hill.
Often he had observed a lady with two children about his age going by on
their way to Sunday-school. With wistful eyes he would watch the romping
of the children and listen to their exclamations of joy as they played among
the flowers. Sometimes the kind lady would beckon to Hans and talk kindly
to him and make him presents. Then little Hans would cry as though his
poor heart would break. He hid the gifts in a secret nook in the granary
which was also his sleeping place and often he would think of the kind lady
and her happy children while the love-hunger shone in his eyes.
Mizi was only a half-starved, homeless, gray kitten which came to Hans
while he was hoeing in the orchard. The two understood each other at once,
and why should they not? Both were homeless, friendless, and soulless.
Everybody knows that a cat, much less a stray kitten, has no soul. You may
say that Hans was neither a cat nor a kitten, but some little boys of the
neighborhood had sneeringly remarked that he was a "fraid-cat." Besides,
his master had whipped all the spirit out of him. Therefore he, too, was
without a soul. Hans petted Mizi and gave her some bread-crusts and hid
her in the shed to keep her out of sight of his master. Mizi gained in flesh
and became very fond of Hans, and at times would try to follow him, but
Hans would take her back and put her in a more secure place. Mizi did not
know of the cruel master and in spite of all precautions she finally made her
escape and searched for Hans. She could not find him, so she mewed again
and again and finally succeeded in attracting, not only the attention of Hans
but also that of the master who promptly picked up a stone and hurled it at
Mizi but fortunately missed her. It may be that Mizi was not so easily
frightened as Hans, for in time she tried to get to him even if the master was
near. Poor, ignorant Mizi, she did not know that this show of friendliness
would get Hans into trouble. The master concluded that Hans was
responsible for the presence of Mizi and ordered him to take her and kill her
then and there. In agony and despair Hans ran to Mizi to frighten her away
but she only rubbed her glossy fur against him and purred gently and only
when the frenzied master attempted to grasp her out of the protecting arms
of Hans did she attempt to flee—but too late! a vicious kick caught her in
the side but she managed to escape under the protecting granary. In the
evening Hans went to the shed and called "Mizi, Mizi," and poor, suffering
Mizi dragged herself far enough so that little Hans might stroke her head.
Hans brought some bread and milk but Mizi only mewed piteously. In the
morning Hans found Mizi stiff and cold near the opening of the shed. Poor
Hans, he sobbed and sobbed and called, "Mizi, Mizi," most piteously but
Mizi did not answer; her sufferings were over.
 GEOGRAPHY LESSONS.
T IS possible for a pupil to study geography diligently every day and
forget apparently nearly everything he learns. Both geography and
history are studies which may be pursued in such a way that nearly all
that is acquired in any given month is lost in the next month. Those
who are inclined to doubt this have but to test a class where the text has
been the subject of acquisition. Test them on what they learned a month
previously and even those inclined to believe this statement will be
astonished that so little is retained of what once seemed to be known so
well.
Mr. A sweeps his barn with the doors open and the wind blowing against
his work. He works with much energy and some apparent efficiency; but
the wind brings back the chaff to such an extent that there is never much
clear space on his floor. Mr. B takes advantage of the direction of the wind,
and every stroke counts for success and is more than doubled in effect by
the help of the wind. The chaff flies before him and his floor is clear in a
short time.
I have seen a steamer in waters opening upon the Bay of Fundy pouring out
black smoke, beating the water into foam, and apparently making great
progress. But observation of the distant shore proved that she was actually
standing still. The adverse tide was such that she could not contend with it
successfully. So she dropped her anchor and saved coal and the wear of
machinery. Two hours later she swung with her cable, the anchor was
hoisted, and she moved rapidly in the desired direction without the aid of a
pound of steam. In Passamaquoddy bay are so many islands and channels
and such a great fluctuation of tide that the waters are racing in various
directions at all times. Fishermen study their courses and never tack against
the tide. Those who go out every day do not leave home at the same hour
Tuesday as on Monday, but just fifty minutes later. They do not go and
return over the same courses, for many times the strongest flow of tide does
not run where there was the swiftest ebb. With them the proverb, "The
longest way round is the shortest way home," is often true, and I have heard
them quote those words frequently.
In psychology there are both a wind and a tide. The wind is what the pupil
thinks of the subject—as to its usefulness in his future life. The tide is his
natural interest in the thing for its own sake.
Wind and tide are sometimes both against us, and it is a poor skipper who
lacks the sense to tie up for a short time or take another course when he
finds both set against him.
But there are teachers who battle fiercely against the desires and interests of
their pupils, bound to compel them to learn, making a tremendous fuss,
filling families with tears and tremblings, threatenings, scoldings, and
reviewings—all with no permanent results of value.
There is a natural interest in children for birds. It is so strong and absorbing
that it amounts to a psychological tide. The things of the bird-world act
upon the child-mind rather instinctively than mentally. The whole child is
active and alert when the subject is such that it fully interests him. A little
effective teaching just at that time is worth more than hours of perfunctory
drudgery over a similar task presented in the wrong way.
There are birds wherever man lives. They differ in color, form, and habit
according to environment. The pupil who seems to be interested least in the
ordinary things of the text book in geography is the very one, as a rule, to
be caught with the birds and animals of the various parts of the earth. The
pupil who will not retain information about the products of a country may
be induced to consider intelligently something about the fauna of that
country and pass readily to an interested study of the flora, and from what
grows there to what is shipped from that place.
 THE MINK.
(Putorius vison.)

HIS soft fur bearing animal has been described by Audubon and
Prince De Wied. Its nearest relatives are very closely allied to the
polecat and differ from it only by a flatter head, larger canine teeth,
shorter legs, the presence of webs between the toes, a longer tail,
and a lustrous fur, consisting of a close, smooth, short hair, resembling otter
fur. Its color is a uniform brown. The fur of the American mink is much
more esteemed than that of the European, as it is softer and of a more
woolly character.
According to Audubon the mink ranks next to the ermine in destructive
capacity, prowling around the farmyard or duck-pond, and its presence is
soon detected by the sudden disappearance of young chickens and
ducklings. Audubon had a personal experience with a mink which made its
home in the stone dam of a small pond near the home of the naturalist. The
pond had been dammed for the benefit of the ducks in the yard, and in this
way afforded the mink hunting-grounds of ample promise. Its hiding-place
had been selected with cunning, very near the house and still nearer the
place where the chickens had to pass on their way to drink. In front of its
hole were two large stones, which served the mink as a watch tower, from
which it could overlook the yard as well as the pond. It would lie in wait for
hours every day and would carry away chickens and ducks in broad
daylight. Audubon found the mink to be especially plentiful on the banks of
the Ohio river, and there observed it to be of some use in catching mice and
rats. But it was also addicted to poaching and fishing. The naturalist
observed it to swim and dive with the greatest agility and pursue and attack
the quickest of fishes, such as the salmon and trout. It will eat frogs or
lizards, but when food is plentiful it is very fastidious, preying upon rats,
finches and ducks, hares, oysters and other shell fish; in short, Brehm says
it adapts itself to the locality and knows how to profit by whatever food
supplies it may be able to find. When frightened it gives forth a very fetid
odor like the polecat.
The female gives birth to five or six young at about the end of April. If
taken young they get to be very tame and become real pets. Richardson saw
one in the possession of a Canadian lady who used to carry it about with her
in her pocket. It is easily caught in a trap of any kind, but its tenacity of life
renders it difficult to shoot. The European mink much resembles the
American, except that it is somewhat smaller and its fur is coarser.
Upon a large farm in Michigan visited by the writer this summer ran a creek
where the chickens, when the trough was dry—and dry it usually was—
traveled to get a drink. In the bank of the creek a mink made his home, and
not a week passed that one or more hens did not appear in the barnyard
crippled or mangled in a manner painful to behold—painful, that is, to the
visitor, but not apparently to the farmer, who only said: "It's that darned
mink; some day, when I have time, I'll set a trap and catch him," and so
went coolly on his way, leaving the poor maimed creatures to drag out a
painful existence for days or weeks, hoping that nature would heal the
wounds made by the mink.
Aside from the lack of thrift thus shown by the farmer—for the hens, when
badly mangled, in time succumbed—the inhumane aspect of the case never
seemed to strike him. The cultivation of his fields left no time for
cultivating the finer feelings of the heart.

FROM COL. F.
NUSSBAUMER COPYRIGHT
& SON. MINK. 1900, BY
A. W. NATURE
MUMFORD, 4/11 Life-size. STUDY PUB.
PUBLISHER, CO., CHICAGO.
CHICAGO.
 THE NEW SPORT.
JOHN WINTHROP SCOTT.
N THE early days every man and boy knew how to use a gun. It was a
necessity of life. It brought in meat for the family. The regular business
of every holiday was to go to the woods and kill. The free life of the
woods, the pleasure of ranging about for a purpose, and the excitement
attending success in bagging game were among their greater pleasures.
Now we live in cities mainly. Even the country boy has less regard for the
gun. The game and many of the birds and animals that are not game have
been killed off, so that country boys now wish to give them a chance for
their lives. Probably the worst murderers of songsters and innocent animals
are the ignorant city youths who get only a day or two in the woods in a
year.
Guns have been "improved" to such an extent that whether the gunner has
any skill or not everything in sight can be killed because of the rapidity of
fire and the number of chances for killing. A gun has been invented which
pours a steady stream of rapid fire as long as you hold the trigger. It was
invented for killing men on the battlefield; but there are other guns nearly as
destructive that are used for "sport."
Public schools, Audubon societies, women's clubs, and other humanizing
agencies have so modified the ideas of boys and young men that there are
but few who hunt for sport.
The cheapening of the camera and its perfection for amateur use have
placed a new shooting apparatus in their hands, and many young people of
both sexes are now more or less expert in making exposures and
developing. A shot with a camera is worth more than a shot with a gun. You
have to eat or stuff the unfortunate bird or animal you shoot with a gun.
When it is gone you have nothing to show for your skill.
The shot with a camera gives you a handsome picture with many thrilling
details to relate. If you wish to boast you have the evidence at hand to
corroborate your statement. The pictures last indefinitely, are easily stored,
and may be duplicated at will.
Camera presents last Christmas far outnumbered the guns given. Boys and
girls much prefer the new sport to the old. With the aid of the bicycle in
getting about the country, young people are making trips to the country with
loaded cameras and bringing in much more satisfactory game than they
used to get with guns.
The skill some of them have manifested in getting a focus on some shy
resident of the woods or fields is indeed remarkable. Imitations of brush
heaps are made out of light stuff that may easily be carried about. These
may be placed before the residence of a rabbit or woodchuck for several
days before the attempt is made to get a shot from beneath. A great deal of
caution is sometimes necessary to get the subject accustomed even to a
strange brush heap, so he will act naturally at the instant the snap is made.
Two young Englishmen made a mock tree-trunk of cloth, painted its
exterior, cut holes in it for observation and for the camera, tricked it out
with vines, spread it out on a light frame so they could set it up where they
chose, and got so many beautiful and scientifically interesting views that
they have written a book that has had a large sale. It is embellished with
half-tone engravings made from their collections of photographs, and is a
most delightful and useful addition to one's library. It is entitled "Wild Life
at Home," and is published by Cassell & Company of New York. It has met
with such popularity largely because it has appeared just at the time when
so many young people are turning their attention from the killing of birds
and animals to the more pleasing and humane business of catching their
likenesses in their native haunts.
Dr. R. W. Shufeldt, of Washington, a distinguished naturalist, has made
many photographs of wild life in the United States, and embellished his
own works with reproductions of these pictures which are so very
interesting and difficult to secure.
The telephoto lens is a great help in taking the more timid subjects.
Audubon used a telescope to get the most familiar glimpses of these little
inhabitants of the forests long before the dry plate was invented. What
would he not have given to have been the possessor of a means of taking
instantly all the details and attitudes of the wild birds he loved so well!
The camera is now adding daily to the accurate knowledge we possess of
the things of nature, and every young person should own one and become
familiar with its rare qualities and usefulness. It is very gratifying to think
that sport in the woods now means something superior to the old bloody
work our boys formerly pursued with guns. With a copy of the book above
mentioned a boy is equipped with suggestions and directions enough to
keep him busy and well employed for several seasons.
 MOLE CRICKET LODGE.
BERTHA SEAVEY SAUNIER.
R. and Mrs. Mole Cricket had folded their hands for the winter.
The busy season was over, for the ground was all hard with the
foot tread of Jack Frost and the snow lay all over the lodge—a
solid, warm cover that squeaked and crunched quite musically
when little Boy Will rode back and forth on it with his sled Dasher.
Shadows lay rather heavily in the lodge. The caverns and galleries which
had been built in warmer times were hung with darkness and all was still in
slumber.
Side by side in the chamber, just under the long, dead grass and the white
snow, with a roof formed of tiny roots and loose earth, lay Mr. and Mrs.
Mole Cricket.
It was the same chamber in which had lain the little white eggs that the
warm sun had hatched, and from it the young crickets had gone out, already
valiant, to burrow their own galleries, and seek their own food.
Slumber had gone on in the chamber for many weeks when, at a sudden
sound, Mr. Cricket moved. We fancy he was cross at being disturbed.
"What's that?" he said.
"Boy Will," answered his wife. "He's digging up the snow to make a snow
man, and shouting."
"He'll make us cold," grumbled Mr. Cricket.
"Then we must go to the cavern."
"But we can't—I'm as stiff as a stick."
"I believe I am, too."
The earth that covered their roof was very sandy and loose, when not
frozen, and as it was, it yielded readily to persistent thumps such as now fell
about it. The snow was soggy—just right for building purposes—and Boy
Will, in his enthusiasm, scraped up a shovelful of dirt with the last bit of
snow that covered the lodge. His sharp eyes saw something black lying
beneath the little dead roots that had in the summer belonged to his forget-
me-nots. He took the shovel—it was his mother's stove shovel—and
carefully pried the dark bundle up, and with his little red fingers separated it
from its wrappings.
"Aha!" he said, and ran into the house. "Look a-here!" he cried as he ran up
to his father's desk. "Well, well!" said his father, looking at the objects
through gold-bowed spectacles, "that's the same sort of fellow that we
teased last summer with a grass blade."
"Tell me," said Boy Will, in wonder, "don't you remember the little hole in
the garden, and when I put in a spear of grass how the fellow grabbed it
with his jaws? I drew him out and there was Sir Mole Cricket that does so
much mischief in the garden."
"Oh yes; and now here are two; but they are dead."
"No, only asleep for the winter. The warm room will revive them but they
may die after all. They will have awakened out of season."
"I wish I could put them back," said Boy Will.
"We will study them a little and then we will see," returned his father as he
took up his penknife and pointed to the folded legs.
"Those big flat fore-legs are what do all the mischief. They are like strong
little hands and have claws on them and they are used for digging. The main
business of Sir Cricket is to burrow and he works away with these hands of
his until he will have made a number of underground passages. And in his
work he will cut off hundreds of new, tender roots that belong to plants and
shrubs. And that's the mischief of him."
"What do they eat?"
"Why, little bugs; but they are fierce, hungry creatures, and when they meet
a mole cricket that is weak and defenseless they pounce on him and eat him.
They are no respecter of relatives."
"They don't deserve to live!" cried Boy Will, with a stamp.
"But we can give them their chances," returned Mr. Rey. "Now look at this
one. There are two sets of wings. One outside and one inside like
grasshoppers, but much shorter. Here are two delicate feelers, or antennæ,
bent backward, and two at the end of the body. I suppose those are for the
purpose of discovering any danger that might approach them from behind
while they are busy at digging. The jaws are toothed and horny, and so, all
in all, we may put Sir Cricket down in the same order in which are the
katydid, grasshopper, field and house cricket, cockroach, earwig and so on,
which is the order Orthoptera. Now come and show me where you found
them."
Boy Will led the way where stood his half-built snow-man, and Mr. Rey
with a stick felt about in the chamber for the opening to another cavity to
the lodge.
"Ah, here it is—a warmer and a better one than the other because it is
deeper," and he slipped the two objects in and stopped the doorway with
earth and snow.
"Well, I declare!" said Mr. Mole Cricket from under his horny skin, "What
do you think of that?"
"Why," said his wife, "they've put us in the cavern where we should have
been in the first place. What a mistake it was to go to sleep in the nursery!
Now we shall be quite safe until spring."
"Well, well, true enough!" returned Sir Mole Cricket. And they both fell
asleep again.
 SNOW BIRDS.
This poem, by Louis Honoré Frechette, the laureate of Canada, is very fine
in the original, and holds the same position in French-Canadian literature
that Bryant's "Lines to a Waterfowl" occupies in American classics. It is one
of the poems that won for its author the crown of the French academy and
the Grand Prix Monthyon of 2,000 livres.
When the rude Equinox, with his cold train
From our horizons drives accustomed cheer,
Behold! a thousand winged sprites appear
And flutter briskly round the frosty plain.
No seeds are anywhere, save sleety rain,
No leafage thick against the outlook drear;
Rough winds to wildly whip them far and near;
God's heart alone to feel their every pain.
Dear little travelers through this icy realm,
Fear not the tempest shall you overwhelm;
The glad spring buds within your happy song.
Go, whirl about the avalanche, and be,
O birds of snow, unharmed, and so teach me:
Whom God doth guard is stronger than the strong.
—C. G. B.
 VEGETATION IN THE PHILIPPINES.
UCH attention has of late been devoted to the Philippines, and as
one result considerable interest has been evinced in their natural
products. In the matter of vegetation they are highly favored.
Fruits grow in great abundance, and the reputation of some of
them is already established abroad, as is the case, for example, with the
mango. Other fruits grown in the islands are the ate (the cinnamon apple of
the French colonists), the mangosteen, the pineapple, the tamarind, the
orange, the lemon, the jack, the jujube, the litchi (regarded by the Chinese
as the king of fruits), the plum, the chico-mamey (the sapodilla of the West
Indies), the bread fruit, and the papaw. The last named is eaten like a melon,
and is valued as a digestive; its juice furnishes an extract which is used as a
medicament under the name of papaine, or vegetable pepsin. The banana
grows abundantly and is a great boon to the poor people, supplying them
with a cheap, delicious, and exceedingly nutritive food; there are many
varieties, ten of which are in particular highly esteemed.
Plants which are cultivated for industrial purposes include the sugar cane,
of which four varieties are grown—yellow cane, Otaheite cane, purple or
Batavia cane, and striped cane. Of vegetables there are several pulses used
as food by the natives which never appear on the tables of the European
settlers. These include the mango, mentioned above, and three or four kinds
of beans, such as the butingue, the zabache, the Abra bean, and the Patami
bean. These suit the natives much better than the garbanzos, or chick peas,
that are so highly prized by the Spaniards. Among the tuberous roots valued
as food the sweet potato ranks first, with an annual production of
98,000,000 pounds. The common or white potato, although of inferior
quality, stands next in importance. Then follows the camotengcahoy or
manihot (cassava), the root of which is made edible by the removal of its
poisonous juice in the same way as in the West Indies. After expression of
the juice the pulp forms a sort of coarse-grained flour that is very nutritious,
pleasant to the taste and easy to digest. Besides these tubers other plants,
such as the ubi, the togui and the gabi, are cultivated in the fields for the
sake of their edible roots. Other edible vegetables include calabashes,
melons, watermelons, cucumbers, carrots, celery, parsley, tomatoes, egg
plants, peppers, capers, cabbages, lettuce, endives, mustard, leeks, onions,
asparagus, and peas. Of the cocoa palms the ordinary cocoanut tree is the
most important, the oil of which is put to many and varied uses. The
bamboo is much valued, the young and tender shoots making a very
acceptable article of food, in the form of salads and other dishes, and the
fibre is used for numerous purposes. Tobacco as a cultivated crop is
generally grown in the same field as maize. Of spices the Philippines grow
cinnamon, nutmegs, pepper, ginger, and majoram. Of medicinal plants the
most familiar are the papaw, already mentioned, and ipecacuanha.
Among aromatic and ornamental plants may be mentioned magnolias,
camellias, clematis, several kinds of roses, dahlias, ylang-ylang, papua,
jessamine, and many species of orchids and ferns. These, however, grow
wild in such profusion that little care is bestowed upon their cultivation. —
Gardener's Magazine.
 CARBONS.
Bituminous Coal Anthracite Coal Graphite
FROM COL.
CHI. ACAD COPYRIGHT
SCIENCES. 1900, BY
A. W. NATURE
MUMFORD, STUDY PUB.
PUBLISHER, CO., CHICAGO.
CHICAGO.
 COMMON MINERALS AND VALUABLE
ORES.
3.—MINERALS CONTAINING CARBON.
THEO. F. BROOKINS, B. S.,
Principal Au Sable Forks Union Free School and Academy, New York.

MONG minerals of economic importance carbon minerals hold the

unique position of being at the same time of the most common and
the most rare occurrence. As far as external appearance indicates, a
piece of common coal and the most brilliant diamond are widely
separated; with regard to chemical composition they are closely related.
Intermediate between the coal of the stoke furnace and the "brilliant" of the
jewelry shop is still another well-known form of carbon, the graphite of the
lead pencil. These three substances comprise the far greater part of carbon-
containing minerals.
In so far as our mind's picture of a mineral is that of an aggregation of
crystals of fairly perfect form our consideration of coal as a mineral is
erroneous. We must yield to a broader interpretation of the essential
characteristics of a mineral and modify our idea so as to include any
homogeneous substance (solid, with the single exception of mercury) of
fairly definite chemical composition "occurring in nature but not of
apparent organic origin." Organic substances are those that are alive or have
lived.
Vegetation is, undoubtedly, the origin of all coal, but often much more than
a cursory examination is necessary to prove such origin. In the less altered
coals the vegetable origin is readily proved by the actual presence of seeds,
plant fibers, and other equally apparent organic remains. A microscopic
study is necessary for finding the presence of woody fiber in the more
metamorphosed form. The word metamorphose comes from the Greek;
meta means after or over; morphe is form. A metamorphosis is a change of
form or a forming over.
The history of the discovery of the value of coal as a means of producing
heat and of the development of the coal-mining industry covers a
comparatively recent period. Coal occurs in such quantities near the surface
of the earth's crust and its outcrops are so numerous that it cannot have
failed to attract the attention of the most ancient of peoples. Indeed, that
coal could be used as a fuel is mentioned by a writer, Theophrastus, who
lived 300 years B. C. The ancient Celts of Britain are reputed to have
evidenced knowledge of the industrial value of coal. It was not until near
the middle of the thirteenth century, however, that coal became so important
an economic product as to result in statutes granting to certain places the
privilege of mining it. After a long period of trial in England the superiority
of coal over other fuels was recognized, and stone coal, as the harder form
was commonly known, came into general use. In America bituminous, or
soft coal, was mined to a slight extent in the latter half of the eighteenth
century. The form now commonly used in house-heating furnaces,
anthracite, for a long time baffled the colonists in their efforts to make it
burn. The knowledge that an anthracite fire is most effective if not
continually poked is said to have been acquired generally by accident.
Europe and the United States to-day produce practically all the coal of the
world. In Europe, Great Britain, Germany, France, Austria-Hungary, and
Belgium are the main sources of supply. Several important coal areas exist
in our own country, notably that of the New England basin, with an area of
500 square miles; the Appalachian district, with an area of 65,000 square
miles; the northern area, in Michigan, covering 7,000 square miles; the
central area, comprising parts of Illinois, Indiana and Kentucky, and
including 48,000 square miles; the scattered western area, with a total of
98,000 square miles; the indefinite Rocky Mountain area, and the Pacific
coast region, including parts of California, Oregon, and Washington. Coal
mining is yet an undeveloped industry in our territorial possessions. Alaska
has an abundant supply of coal, and lesser quantities are found in Cuba and
Porto Rico.
Mention has already been made of the two common kinds of coal,
bituminous and anthracite. These two kinds mark different stages in the
transformation from plant organism to mineral product. As the biologist
traces the successive steps in the evolution of an individual of a species
from germ to adult, so the geologist unfolds before us the wonderful history
of a piece of coal from its first appearance on the earth to the time when it is
thrown into our fire grate as fuel. Coal is the metamorphosed product of
vegetable growths, changed by atmospheric agencies and the internal forces
of the earth acting through a total period of perhaps millions of years. In the
remote past, ages before man had appeared on the earth, the atmosphere or
our globe was highly charged with carbon gases. Vegetation flourished in
luxuriance. Great swamps were common. The ocean alternately covered
and receded from verdure-clothed land areas. Ponds were transformed to
morasses and swamps. In the swamps thus formed, the accumulated
sediment of centuries upon centuries covered alternate layers of decayed
plant organisms, until finally beds of peat were formed. Great masses above
pressed on those underneath; the internal heat of the earth reached up and
transformed the densely packed masses of peat until the beds became hard
and brown, the product of the partial metamorphism being what we know as
lignite, or brown coal. With the continued action of the forces of
metamorphism, the lignite turned still darker, and as more gases were
driven off, became heavier, until the bituminous stage was reached, which,
in turn, was succeeded by the anthracite stage.
Graphite, or black lead, is a mineral containing not more than five per cent
of impurities, and is generally supposed to have originated as did mineral
coal, and to represent a still more advanced stage of development. It occurs
in various localities both in the vicinity of coal measures and far removed
from them. The chief part of the world's supply comes from Ceylon, though
Germany and the United States produce quantities of graphite of excellent
quality. In the Laurentian rocks of Canada, and of course with as ancient
origin, extensive deposits are found. This presence of graphite in strata in
which as yet no certain traces of organic life have been found has led some
to believe that this form of carbon mineral may have another than organic
origin.
Various uses are served by graphite. The chemist finds it of great value in
making his crucibles; the engineer uses it, finely powdered, as a lubricant;
the housekeeper polishes stoves with it; the electrician uses it in his arc
lights; all civilized nations use it in the lead of lead pencils. The stem,
grapho (to write), on which so many of our words, as geography, telegraph,
graphophone, etc., are formed, suggests also the origin of the name,
graphite. The finest quality lead pencils are those made from graphite
occurring in a state sufficiently pure to allow the cutting and grinding of
pieces to the size needed. In the case of the medium and poorer grade
pencils, the graphite has first been finely powdered and then pressed into
the requisite shape and size.
The purest form of carbon found in nature is the diamond. The rare
occurrence of diamonds indicates that the essential conditions in nature for
causing the transformation of some less pure form of carbon into diamond
are seldom present. While diamonds have actually been produced in the
laboratory by far-seeing and indefatigable chemists, yet the cost of such
products is so great as to preclude the possibility of the most precious of
gems becoming at all common. The diamond is the hardest of all known
substances, and will scratch any other mineral across which it may be
drawn.
Three localities have successively furnished the main part of the world's
stock of diamonds. A century and a half ago, practically all the diamonds
came from India, where at one time 60,000 persons were employed in
diamond digging. Toward the middle of the eighteenth century, when the
diamondiferous districts of India were becoming exhausted, the discovery
of the precious gem in Brazilian deposits was made. At present, the supply
of diamonds from Brazil has much diminished, and the diamond fields of
South Africa, where is located the famous Kimberley mine, produce the
larger part of the world's output of diamonds.
Among famous diamonds of the world should be mentioned the Koh-i-noor
of the British crown, which, Hindu legend relates, was worn five thousand
years ago by one of their national heroes. The largest known diamond,
weighing three hundred sixty-seven carats, was found in Borneo, and is
now owned by the Rajah of Matan.
 FEBRUARY.
FEBRUARY,—fortnights two—
Briefest of the months are you,
Of the winter's children last.
Why do you go by so fast?
Is it not a little strange
Once in four years you should change,
That the sun should shine and give
You another day to live?
May be this is only done
Since you are the smallest one;
So I make the shortest rhyme
For you, as befits your time:
You're the baby of the year,
And to me you're very dear,
Just because you bring the line,
"Will you be my Valentine?"
—Frank Dempster Sherman.

The snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch-deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara

Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.
—Lowell.
 LICORICE.
(Glycyrrhiza glabra L.)

DR. ALBERT SCHNEIDER,

Northwestern University School of Pharmacy.

But first he cheweth greyn and licorys

To smellen sweete.
—Miller's Tale, l. 504; Chaucer.

HE licorice yielding plant is a perennial herb with a thick root-

stock, having a number of long sparingly branched roots and very
long runners or rhizomes. It belongs to the same family as the
peas and beans (Leguminosæ). It has purplish flowers with the
irregular corolla characteristic of the family. The pods are rather small,
much compressed, each with from two to five seeds.
The plant is in all probability a native of the warm parts of the
Mediterranean region. There are several varieties of G. glabra, all of which
are more or less extensively cultivated and placed upon the market.
As to the exact habitat of licorice there is some difference of opinion.
According to some authorities its native home is in the vicinity of the sea of
Azov. Dioscorides was among the first to give a description of the plant and
designated the pontic lands and Kappadonia of Asia Minor as its home. The
Romans named the plant Glycyrrhiza. Celsius, Scribonius Largus, and
Plinius described it as Radix dulcis, sweet root, on account of its sweet
taste. Galenus, the eminent Roman physician, made extensive medicinal use
of the roots as well as of the juice. Alexander Trallianus also recommended
licorice very highly. Although this plant enjoyed extensive use during the
middle ages it was apparently not included in the herbal list of
Charlemagne, Karl der Grosse. In the 13th century licorice was highly
prized in Switzerland as a remedy for lung troubles. It was similarly used in
Wales and in Denmark. Pietro di Crescenzi of Bologna (1305) was the first
to give a full report of the occurrence and cultivation of licorice. The
Benedictine monks of St. Michaelis cultivated it extensively in the vicinity
of Bamberg. The eminent authority, Flückiger, reports a peculiar practice by
these monks. A new hand in the horticultural work was initiated by
requiring him to dig up a complete root of a licorice plant with all its
branches including the rhizome. This was by no means an easy task on
account of the ramification of the roots and the extreme length of the
rhizome.
Glycyrrhiza is extensively cultivated in Greece, Italy, France, Russia,
Germany, the Danubian Provinces, southern China, northern Africa, and to
some extent in England. In the Italian province of Calabria licorice is
planted with peas and corn. In the course of three years the roots are
collected, the juice expressed and root evaporated to the proper consistency
for shipping. New crops are grown from cuttings of the rhizomes. There is
an excellent quality of licorice grown in the vicinity of Smyrna. The
principal commercial varieties are grown in Spain, southern Russia, Turkey
and Italy. Spanish and Russian licorice root is dried and shipped in bales or
bundles. Spanish licorice root is unpeeled and occurs in pieces several feet
in length. Russian licorice is usually peeled. Most of the licorice used in the
United States is obtained from Italy, Russia, and Germany. Some of the
licorice found upon the market is quite fragmentary and very dirty. The
licorice raised in England is intended for home consumption and is placed
upon the market in both the fresh and dried state. The fresh roots have an
earthy and somewhat nauseous odor. The peel, or bark, of the roots contains
tannic acid and a resinous oil, both of which are undesirable; hence the
peeled article is usually preferred.
 FROM CHICAGO:
KŒHLER'S A. W.
MEDICINAL-
LICORICE. MUMFORD
PFLANZEN. PUBLISHER

Description of Plate.—A, flowering portion of plant; 1, flower; 2, 3, 4, parts of the

flower; 5, stamens; 6, stigma; 7, ovary; 8, fruit; 9, one valve of pod with seeds; 10, 11,
12, different views of seed.

The characteristically sweet taste of the licorice roots and rhizomes is due
to glycyrrhizin and some sugar. Glycyrrhizin is a glucoside which splits up
into glucose, a substance closely akin to sugar, and glycyrretin, a bitter
substance. The extract of licorice is prepared by crushing the fresh roots or
rhizomes, then boiling repeatedly in water, expressing and then condensing
the sap in copper kettles until it is quite hard when cooled. In Calabria the
condensed juice, while still warm and pliable, is rolled into sticks and
stamped with the name of the locality where it was prepared. In those
countries where the fresh roots cannot be obtained the dried roots are
crushed and then treated as above. The licorice sticks prepared in this
country usually have stamped upon them the initials of the manufacturing
firm. Much of the evaporated juice is also placed upon the market in large
lumps or masses. The pure licorice extract, prepared as indicated above, is a
glossy black, very brittle, with a glassy fracture. For shipment it must be
carefully packed to prevent its being broken into small bits. To reduce the
brittleness various substances are added as starch and gum arabic.
Licorice extract is a highly appreciated sweetmeat but unfortunately it is
often grossly adulterated with dextrin, starch, sugar, and gum arabic. Many
of the licorice drops, etc., contain very little licorice, but even the poorest
article seems to be highly prized by the average child. Licorice extract in
mass is known as licorice paste and is extensively employed in preparing
chewing tobacco and in brewing beer, to which substances it imparts a
peculiar flavor and a dark color.
Licorice extract is a popular remedy for colds and sore throat, though its
curative powers are certainly very slight. Physicians make extensive use of
it to disguise the disagreeable taste of medicines, such as quinine. It is an
ingredient of many cough remedies. The finely powdered roots are dusted
over pills to prevent their adhesion and to give them consistency.
Licorice roots have the same properties as the extract and may be similarly
used. Many children prefer the dried roots obtained at the drug store to the
stick licorice or the licorice drops. This choice is in many respects a good
one; the roots are at least not adulterated, but of course only the juice should
be swallowed—a precaution which it is not necessary to emphasize—as the
fibrous nature of the wood makes it difficult to swallow. Even if a little of it
is swallowed no particular harm would be done, as it is not in the least
poisonous, though the fibers may act as an irritant to the stomach.
As already indicated there are several species of Glycyrrhiza of which the
roots and rhizomes are used like those of G. glabra, but, in addition to these
there are a number of other plants designated as licorice. Indian licorice or
the wild licorice of India (Abrus precatorius), is a woody twining plant
growing quite abundantly in India; it is sometimes substituted for true
licorice. Prickly licorice (Glycyrrhiza echinata) resembles true licorice
quite closely. The wild licorice of America (Glycyrrhiza lepidota) is found
in the Northwest. Its roots are quite sweet and often used as a substitute for
true licorice. The European plant known as "rest harrow" (Ononis spinosa),
so-called because its tangled roots impede the progress of the harrow, has
roots with an odor and taste resembling licorice. The roots are extensively
employed by the country practitioners of France and Germany in the
treatment of jaundice, dropsy, gout, rheumatism, toothache, ulcers, and
eruptive diseases of the scalp. The name, wild licorice, also applies to
Galium circaezans and Galium lanceolatum on account of the sweetish
roots. The wild licorice of Australia is Teucrium corymbosum. Licorice
vetch (Astragalus glycyphyllus) has sweet roots. Licorice weed (Scoparia
dulcis) is a common tropical plant which also has sweet-tasting roots.
 A WINTER WALK IN THE WOODS.
ANNE W. JACKSON.
AST week I had the good fortune to be invited with two other girls
to spend a few days in the country. We hailed the invitation with
delight and accepted it with alacrity, for we all three love to get out
into the woods and fields.
We started on Friday afternoon, going the first part of the journey by train.
The sky was cloudy and the weather mild. We watched the moving pictures
that sped by the car windows as eagerly as children.
After a half-hour's ride we arrived at a little "town" consisting of the station,
one store, one house, one grain elevator, and a blacksmith's shop. Here our
hostess met us with a surrey and pair, and we were soon driving along at a
brisk pace, drinking in the fresh air and country scenery with pure delight.
The person whose power of enjoyment in little things has become blunted,
is greatly to be pitied. "Ours was as keen as though newly sharpened for the
occasion; and nothing we saw, from the fields, trees, and hedges, to the
setting sun, failed to give us pleasure.
A merry drive of three or four miles brought us to the farm-house, where
we were cordially welcomed.
I should like to tell you about all the fun we had that night, for it was our
hostess' birthday, and there was a surprise party, at which we were as much
surprised as she was. But as it is our walk I'm going to tell about, I must
leave the events of our first evening unrelated.
The next morning we three girls decided to take a walk, as we were anxious
to see what birds there were about. It was a gray day, threatening rain, and
very wild for December.
The moment we set foot out of doors the distant "caw-caw" of the crows
sounded like an invitation in our ears. How I love that sound! It is to the ear
what a dash of color is to the eye.
We took the road to the right, where we saw some woods a quarter of a mile
or more away.
Before we had gone far we heard a medley of bird notes coming from the
fields on our left. We couldn't make out what they were, as they were some
distance away, but I caught a note now and then that sounded like a
fragment of the meadow-lark's song—just a faint reminiscence of it.
After passing two pastures and a cornfield on our left, we came to a piece of
thin timber land. The road, which began to descend here, had been cut
down somewhat, leaving banks more or less steep on either side. We went
along slowly, stopping frequently to examine the beautiful mosses and
lichens which abounded. We had seen no birds, with the exception of a
woodpecker, at close range yet.
Presently we came to a turn in the road which led us up a slight rise of
ground, bordered on both sides by woods. Arrived at the top of this hillock
we loitered about looking at the many interesting thing that are always to be
seen in the woods. All at once we were startled by a shrill scream, or cry,
which sounded like some young animal being strangled, and behold! an
immense hawk flew off over the tree-tops. It didn't fly very far though, and
gave us more of its music at intervals.
The road from this point led down to a small brook spanned by a wooden
bridge. Looking down toward this bridge, a gorgeous sight met our eyes. A
flock of cardinals, half a dozen or more, were flying and sporting about
among the low bushes near one end of it. What a delicious touch of color
for a winter landscape! There were chickadees, too, hopping about among
them in a most neighborly fashion. We watched them closely, quietly
drawing nearer and nearer. Pretty soon they flew into the trees close by, and
from thence deeper into the woods. We saw and heard many woodpeckers,
both the downy and the hairy being very plentiful.
As the place where we had seen the redbirds was such a pretty one, we were
in no haste to leave it, even after they had departed. So we perched
ourselves on top of an old rail fence, and waited for some birds to come to
us and be looked at. We hadn't been there very long before some tufted
titmice came into the trees near us, and delighted us with their cheery notes
and cunning ways. The "caw" of the crows was quite loud here and, with
the added notes of the woodpeckers and chickadees, made it quite lively.
Every once in a while a few drops of rain would fall. But this only added to
the wildness of our surroundings, and seemed to put us farther away from
the rest of the world.
Though we found our rural perch very enjoyable, we felt obliged to move
on again, however reluctantly. So we crossed the bridge and climbed the
hill beyond. A short walk then brought us to another turn, to the right, but
on the left an open gate into the woods.
We lost no time in turning in here, you may be sure. We found many more
birds inside the woods than we had along the road. Here were titmice,
chickadees, plenty of nut-hatches white-breasted; hairy and downy
woodpeckers, and also a third kind that we were uncertain about. Its upper
parts looked like black and white shepherd's plaid, and the back of its head
and nape were deep red. Its note was a sonorous cow-cow-cow-cow-cow.
We heard brown creepers about, and saw many flocks of juncos.
When we came to the end of the woods we saw a pair of our cardinals
flying about some low brushwood. It was like seeing old friends.
I must not forget to mention the blue-jay, who added his voice and brilliant
color to the pleasure of our walk.
We had entered a cornfield, and as we advanced, flocks of little birds,
mostly juncos, would start up before us and fly into the hedge or next field,
twittering gaily. Twice we heard distinctly the goldfinch's note; but as the
birds all flew up at our approach, we couldn't get near enough to distinguish
them. It seemed very odd to hear this summery note amidst that wintry
scene.
We crossed the cornfield and came to a fence, at right angles, following
which took us in the direction of the road. Just as we came up to a few
scattered trees, part in the field, and part in the pastures on the other side of
the fence, we again heard our medley chorus of many voices, some of
which had reminded us of the meadow-lark's. The members of the chorus
who proved to be the meadowlarks' cousins, the rusty blackbirds settled in
these trees and gave us a selection in their best style. Some of the solo parts
were really sweet.
After climbing a rail fence we crossed a small pasture and looked in vain
for a gate. Nothing but barbed wire. We finally made our escape through a
pigs' corn-pen, from whence we emerged into another pasture where the
grass was like the softest carpet to our feet. This pasture had a gate opening
onto the road; so we were very soon back again at the house, with appetites
for dinner fully developed.
We saw and heard no less than fourteen different kinds of birds during our
walk. So those who desire to see birds need not despair of finding them
because it is winter. Nature always has plenty of beautiful things to show
us, no matter what the time of year.
My story ought to end here, but I must tell you about the tufted "tits" we
saw next morning. The weather turned very cold that night, and in the
morning a keen wind was blowing, so we didn't think many birds would be
about. But hearing some chickadees in the yard, we ventured out, and went
across the road, where we sat down in the shelter of a large corncrib.
From here we saw plenty of chickadees, titmice, nut-hatches, and other
woodpeckers busily engaged in hunting their breakfasts. We had a fine
opportunity of studying them with our glasses.
One bold "tit" stole a grain of corn from the crib and carried it off to the tree
in front of us, where he took it in his claw, and proceeded to pick the
choicest morsel out of it. Presently another tufted rogue flew up and there
were some "passages of arms," and a flight into another tree, and in the
midst of the fray, alas! the corn was dropped.
 THE SCARLET PAINTED CUP.
PROF. WILLIAM KERR HIGLEY,
Secretary of The Chicago Academy of Sciences.

These children of the meadows, born

Of sunshine and of showers.
—Whittier.

HE scarlet painted cup belongs to a large and interesting group of

plants known as the figwort family (Scrophulariaceæ). The
common name of the family is derived from the reputed value of
some of the species in the cure of ficus or figwort, a disease caused
by the growth of a stalked excrescence on the eyelids, tongue, or other parts
of the body that are covered with a mucous membrane. The technical name
is derived from scrofula, as some of the species are considered efficacious
in the treatment of that disease. This family includes about one hundred and
sixty-five genera and over twenty-five hundred species. They are common
all over the world, reaching from the equator into the regions of constant
frosts. It is claimed by some authorities that fully one thirty-fifth of all the
flowering plants of North America are classed in this family.
Besides the painted cup there are classed in this group the mullen, the
common toad-flax, the foxglove (Digitalis), the gerardias, and the
calceolarias.
The foxglove, though causing death when the extract is taken in excess, is
one of the most highly valued medicinal plants known. Nearly all the
species of the family are herbs, without fragrance. Some of the species are
known to be partially parasitic. True parasites are usually white or very
light colored and contain no green coloring matter, which is essential when
the plant is self-supporting. The parasitic forms of this family, however, do
contain green coloring matter and are thus not entirely dependent on their
host for the preparation of their food supply. The gerardias (false foxgloves)
are frequently found attached to the roots of oaks, large shrubs, and even on
the roots of grasses. It has also been shown that there is a cannibalistic
tendency in some of the species of gerardia. They will not only fasten their
sucker-like roots on those of other species, but also upon those of other
individuals of the same species, and even upon the root branches of their
own plants. This double parasitism is not rare.
The scarlet painted cup of our illustration (Castilleja coccinea, L.) is a
native of the eastern half of the United States and the southern portion of
Canada. It prefers the soil of meadows and moist woods and has been found
growing abundantly at an elevation of from three to four thousand feet.
The generic name was given this plant by Linnæus in honor of a Spanish
botanist. The specific name is from the Latin, meaning scarlet. Nearly all of
the forty species are natives of North and South America.
The flowers are dull yellow in color and are obscured by the rather large
floral leaves or bracts, which are bright scarlet—rarely bright yellow—in
color. These conspicuous leaves are broader toward the apex and usually
about three-cleft. By the novice they are usually mistaken for the flower,
which is hardly noticeable. The stem seldom exceeds a foot in height and
bears a number of leaves that are deeply cut in narrow segments. The bright
color of this plant has given it many local common names more or less
descriptive. Prominent among these is the Indian paint brush.
A pretty myth tells us that the painted cup was originally yellow, but that
Venus, when lamenting the death of Apollo, pressed a cluster of the
blossoms to her parched lips and drank the dew from the flowers, the outer
leaves of which have ever since retained the color of her lips.
 BY PER
HARRIET E. YELLOW COPYRIGHT
HIGLEY. LADY'S SLIPPER 1900, BY
A. W. NATURE
MUMFORD, AND PAINTED STUDY PUB.
PUBLISHER, CUP. CO., CHICAGO.
CHICAGO.
 THE YOUNG NATURALIST.
AHARA SEA.—Much of the great desert of Sahara is below the
level of the Atlantic. It is proposed that the water be let in. The
space covered would be big enough to warrant us in speaking of it
as an ocean. There would be islands in it, as there are places that
are of considerable elevation.
So much water would make a difference in climate in all directions from the
present desert. It is thought the vineyards of southern Europe would be
injured, as they are dependent on the dry winds that come across the
Mediterranean from the great desert. The rainfall in at least one-third of the
inhabited parts of the globe would be affected by this great change in the
amount of water on the surface. Ships would be able to sail to ports at the
south of Morocco and Algiers where now are shifting sands and few people,
and new cities would spring into being far to the south where the new coast
line would be formed.
There are other low and barren spots on the earth's surface that are below
sea level. They would form useful basins of water if the proper canals were
dug. A company has been formed to let water into the Yuma desert in
southern California, where 13,000 square miles of land with no inhabitants,
lies below the sea level, some of it as much as 1,000 feet. A great desert in
the middle of Australia is also low. If it were flooded it would make of
Australia a great rim of continent reaching round an immense sea.
One scientist has advocated the making of the Red Sea into a great fresh
water lake by changing the course of the Nile so as to make that sea its
outlet instead of the Mediterranean. By preventing the flow of salt water
from the north through the Suez canal, and building an embankment at the
south, it has been estimated that the Red Sea would become fresh in the
course of time.
The Red Sea project is not at all likely to be carried out, but those for
California and the Sahara may soon be made effective. When the world of
commerce comes to realize what the Sahara Sea will mean for its enterprise,
there will be a lively prospect of much digging and plenty of fighting over
the damages done to existing interests and the rights of the various
European nations to the new seaboard that will be formed.
FEEDING.—One of the duties of the teamster is to see that his horses are
well fed. Where the team must be on the road at five in the morning it is the
business of the man who feeds them to get up at four to give them time to
eat. Incidentally he rubs them down and gets his own breakfast in a
leisurely manner. An Ohio man has an electric device which will give the
teamster a chance to lie a little longer in the morning. He has arranged an
alarm clock which may be set for any hour so that instead of striking the
hour it will make an electric connection. This connection lets fall a bag that
is placed the night before over the manger of the horse to be fed at that hour
in the morning. The first sound that greets the ear of the horse is not the
teamster coming to open the stable, but the rattle of oats into his feed-box,
and he has ample time to eat and begin the operation of digestion before he
sees the man who used to be so welcome. Possibly he will not greet the man
so affectionately in the future when his coming means not food for a hungry
stomach but a hard day's work. But those who know the horse best are
inclined to believe that the horse will always greet his master affectionately
in the morning regardless of the state of his stomach.
RUBBER.—The use of rubber has grown wonderfully in the last ten years.
Every year a rubber famine is predicted, and every year someone announces
that a substitute has been found that is just as good as the real article. The
facts seems to indicate that neither the famine nor the substitute is really at
hand. Rubber plantations are being extended in Mexico to meet the
demands of the growing trade, but the bulk of our rubber still comes from
the Amazon country in South America, and that country is almost limitless
in its supplies of this article. It is true that the trees along the banks of the
rivers have been tapped until their product is much inferior to what it once
was, but this condition exists only for a distance of two or three miles along
the river banks. There are plenty of magnificent trees standing untouched a
little farther back. All that is needed to get more rubber is to get more men
into these forests gathering it. The real difficulty is to get the men to do the
work. The finest rubber forests remaining near the river fronts are along the
Purus, one of the large rivers flowing into the Amazon from the south.
SUNSHINE CAUGHT.—For thousands of years men have tried to use the
heat of the sun's rays in the place of fire. It is now claimed that Dr. William
Calver of Washington has finished an invention which will bring into the
space of a few inches all the rays of heat from the sun that would naturally
fall upon one acre of ground. By bringing so many rays to a focus he gets
such a powerful heat that iron and steel melt in it like icicles.
A magnifying glass or lens of almost any sort held in the sunshine makes a
bright, warm spot. Dr. Calver's machine gets the same effect, only more
powerfully. He has secured a temperature of several thousand degrees
Fahrenheit. To make his machine useful for heating houses and making
steam for factories he has invented a reservoir to store the heat gathered
while the sun is shining, so that it may be used at night or on dark days.
Men of science have been looking for such a machine for a long time, and if
Dr. Calver and his friends are not much mistaken his invention will be as
great a help to civilization as the harnessing of Niagara Falls for electric
work. His laboratory is in the outskirts of Washington, D. C.
WASHINGTON'S MONUMENT.
GEO. P. MORRIS.

A monument to Washington?
A tablet graven with his name?
Green be the mound it stands upon,
And everlasting as his fame!

His glory fills the land—the plain,

The moor, the mountain and the mart!
More firm than column, urn or fane,
His monument—the human heart.

The Christian, patriot, hero, sage!

The chief from heaven in mercy sent;
His deeds are written on the age—
His country is his monument.

"The sword of Gideon and the Lord"

Was mighty in his mighty hand—
The God who guided he adored,
And with his blessing freed the land.

The first in war, the first in peace,

The first in hearts that freemen own;
Unparalleled till time shall cease—
He lives, immortal and alone.

Yet let the rock-hewn tower rise,

High to the pathway of the sun,
And speak to the approving skies
Our gratitude to Washington.
 Transcriber's Note:

Minor typographical errors have been corrected

without note.
Punctuation and spelling were made consistent
when a predominant form was found in this book;
otherwise they were not changed.
Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were
retained.
The Clapper Rail illustration was moved from page
63 to page 62.
The Contents table were added by the transcriber.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BIRDS AND ALL
NATURE, VOL 7, NO. 2, FEBRUARY 1900 ***

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