BIRDS AND ALL NATURE.

ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.

Vol. V.

No. 3.

MARCH, 1899.

CONTENTS.

THE TUFTED TITMOUSE.
(Parus bicolor.)

LYNDS JONES.

HOW vividly a first meeting with some interesting species rests in the memory of the bird-lover! It was at the evening twilight of October 14, 1886, that a strange whistle rang through that gem of woods near Grinnell, Iowa, which has witnessed the birth of more than one passion for bird study. Soon the busy gleaner came to inquire after the intruder on his chosen feeding grounds, evidently looking for a suitable resting-place for the night while taking his evening lunch. The voice, the actions, the appearance, all were new to me, and every movement was watched with breathless interest lest the next flight should take the bird away beyond recall. At last he settled in a green-briar tangle, carefully stowed himself away beneath a huge linden leaf, whistled once or twice, and was ready for the coming darkness.

Never before nor since have I seen the tufted tit in that Iowa grove, but he is one of the common resident birds at Oberlin, Ohio. Northern Ohio is about the northern limit of his range, which extends into northern New Jersey and southern Iowa, possibly the southern half of Iowa. He ranges west to the eastern border of the plains, occasionally found as far north as Minnesota and well into Michigan, and is found breeding even to the Gulf of Mexico southward. He appears to be resident wherever found, but no doubt a few venturesome individuals may wander farther north than the usual range.

One can hardly mistake the tufted tit for any other bird, for he is very noisy the most of the year, the exceptions being the coldest part of mid-winter and during the breeding season, for his songs or whistles are peculiar to him. True, his chick-a-dee-dee closely resembles the chickadee's song to the uninitiated, but the clearly whistled pe-to, pe-to, pe-to, or ee-to, ee-to, ee-to, or pe-ter, pe-ter, pe-ter, or pe-ter, e-ter, e-ter will at once discover him. It is well worth one's while to write out the many different variations that may be heard proceeding from one bird. Another favorite one, judging from the frequency of its use, is: Pe-dl', pe-dl', pe-dl', or te-dl', e-dl' e-dl', and occasionally this: Chee-pa, chee-pa, chee-pa. In short, he seems to have a song to suit every occasion.

Like the chickadee, he delights in scrambling about the trees in the most reckless fashion, hanging head down as handily as a nuthatch. His crest gives him a more stately air than any of his cousins, but his inquisitiveness is equal to all combined. One cannot enter the woods but he will be sought out by this active denizen and accompanied hither and thither with not so much as a "by your leave."

His habits seem to vary with locality, or possibly more exactly, with abundance. In this part of northern Ohio, where the species is not more than fairly common, the birds rarely enter the villages, and they nest almost exclusively in the woods. I am informed that farther south and west they are often seen in villages, and nest there in boxes provided, as well as in the woods.

The nest is placed within a box or hollow in a tree, a deserted woodpecker's hole being preferred, where leaves, strips of bark, feathers, hair, or almost any soft, warm materials are arranged carefully, the coarser material outward, the finer and warmer inside. The eggs range from five to eight in number, and are creamy white, rather coarsely and evenly marked with shades of rufous brown. They average about .73 × .54 of an inch. It is said that the male bird never assists in building the nest, but sings to cheer his mate, thus revealing the whereabouts of the nest.

While the northern Ohio woods are incomplete without a company of these cheerful birds, I have looked in vain for them during the early summer months in some years. In winter they range the woods for food, penetrating to every portion of it, stowing themselves away in some warm hollow in a tree at night, but in the nesting season they are confined to the region of the nest, and so are not readily seen.

EPITAPH ON THE HARE.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,

Nor swifter greyhound follow,

Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,

Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo.

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

Who, nursed with tender care,

And to domestic bounds confined,

Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

His pittance every night,

He did it with a jealous look,

And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,

And milk, and oats, and straw;

Thistles, or lettuces instead,

With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,

On pippin's russet peel,

And, when his juicy salads failed,

Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,

Whereon he loved to bound,

To skip and gambol like a fawn,

And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,

For then he lost his fear,

But most before approaching showers

Or when a storm was near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons

He thus saw steal away,

Dozing out all his idle noons,

And every night at play.

I kept him for his humor's sake,

For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache

And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade

He finds his long last home,

And waits, in snug concealment laid,

Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks

From which no care can save,

And, partner once of Tiney's box,

Must soon partake his grave.

—Cowper.

A TRANSIENT BOARDER.

C. S. COOK.

WHEN I came down stairs in the morning I found him in possession of the premises. I watched him for a few minutes with much interest. I had not before seen a California wren, and found him very different in appearance and conduct from the eastern wrens with which I was acquainted. "Wrensie" was very self-possessed, and did not appear to resent my intrusion at all. In fact, he seemed disposed to ignore my presence, a fact which led me to judge it best to adopt the same course toward him.

I must explain our situation a little by saying that, as the cottage in which I was living was in a very unfinished condition, the lower floor was not divided by any partitions, the kitchen in the L and the front room forming one large room.

The weather being warm, and the walls open, the flies were very numerous in the room, a fact evidently keenly appreciated by the little fellow, for, as I proceeded to sweep the whole house he did not allow his industry to be seriously interfered with. While I was busy in the attic he was not idle down stairs; while I was regulating the front room he was picking up things in the kitchen. When I approached him too closely he would quietly slip out of doors through one of the numerous openings about the floor, or perhaps go up into the attic which was very accessible to him. He rarely remained out of doors more than a few minutes at a time. A forenoon of house-cleaning would seem more favorable to an estrangement than to a rapprochement; yet while I was at dinner I felt something upon my foot. Looking under the table I saw Wrensie perched upon my shoe. While I watched him he jumped up on a fold of my trousers, apparently thinking it a better point of observation. He was not disturbed by my interest nor by my motions at the table. He never seemed to mind ordinary motions even when he was very near. With other birds I have considered entire quiet necessary under such circumstances.

I maintained my policy of manifesting no concern as to Wrensie's movements, merely abstaining from making any very sudden or rapid motions which would be likely to startle him. With this single exception I went about all work freely. While I would have been glad to cultivate his acquaintance, quickly, I thought it better not to try to do so. The universal method of winning favor in the eyes of such strangers is to feed them; but Wrensie would have nothing but live game, and no kitchen delicacy received a moment's attention. Fortunately, however, there was little need of studying to win his confidence, as but little encouragement was necessary. He was afraid of nothing; not from innocent ignorance by any means, but from complete self-confidence. He was not defiant, but intrepid. This confidence was not gained by observing that he was not molested, but had its source in the spirit of the bird, as shown by the fact that there was little difference in his demeanor during the six days he was with me.

The next day a mason came to the ranch to see about a proposed fireplace and chimney. As we stood talking over the matter, one on each side of a small table, my little boarder came and made a thorough search for game among the various articles on the table. While working in the kitchen I often found him at my feet, several times even between them as I stood at the stove or table. This was a position of such danger to him that I felt obliged to be very cautious in my movements. Occasionally he would perch on my shoulder or head, never staying very long but never betraying any distrust.

It was most entertaining to watch him in his pursuit of game. As a hunter he was full of resources, untiring in his efforts, insatiable in his appetite. When he saw a fly on the floor or table near him he would slowly and stealthily approach, his little black eyes snapping, his frontal feathers depressed so as to give him a vicious look, and often with his wings trembling with excitement as he held them slightly loosened at his sides. When he judged himself near enough he would make a little run and try to snap up his victim. This method of stalking, though much used, was the least successful of his hunting expedients, a large majority of the flies escaping.

When in a favorable locality he would sometimes keep quiet for a time—that is, relatively quiet—as quiet as a small bird can be expected to remain, ready to seize any impudent flies that came within the reach of his bill, which would snap on them with a loud sound. He was most skillful at this, making the quickest motions conceivable. Although these snap shots were very successful, the flies rarely came past in sufficient numbers to satisfy him long, and he would soon set out to hunt up his game.

Then there was the full chase. It was not now a matter of a little dash on foot, but a full flight after a big blue-bottle fly which can dart through the air like a bullet. Back and forth they go with a great rush and much dodging. When caught, these big flies made a large mouthful for the victor. He would light on the floor and proceed to swallow his prey. This usually required several efforts. Watching him called to mind one's own experiences with big gelatine capsules. With the final and successful effort Wrensie's eyes would close with a distressed look as the fly went down his throat.

Flies were often to be found floating on the surface of the water in a large water pail. This fact did not long escape Wrensie's eye, and he made his round to this trap with much regularity. When the pail was well filled with water he could reach the flies with comparative ease; but when the water became low this became a most difficult matter. He did not fly down to get them, but would reach down while hanging to the edge of the pail. Often repeated trials were necessary. It was surprising to see to what a distance he could stretch himself in these efforts. Holding on to the edge always, he would swing himself down, stretch his neck to the utmost, and then, just as he was on the point of falling into the water, with a quick flutter of his wings he would raise himself to the top again, never relinquishing his hold on the rim. In this way he would pick up flies at the center of the pail when it was not half filled with water, which, in view of the small size of the bird, was an acrobatic feat.

Then there was the battue. When he approached a window thickly covered with flies a scene of the wildest excitement followed. Wrensie would dash into the melee, afoot or a-wing as it happened, his bill snapping faster than a repeating rifle. The slaughter would be continued until the remaining flies were dispersed, which soon came to pass.

Even the still hunt was not without interest. No setter ever worked the ground more faithfully. Every nook and corner of the house was examined for moths. Moreover, every article was scrutinized, and, when possible, he looked beneath and within. A pair of working gloves lay upon the floor. Wrensie unhesitatingly went in, disappearing entirely and remaining long enough to put his head into every finger—which he may, or may not have done. It interested me much to note that in such explorations his assurance was complete. In this kind of delving I was prepared to see some hesitation in my presence. It seemed to me that when I was standing by him it would be only reasonable caution on his part to remain where he could keep his eyes on me. But he never seemed to watch me; and gave me numerous opportunities to capture him, as he would disappear in a dish or in some hole, and remain for some time. He never hesitated in this, nor did he seem to scrutinize his surroundings before going out of sight.

Wrensie was not only persistent and thorough in his search for moths in dark corners, but determined as well. He would crowd himself into openings so narrow that he would have to back out after concluding the search. One day he undertook to pass between two cans on a shelf. He made a strong effort, but so narrow was the passage that he could not push his way in; his wings were too prominent. He backed away a few steps and looked at the crack a moment with his head cocked on one side. Then quickly stepping up to it, he stood on one leg, turned his body up edgewise, and squeezed through.

Perhaps as good an example as I can give of Wrensie's fearlessness is to describe his behavior one day when I had some work to do on the outside of a window. I stood on a staging just in front of the window, and was engaged in driving nails in the window casing. This hammering made a great noise, shaking the loose sash sharply. Wrensie was busily engaged catching flies on the inside of the window, standing on the top of the lower sash; that is, at the middle of the window. All my motions, all the noise and the jar failed to frighten him away, although at times he looked at me pretty sharply.

While so courageous in most ways, still Wrensie had his ideas of caution. Upon my return to the house after a short absence he would usually leave the room abruptly, either going out of doors or up into the attic. Even if I came in very quietly, taking precautions not to disturb him, the result was the same. This conduct always seemed to me a curious fact, and an inconsistency which I could not explain.

Clever and interesting as he was, Wrensie had his shortcomings. His disposition was not that of the typical bird: "Sweetness and light" were not his. In his spirit was none of the exuberant joy of the great songsters, nor any of the bonhommie of happy-go-lucky sparrows. During the whole term of our acquaintance not a sound left his throat! In complete silence did he pursue his vocation. A perfect helpmate, but a faulty companion. A very practical sort of bird he was, full of activity, but without vivacity. Can it be that the spirit of our industrial age is so pervasive that even the birds are unable to escape its influence? It would seem that evolution has produced the utilitarian and "strictly business" type of character among them.

One day there was a noisy flutter of wings at the door, and the harsh cry of the butcher-bird was heard. On stepping out I saw feathers floating in the air. I concluded that I would see no more of my little companion and helper. The blue-bottle fly was avenged.

THE SQUIRREL'S USE OF HIS TAIL.

BY JAMES NEWTON BASKETT, MEXICO, MO.

OF COURSE every one who has had a pet squirrel has noticed what an important thing his tail seems to be to him. When he makes his toilet he usually ends by bringing the hairy brush around and apparently wiping his face with it, as though it were his towel. But I suspect that he is as much concerned, even here, about the care of his tail as about the cleanliness of his features, for Bunny's beauty, like that of some others, lies as much in his train as in his countenance. One use, therefore, of the squirrel's tail is to make him look pretty. I think, at least, no one can see him put it into such graceful curves along with his delightful postures without feeling that he is posing for esthetic effect.

Still, a little study of his ways may make us think that there is a more practical purpose even in this feature of his tail's use. We had a pet squirrel in the house recently—one of the western fox species or variety. He had become quite tame in his cage before he was released in my study. At intervals I had him brought in, and we usually romped together at least once a day.

At first everything was so new and strange to him that he was very shy and must go about investigating. I noticed that, as he approached anything which he feared might prove dangerous, he always projected his tail over his back far forward—sometimes feeling the object with the extreme hairs before touching it with his nose. He annoyed me greatly by tearing the wall paper from a certain angle. One day I threw a pamphlet so as to strike just above his nose while at his mischief. It frightened him badly, and he suspected that the scare had come out of the wall. But he could not resist the fascination of this sport, and it was interesting to watch him approach and try by all sorts of devices of his tail to see if the enemy were within.

If he were walking past or around anything that he feared he kept his tail stretched at full length on the side of his body that was next the object—sometimes he held it many inches from himself. If something moved suddenly in front of him as he ran, his tail shot over him away ahead of his nose, as if projected there by his sudden stop. But it was the natural instinct of thrusting his tail at anything threatening him too suddenly for flight. Much of his play at times was a kind of mock fright in which he seemed to imagine himself pursued by all kinds of enemies—even myself—and the most familiar objects becoming terrible. Then the use he made of his tail was most exaggerated, having in it perhaps some of the elements of terrifying the enemy, as seen in the swelled rails of cats, the bristles of hogs, dogs, etc.

One could not resist the impression that the tail was thrown out as a shield or a screen, but this did not always seem a satisfactory explanation, for it was certainly a very frail thing and very conspicuous. Besides, it would seem to furnish the enemy a good handle to catch hold of.

The theory has been advanced that this last is the very purpose of this use of the tail; and from my study of this pet I became convinced that he thrust out his tail when suddenly surprised in the hope that it might be taken and his body left. The skin on the tail of most rodents (of which the squirrel is one) slips easily from the bone, and leaves, to a grasping enemy, often a little bunch of "hide and hair." So Bunny offers this—feeling that he would rather leave his tail in jeopardy and go into life whole otherwise. The glass-snake (a lizard) in its efforts to escape, frequently breaks off a portion of its tail, which the pursuing enemy may stop to capture while the body wriggles into safety.

This, likewise, is doubtless one of the reasons why the squirrel insists upon the tail's being always curled up over his back while he is absorbed in eating. It is not always merely a beautiful pose. As he thus sits in the trees his greatest enemies are the various large birds of prey which may dart down on him from above. Now, this mass of tail that is above him is apt to mislead the aim of the enemy, and, like the pioneer's cap thrust around the tree, is intended to draw the fire into a harmless medium.

There can be no doubt that a squirrel uses his tail to steer him in a leap, much as the tail steers the boy's common kite. Perhaps, also, it acts slightly as a balance, but in this respect its greatest use must lie in its "up and down" rudder effect—or rather parachute-like effect—as he makes those tremendous leaps from a tall treetop to the earth.

Here it comes well into play in lessening the shock of alighting, an emergency enabling him to escape some enemies—as a weasel or mink, perhaps—which may chase him around in the trees.

The arrangement of the long hairs, projecting out sidewise on the bone, is strikingly like that of the feathers on the tail of the very earliest reptile-like birds which had long bony tails, used doubtless as the squirrel's, since they were down-sailers rather than up-flutterers—if I may be allowed to so compound my words and ideas. Some other downward-leaping mammals have the hairs similarly arranged. Another rodent, the anomalure, which flies down, as a flying-squirrel, by thin membranes, has special horny scales on the under side of its tail either to assist in climbing or to resist slipping down when a tree trunk is grasped.

The squirrel's tail, therefore, is a factor of his safety, as well as a feature of his ornamentation.

Another use which he makes of it is that when he "lies down to pleasant dreams" it forms "the drapery of his couch"—a coverlid for his head and body.

THE NORTHERN PRAIRIE HARE.

THIS is the most northern species of the group of hares (Lepus campestris), familiarly known in the United States as jack rabbits because of their large size and enormous ears. They are lively animals of astounding jumping powers. In America there is no such distinction between the term "hare" and "rabbit" as there is in Europe, where the large, long-eared, stout varieties, living in shallow "forms," are named hares, and the smaller and more slender kind, which digs a deep burrow, is the "rabbit." In this country the authorities say that no well-defined distinction exists. Of the so-called jack rabbits the northern prairie hare here depicted may be taken as the type. It is one of the largest species of hares, measuring about twenty inches in length, and it has long, strong, and vigorous limbs, and such remarkably long ears that the popular name it bears is fully justified.

This northern species is found on the western prairies from British America to Colorado. It undergoes a winter change of coat, becoming nearly white, but the blanching is never complete and russet streaks or patches remain through the winter. The habits of this animal are those of hares in general, and all the species known as jack rabbits are famous for their great speed and for the astounding leaps they make in running. They are the most fleet and agile of American mammals. They are not much pursued for the reason that they are difficult to shoot, and their celerity of movement enables them to elude four-footed foes also. Pending the complete change from the summer brown to the snowy-white coat of winter, the animal presents a very singular mottled appearance.

Hares are a very important article of commerce and, during the winter season, tons of them are daily shipped to the principal markets from all quarters. They are sold at cheap rates, and are frequently peddled about the streets by the cartload at surprisingly low figures.

The methods of pursuit and capture of these animals are numerous, but the most common and successful are trailing in the snow with dogs, hounding, and coursing. To trail hares in the winter one must have dogs of keen scent and a light fall of from two to four inches of snow must have been deposited the night previous to an early morning start. Two or more hunters equipped with dogs and guns usually start together. Thickets of elder and blackberry are sought where the game is known to lie. The hunters skirt the border of a patch of these bushes and the dogs are sent in. The dogs soon drive the hares from cover when they become a ready mark for the gunners. Where the ground is rocky they will try to hide by running into any hole or crevice which may offer protection. In hounding hares the hunters are stationed at various points on the paths as the hares, like deer and foxes, follow regular beaten tracks. The hounds start the game from belts of pine, cedar, or hemlock. Each hunter waits for the animals to pass his station and fires at them as they go by at full run. It is considered no mean accomplishment to secure a hare under these circumstances. Trapping and snaring are also methods of capturing jack rabbits. They are principally employed by pot hunters, and many people make it their sole business during the winter months. Greyhounds are used in coursing hares, but the jack rabbit frequently discomfits both horse and hound. Hares do not live in burrows, as is the case with the rabbit, but lie in a form in bush or thicket, a slight depression in the ground serving for a nest, or sometimes a hollow stump, or the under side of a ledge of rock is selected. The young, when born, are covered with hair, their eyes are open, and they are able almost immediately to support themselves. The rabbit, on the other hand, is born with closed eyes, and requires the constant attention of the mother for some time. The hares are not so prolific as the rabbits, the female bringing forth but from three to five young at a litter, the rabbits bearing from five to eight.

Hares generally feed at night, lying in their forms in some bush or copse during the greater part of the day; rabbits, on the contrary, generally remain in the warmest corner of the burrow during the dark hours. The food of the hare consists of all kinds of vegetables similar in nature to cabbage and turnips, which are favorite dainties with it; it is also especially fond of lettuce and parsley.

The great speed of the hare in running is chiefly due to the fact that the hind legs are longer than the fore. This is also the reason why it can run better up hill than down. Generally it utters a sound only when it sees itself in danger. This cry resembles that of a little child, being a shrill scream or squeak.

Among the perceptive senses of the hare, hearing is best developed; the smell is fairly keen, but sight is rather deficient. Prudence and vigilance are its most prominent characteristics. The slightest noise—the wind rustling in the leaves, a falling leaf—suffices to excite its attention and awaken it from sleep. Dietrich Aus Dem Winckell says that the greatest vice of the hare is its malice, not because it expresses it in biting and scratching, but because it often proves its disposition in the most revolting manner, the female by denying her maternal love, and the male by his cruelty to the little leverets.

It is said that captive hares are easily tamed, become readily used to all kinds of nourishment usually fed to rabbits, but are very delicate and apt to die. If they are fed only on hay, bread, oats, and water, and never anything green, they live longer. A tame hare, in the possession of Mr. Fuchs in Wildenberg, which slept and ate with his dogs, ate vegetable food only in default of meat—veal, pork, liver, and sausage causing it to go into such raptures that it would execute a regular dance to get at these dainties.

Besides the flesh, which as food is justly esteemed, the fur of the hare is also put to account. The skin is deprived of its hair, tanned and used in the manufacture of shoes, of one kind of parchment, and of glue; the hair is used in the manufacture of felt.

Mark Twain, in his "Roughing It," gives this humorous and characteristic description of the jack rabbit:

"As the sun was going down, we saw the first specimen of an animal known familiarly over two thousand miles of mountain and desert—from Kansas clear to the Pacific ocean—as the 'jackass-rabbit.' He is well named. He is just like any other rabbit, except that he is from one-third to twice as large, has longer legs in proportion to his size, and has the most preposterous ears that ever were mounted on any creature but a jackass. When he is sitting quiet, thinking about his sins, or is absent-minded, or unapprehensive of danger, his majestic ears project above him conspicuously; but the breaking of a twig will scare him nearly to death, and then he tilts his ears back gently, and starts for home. All you can see then, for the next minute, is his long form stretched out straight, and 'streaking it' through the low sage-bushes, head erect, eyes right, and ears just canted to the rear, but showing you just where the animal is, just the same as if he carried a jib. When he is frightened clear through, he lays his long ears down on his back, straightens himself out like a yardstick every spring he makes, and scatters miles behind him with an easy indifference that is enchanting. Our party made this specimen 'hump himself.' I commenced spitting at him with my weapon, and all at the same instant let go with a rattling crash. He frantically dropped his ears, set up his tail, and left for San Francisco at lightning speed. Long after he was out of sight we could hear him whiz."

C. C. M.

DESTRUCTION OF BIRD LIFE.

STEPS have been taken under the direction of the New York zoölogical society to ascertain, as nearly as possible, to what extent the destruction of bird life has been carried in this country and the result of the investigation is given in its second annual report, recently published. Replies to questions on the subject were received from over two hundred competent observers in the different states and territories, and the following table is believed to give a fair, certainly not exaggerated, idea of the loss of bird life within the past decade and a half.

The following are the percentages of decrease throughout the states mentioned, during the last fifteen years, according to the reports:

At least three-fifths of the total area of the United States is represented by the thirty states and territories above named, and the general average of decrease of bird life therein is 46 per cent. These figures are startling indeed and should arouse everyone to the gravity of the situation which confronts us. It requires but little calculation to show that if the volume of bird life has suffered a loss of 46 per cent. within fifteen years, at this rate of destruction practically all birds will be exterminated in less than a score of years from now.

WE BELIEVE IT.

THERE is no being so homely, none so venomous, none so encased in slime or armed with sword-like spines, none so sluggish or so abrupt in behavior, that it cannot win our favor and admiration—the more, the better we know it. However it may be in human society, with the naturalist it is not familiarity which breeds contempt. On the contrary, it has been said, with every step of his advancing knowledge he finds in what was at first indifferent, unattractive, or repulsive, some wonder of mechanism, some exquisite beauty of detail, some strangeness of habit. Shame he feels at having so long had eyes which seeing saw not; regret he feels that the limits of his life should be continually contracting, while the boundaries of his science are always expanding; but so long as he can study and examine, he is so far contented and happy.

THE PINEAPPLE.

THIS tropical fruit is so-called from its resemblance in form and appearance to the cones of some species of pine. Its botanical name in most general use is Ananassa sativa, but some botanists who do not regard it as distinct from Bromelia, call it B. ananas. The Bromeliaceæ, to which it belongs, are a small family of endogenous plants, quite closely related to the canna, ginger, and banana families, and differing from them in having nearly regular flowers and six stamens, all perfect. As the pineapple has become naturalized in parts of Asia and Africa, its American origin has been disputed, but there is little doubt that it is a native of Brazil, and perhaps some of the Antilles, now a part of the domain of the United States. This fruit is a biennial, with the habit of the Aloe, but with much thinner leaves. In cultivation it early produces seeds but, in ripening, the whole flower cluster undergoes a remarkable change; all parts become enormously enlarged, and when quite ripe, fleshy and very succulent, being pervaded by a saccharine and highly flavored juice. Instead of being a fruit in the strict botanical sense of the term, it is an aggregation of accessory parts, of which the fruit proper forms but a very small portion.

The first pineapples known in England were sent as a present to Oliver Cromwell; the first cultivated in that country were raised in about 1715, though they were grown in Holland in the preceding century. The successful cultivation of the fruit was early considered one of the highest achievements in horticulture, and the works of a few years ago are tediously elaborate in their instructions; but the matter has been so much simplified that anyone who can command the proper temperature and moisture may expect success.

For many years pineapples have been taken from the West Indies to England in considerable quantities, but the fruit is so inferior to that raised under glass that its cultivation for market is prosecuted with success. The largest fruit on record, as the produce of the English pineries, weighed fourteen pounds and twelve ounces. Better West Indian pineapples are sold in our markets than in those of England, as we are nearer the places of growth.

The business of canning this fruit is largely pursued at Nassau, New Providence, whence many are also exported whole. The business has grown greatly within a few years, and now that the United States is in possession of the West Indian islands, exportations may be expected to increase and the demand satisfied.

More than fifty varieties of the pineapple are enumerated. The plant is evidently very variable, and when South America was first visited by Europeans, they found the natives cultivating three distinct species. Some varieties, with proper management, will be in fruit in about eighteen months from the time the suckers are rooted. The juice of the pineapple is largely used in flavoring ices and syrups for soda-water; the expressed juice is put into bottles heated through by means of a water bath and securely corked while hot. If stored in a cool place it will preserve its flavor perfectly for a year. The unripe fruit is very acrid, and its juice in tropical countries is used as a vermifuge. The leaves contain an abundance of strong and very fine fibers, which are sometimes woven into fabrics of great delicacy and lightness.

Nor is it every apple I desire;

Nor that which pleases every palate best;

'Tis not the lasting pine that I require,

Nor yet the red-cheeked greening I request,

Nor that which first beshrewed the name of wife,

Nor that whose beauty caused the golden strife.

No, no! bring me an apple from the tree of life.

C. C. M.

LITTLE BUSYBODIES.

BELLE P. DOWNEY.

ONE'S own observation tends to confirm the wonderful stories told by naturalists about ants. They have a claim to rank next to man in intelligence.

Seven or eight ants once attempted to carry a wasp across the floor. In the course of the journey they came to a crevice in a plank caused by a splinter which had been torn off. After repeated attempts to cross this deep ravine all the ants abandoned the task as hopeless except one who seemed to be the leader of the enterprise. He went on a tour of investigation, and soon found that the crevice did not extend very far in length. He then went after the retreated ants. They obeyed the summons and returned, when all set about helping to draw the wasp around the crevice. This little incident proves the ant is possessed of the power of communicating its wishes to others. Ants have been seen to bite off the legs of a cockroach in order to get it into the narrow door of their nest. The brain of ants is larger in proportion to their size than that of any other insect. Naturalists think that they have memory, judgment, experience, and feel hatred and affection for their kind. They are valorous, pugnacious, and rapacious, but also inclined to be helpful as they assist each other at their toilet. They have a peculiarity among insects of burying their dead. It is a curious fact that the red ants, which are the masters, never deposit their dead by the side of their black slaves, thus seeming to show some idea of caste.

Ants yawn, sleep, play, work, practice gymnastics, and are fond of pets, such as small beetles, crickets, and cocci, which they entertain as guests in their homes.

Indeed, ants are social, civilized, intelligent citizens of successfully governed cities. Even babies are claimed by the state. Their government is a happy democracy where the queen is "mother" but not ruler, and where the females have all the power. The queen is highly honored and at death is buried with magnificence. In her devotion to her lot in life she pulls off her glittering wings and becomes a willing prisoner in the best room of a house of many apartments. Here she is cared for by devoted followers who polish her eggs, carry them upward to the warmth of the sun in daytime, and back to the depths of the habitation to protect them from the chill of night. These eggs are so small as scarcely to be seen by the eye alone. They are bright and smooth, without any division. It is very strange, but these eggs will not develop into larvæ unless carefully nursed. This is effected by licking the surface of the eggs. Under the influence of this process they mature and produce larvæ. The larvæ are fed, like young birds, from the mouths of the nurses. When grown they spin cocoons and at the proper time the nurses help them out by biting the cases. The next thing the nurses do is to help them take off their little membranous shirts. This is done very gently. The youngsters are then washed, brushed, and fed, after which the teachers educate them as to their proper duties.

It is astonishing how many occupations are followed by these little busy-bodies whose size and weakness are made up for by their swiftness, their fineness of touch, the number of their eyes and a powerful acid which they use in self-defense. Their jaws are so much like teeth that they serve for cutting, while their antennæ are useful for measurement, and their front feet serve as trowels with which to mix and spread mortar. Ants may be said to have the following occupations: Housewives, nurses, teachers, spinners, menials, marauders, soldiers, undertakers, hunters, gardeners, agriculturalists, architects, sculptors, road makers, mineralogists, and gold miners.

Ants keep cows—the aphides—for which they sometimes build stables and place in separate stalls from the cocci, which they also use. They make granaries where they store ant rice. If the grain begins to sprout they are wise enough to cut off the sprout. If it gets wet they have often been seen carrying it up to the sunshine to dry and thus prevent sprouting. The honey-ant is herself a storehouse of food in case of famine. This kind of ant has a distension of the abdomen in which honey is stored by the workers for cases of need. They inject the honey into the mouth of the ant. When it is needed she forces it up to her lips by means of the muscles of the abdomen. It is said that the Mexicans like to culture honey ants and eat the honey themselves.

The leaf-cutting ant is the gardener. It is devoted to growing mushrooms or at least a kind of fungi of which it is fond. This accounts for the beds of leaves it carries to its nest, on which the fungi develop.

The Roman naturalist, Pliny, gives an account of some ants in India which extract gold from mines during the winter. In the summer, when they retire to their holes to escape the heat, the people steal their gold. McCook has found that we have ants who are mineralogists, as they cover their hill with small stones, bits of fossils and minerals, for which they go down like miners more than a yard deep into the earth.

That some kinds of ants are architects has been clearly proven, for an observer saw an ant architect order his workmen to alter a defective arch, which they did, apparently to suit his views of how arches should be constructed!

The ants who act as sculptors work in wood. The red ants of the forest build storied houses in trees with pillars for support. There is a little brown ant which makes a house forty stories high; half the rooms are below ground. There are pillars, buttresses, galleries, and various rooms with arched roofs. This ant works in clay. If her material becomes too dry she is compelled to wait for moisture.

The blind ant is a remarkable builder. She makes long galleries above ground. She does not use cement as some ants do, so she builds rapidly and her structure is flimsy.

The Saiiva ants of Brazil are skillful masons. They construct chambers as large as a man's head that have immense domes, and outlets seventy yards long. The Brazilians say that the Indians, in cases of wounds, when it was necessary to close them as with stitching, used the jaws of the Saiiva ant. The ant was seized by the body and placed so that the mandibles were one on each side of the cut. Then, when pressed against the flesh, the ant would close the mandibles and unite the two sides of the cut as firmly as a good stitch would do it. A quick twist of the ant's body separated it from the head. After a few days the heads were removed with a knife and the operation was complete.

In view of this we are tempted to say that ants are also surgeons, but die themselves instead of having their patients do so!

A friend who has lived long in Brazil tells me that the Saiiva ants are so large the nuns in the convents use their bodies to dress as dolls, making them represent soldiers, brides and grooms, and so forth.

One species of ants do nothing except capture slaves. These are not able to make their own nests, to feed their larvæ, or even to feed themselves, but are so helpless they would die if neglected by their servants. There are three species that keep slaves, but these are not the only ones who go to war, as the usually peaceful agricultural ants sometimes get short of seed and go forth to plunder each other's nests.

It is stated that a thousand species of ants are known. No doubt there is much of interest about each kind. The "Driver Ant" is so choice of time and labor that, when building its covered roads, if a crevice in a rock or a shady walk is reached, it utilizes these, then continues arching its path as before. If a flood comes these ants form into large balls with the weak ones in the middle, the stronger on the outside, and so swim on the water.

The ant benefits man by acting as a scavenger, by turning up the subsoil, and in various other ways. But flowers prefer the visits of moths and butterflies; as ants are of no service to them in scattering pollen, they do not wish them to get their honey. Some of the flowers have found out that ants, though so industrious by reputation, are lazy about getting out early in the morning for they dislike the dew very much. Hence by 9 o'clock these wary flowers have closed their doors. Others take the precaution to baffle ant visitors by holding an extra quantity of dew on the basins of their leaves, while still others exude a sticky fluid from their stems which glues the poor ants to the spot.

Campanula secretes her honey in a box with a lid. Cyclamen presents curved surfaces, while narcissus makes her tube top narrow. Other flowers have hooks and hairs by which the ants are warned to seek their honey elsewhere.

THE CHARITY OF BREAD CRUMBS.

THE recent "cold wave," which with its severity and length has sorely tried the patience of Denver's citizens, has had its pleasant features. Perhaps chief of these has been the presence in our midst of scores of feathered visitors driven in, doubtless, by pangs of hunger, from the surrounding country.

Flocks of chickadees have flown cheerily about our streets, chirping and pecking industriously, as if to shame those of us who lagged at home because of zero temperature. They were calling to one another as we stood at the window watching them last Saturday morning.

Suddenly, down the street with the swiftness and fury of an Apache band, tore a group of small savages, each armed with a weapon in the shape of a stick about two feet long.

"What can those boys be playing?" inquired someone, and the answer to the question was found immediately as in horror she saw the sticks fly with deadly exactness into a group of the brave little snowbirds, and several of them drop lifeless or flutter piteously in the frozen street.

"How can boys be so heartless!" said the lady, rising in righteous wrath to reason with them.

"Thoughtless is nearer the truth," remarked a friend who had witnessed the scene. "Their hearts haven't been awakened on the bird question and it would be better to try and stir up their mothers and teachers than to fuss at the boys themselves."

But the Denver birds have plenty of friends and this has been proved many times during the past week.

At the surveyor-general's office Saturday morning there was held a large reception at which refreshments were served and the guests were largely house finches—small, brown birds with red about their throats. For a number of seasons the ladies and gentlemen employed there have spread a liberal repast several times each day upon the broad window ledges for these denizens of the air. The day being very cold, someone suggested that perhaps if the window were opened and seed scattered inside also, the birds would come in and get warm.

The feast was arranged with bits of apple, small cups of water, and a liberal supply of seed. And the invitation was accepted with alacrity. A swarm of busy little brown bodies jostled and twittered and ate ravenously of the viands provided, while thankful heads were raised over the water cups to let that cool liquid trickle down thirsty throats. It was a lovely sight and everyone in the room kept breathlessly still, but at last some noise outside alarmed the timid visitors and they whirred away in a small cloud, leaving but a remnant of the plenteous repast behind.

Several of the tiny creatures becoming puzzled flew about the room in distress, trying to get away, and one little fellow bumped his head violently against a glass and fell ignominiously into a spittoon. He was rescued and laid tenderly on the window sill to dry, a very bedraggled and exhausted bit of creation. It was interesting to watch the effect of this disaster upon every one in the office, including Mr. Finch himself.

Gentlemen and ladies vied with each other in showing attentive hospitality to the injured guest. He had his head rubbed and his wings lovingly stroked, and being too ill to resent these familiarities, he soon became accustomed to them. He was finally domiciled in a small basket and grew very chipper and tame indeed before his departure, which was after several days of such luxury and petting as would quite turn the head of anything less sensible than a finch.

It is said the gentleman who makes these birds his grateful pensioners buys ten pounds of seed at a time, and another gentleman and his wife, who reside at the Metropole, deal out their rations with so lavish a hand that their windows are fairly besieged with feathered beggars clamoring for food.

In a neighbor's yard I noticed always a small bare spot of ground. No matter how high the snow might drift around it, this small brown patch of earth lay dark and bare.

"Why do you keep that little corner swept?" I inquired.

"Oh, that is the birds' dining-room," was the answer, and then I noticed scraps of bread and meat and scattered crumbs and seeds. And as many times as I may look from my windows I always see from one to five fluffy bunches at work there stuffing vigorously.

Many of our teachers have made the lot of our common birds their daily study and delight. In the oldest kindergarten in the city the window sills are raised and the birds' food scattered upon a level with the glass, so that every action of the little creatures can be watched with ease by the children within.

In numbers of homes and in many of our business offices the daily needs of our little feathered brothers are thoughtfully cared for.

Let this feeling grow and this interest deepen in the hearts of Denverites, especially in the children's hearts. It will make this city a veritable paradise as the summer approaches, "full of the song of birds." It will make of it a heaven in the course of time, for not only the humble finch and snowbird, but for nature's most beautiful and aristocratic choristers.

"To-day is the day of salvation." To-day is the very best day of the best month in which to consider the needs of these poor which, thank God, "we have always with us."—Anne C. Steele, in Denver Evening Post, Feb. 3, 1899.

THE HOODED MERGANSER.
(Lophodytes cucullatus.)

LYNDS JONES.

EVEN the merest tyro in bird study need have no fear of confusing the male of this species with any other bird, as a glance at the picture will make evident. No other bird can boast such a crest, and few ducks a more striking pattern of dress or a more stately manner. The species inhabits the whole of North America, including Cuba, occasionally wandering to Europe and rarely to Greenland. It is locally common and even abundant, or used to be, in well watered and well wooded regions where fish are abundant, but seems to be growing less numerous with the advance of settlements in these regions. The food consists of fish, mollusks, snails, and fresh water insects which are obtained by diving as well as by gleaning.

The winter range of this "fish duck" is largely determined by the extent of open water on our lakes and streams. Thus it is regularly found in Minnesota wherever there is open water, even during the severest winters, but under other conditions it may be absent from regions much farther south. There can be little doubt that a large proportion of the individuals pass the winter well south, only a few being able to find subsistence about the springs and mouths of streams in the northern states.

Is it entirely due to individual taste, or may it be a difference in the food habits of these birds in different parts of the country that their flesh is highly esteemed in some regions but will scarcely be eaten at all in others? If it is true that the Michigan individuals eat snails, crabs, and mollusks rather than fish, and are therefore excellent for the table, while the California ones prefer fish and are therefore not fit for food, why have we not here a clear case of tendency to differentiation which will ultimately result in a good sub-species?

The nesting of the hooded merganser is even more erratic than its occurrence. It has been found nesting in Florida as well as in the more northern parts of the country, and here and there throughout its whole range, being apparently absent from many regions during the nesting season. It is unlike the other "fish ducks" in preferring still water and secluded streams, but resembles the wood duck in building its nest a short distance from the water in a hollow tree or stump or on the flat side of a leaning or fallen tree, often forty or more feet from the ground. The nest consists of weeds, leaves, and grasses with a soft lining of feathers and down. This warm nest must be intended to act as an aid to incubation rather than as a warm place for the young ducks, since they, like other ducks, are carried to the water in the beak of the mother-bird shortly after they are hatched. The nest complement ranges from six to eighteen eggs, the average being about ten. The eggs are variously described by different authors, both as regards color and size, from pure white, pearly white, creamy white, buffy white to buff-colored, and from 1.75 × 1.35, to 2.25 × 1.75 inches. The average size is probably nearly 2.10 × 1.72.

The downy ducklings are brown in color and, as they skim over the water, their pink feet churning up a spray behind, they present a bewitching picture. The male bird, like other ducks, assumes no share of the labors of incubation, but entertains himself hunting fish in some solitary stream where food is plentiful, and in proper season returns to assume the duties of the head of his lusty family.

The nesting season must necessarily vary greatly with locality. In Minnesota fresh eggs are found during the third week of April, according to Dr. P. L. Hatch. The date would probably be much earlier with the Florida birds. The locality selected for the nest is also variable with the different parts of the country.

The manner of flight of the different species of ducks is usually characteristic to the eye of the careful student. Thus the hooded mergansers fly in a compact flock of about a dozen birds with a directness and velocity that is wonderful. Dr. Hatch says, in his "Birds of Minnesota:" "Once in January, 1874, when the mercury had descended to 40 below zero, while a north wind was blowing terrifically, I saw a flock of six of this species flying directly into the teeth of the blizzard at their ordinary velocity of not less than ninety miles an hour." This may sound rather strong to some, but their flight is certainly very rapid, as any gunner will testify.

The "fish ducks," or mergansers, are an interesting group of three American species, of which the hooded is the smallest. The long, slender, toothed or serrated bill of this group provides a field character which will serve to identify them at a glance. It is to be hoped that their habit of feeding largely upon fish will prove a protection from entire extermination.

THE TRUMPETERS.

The winds of March are trumpeters,

They blow with might and main,

And herald to the waiting earth

The Spring and all her train.

They harbinger the April showers,

With sunny smiles between,

That wake the blossoms in their beds,

And make the meadows green.

The South will send her spicy breath,

The brook in music flow,

The orchard don a bloomy robe

Of May's unmelting snow.

Then June will stretch her golden days,

Like harp-strings, bright and long,

And play a rich accompaniment

To every wild bird's song.

The fair midsummer time, apace,

Shall bring us many a boon,

And ripened fruits, and yellow sheaves

Beneath the harvest-moon.

The golden-rod, a Grecian torch,

Will light the splendid scene,

When Autumn comes in all the pomp

And glory of a queen.

Her crimson sign shall flash and shine

On every wooded hill,

And Plenty's horn unto the brim

Her lavish bounty fill.

—Andrew Downing.

CLOVES.
(Eugenia caryophyllata Thunberg.)

DR. ALBERT SCHNEIDER,
Northwestern University School of Pharmacy.

Biron—A lemon.
Lang—Stuck with cloves.
—Shakespeare, Love's Labor Lost, V. 2.

CLOVES are among our favorite spices, even more widely known and more generally used than ginger. They are the immature fruit and flower-buds of a beautiful aromatic evergreen tree of the tropics. This tree reaches a height of from thirty to forty feet. The branches are nearly horizontal, quite smooth, of a yellowish grey coloration, decreasing gradually in length from base to the apex of the tree, thus forming a pyramid. The leaves are opposite, entire, smooth, and of a beautiful green color. The flowers are borne upon short stalks, usually three in number, which extend from the apex of short branches. The calyx is about half an inch long, changing from whitish to greenish, and finally to crimson. The entire calyx is rich in oil glands. The petals are four in number, pink in color, and drop off very readily. The stamens are very numerous. All parts of the plant are aromatic, the immature flowers most of all.

The clove-tree was native in the Moluccas, or Clove Islands, and the southern Philippines. We are informed that in 1524 the Portuguese took possession of these islands and controlled the clove market. About 1600 the Dutch drove out the Portuguese and willfully destroyed all native and other clove-trees not under Dutch protection. The plan of the Dutch was to prevent the establishment of clove plantations outside of their own dominions, but in spite of their great watchfulness other nations secured seeds and young plants and spread the cultivation of this valuable spice very rapidly. Now cloves are extensively cultivated in Sumatra, the Moluccas, West Indies, Penang, Mauritius, Bourbon, Amboyne, Guiana, Brazil, and Zanzibar—in fact throughout the tropical world. Zanzibar is said to supply most of the cloves of the market.

The cultivation of cloves in Zanzibar is conducted somewhat as follows: The seeds of the plant are soaked in water for two or three days or until germination begins, whereupon they are planted in shaded beds about six inches apart, usually two seeds together to insure against failure. The young germinating plants are shaded by frameworks of sticks covered with grass or leaves. This mat is sprinkled with water every morning and evening. The young plants are kept in these covered beds for nine months or one year, after which they are gradually hardened by removing the mat from time to time, and finally left in the open entirely for a few months, after which they are ready for transplanting.

Transplanting must be done carefully, so as not to injure the roots. The plant is dug up by a special hoe-like tool, lifted up in the hand with as much soil as possible, placed upon crossed strips of banana fibres, which are taken up by the ends and wrapped and tied about the plant. The plant is now carried to its new locality, placed in a hole in the soil, the earth filled in about it, and finally the banana strips are cut and drawn out.

The transplanted clove plants are now carefully tended and watered for about one year, but they are not shaded as during the first year of their existence. Usually many of the transplanted plants die, which makes replanting necessary. This great mortality, it is believed by some, might be reduced very materially by shading the recently transplanted clove-trees for a time.

The clove-tree may attain an age of from 60 to 70 years and some have been noted which were 90 years old and over. The average life of the plantation clove-trees is, however, perhaps not more than 20 years. The trees begin to yield in about five years after planting. The picking of the immature flowers with the red calyx is begun in August and lasts for about four months. From two to four crops are harvested each year. Each bud may be picked singly by hand, but those of the higher branches are more generally knocked off by means of bamboo sticks. After picking the flowers are placed upon grass mats and dried in the sun, this requiring from six to seven days. In the night and during rains they are placed under cover. Drying changes the red color of the calyx to a dark brown. The dried cloves are packed in gunny bags and carried to Zanzibar where an internal revenue of 25 per cent. is paid in cloves. From Zanzibar the cloves are exported in mat bags.

We know that cloves were used by the ancient Egyptians, for a mummy has been found with a necklace of them. The Chinese used them extensively, 226 B. C. Plinius briefly described "Caryophyllon," which, according to some commentators, referred to cloves and according to others to cubebs. Cloves appeared in Europe about 314-335 A. D., evidently introduced by way of Arabia. Emperor Constantine, who ruled about that time made Pope Sylvester of Rome, among other things, a present of 150 pounds of cloves. In Grecian literature cloves are first mentioned about the Sixth century. Trallianus recommended them in stomach troubles and in gout.

The Germans designate cloves as Gewürznägelein, which means spice nails, because of their resemblance to a nail, the corolla forming the head and the calyx tube the nail. The aromatic odor and pungent aromatic taste is due to an ethereal oil present in large quantities (18 per cent.) in the calyx tube. This oil is used for various purposes; as a clearing reagent in microtechnique, for toothache, as an antiseptic, stomachic, irritant. It destroys insects and keeps them away. When freshly extracted its color is pale amber but it gradually assumes a reddish brown coloration. It is one of the least volatile of ethereal or essential oils. It is also used by soapmakers and perfumers.

Cloves are variously used as a spice. They are often stuck into pickled fruits, as peaches, apples, apricots. The opening quotation from Shakespeare suggests such a use with lemons. Some persons acquire an inelegant and undesirable habit of chewing cloves. The pungent oil deadens or benumbs the nerves of taste and touch and the persistent mastication of cloves, is said to produce an excessive development of fibrous tissue of the liver, a condition akin to "nutmeg liver" which shall be referred to in our next paper.

Other parts of the clove-tree are also used occasionally, as for instance the flower stalks known as clove stalks. They possess the odor and taste of cloves but in a lesser degree. Formerly the leaves were also used but it is said that they do not now appear in commerce. The dried fruit known as mother of cloves is used more or less. They contain far less oil than cloves and are comparatively less valuable. Even the wood of the tree has been used as a spice. The dried and ground flower stalk, the fruits and the wood are often used to adulterate ground cloves. We would therefore advise housewives to purchase the cloves and grind them at home. It is reported that cloves have been adulterated with false cloves made from starch pressed into the form of cloves and roasted. It is, however, not at all likely that such a practice is carried on to any great extent. Sometimes cloves are placed on the market from which the oil has been extracted.

The cultivated cloves are richer in essential oil than the native cloves. The Zanzibar cloves are quite large. The principal market varieties are English cloves, Amboyne cloves, Bourbon cloves, Cayenne cloves, Zanzibar cloves, and others.

EXPLANATION OF PLATE.

A, flowering branch, nearly natural size; 1, floral bud; 2, floral bud in longitudinal section; 3, stamens; 4, pollen grains; 5, ovary in transverse section; 6, fruit, about natural size; 7, fruit in transverse section; 8, embryo; 9, part of embryo.

A VEIN OF HUMOR.

ELANORA KINSLEY MARBLE.

NOT only human beings, it is said, but all other animals of earth, air, and water have their play spells. To the question of how man can know this, one can only say that man being also animal, must certainly understand something of the nature of his lower brethren. Our mental composition is of the same substance as theirs, with a certain superstructure of reasoning faculty, however, which has enabled us to become their masters. The various emotions and faculties, such as love, fear, curiosity, memory, imitation, jealousy, etc., of which man boasts, are to be found, often in a highly developed state, among the lower animals, so that it is not at all surprising that among both birds and mammals we find individual species possessing a more or less keen sense of humor.

The question of why animals play is by no means new to philosophical inquiry. Herbert Spencer says animals play in their early or youthful stage of life because of their "surplus energy," the same reason that we ascribe to the child, referring more particularly to the strictly muscular plays, in contra-distinction to vocal recreation. An eminent philosopher, however, disagrees with him in this, contending that play in animals is not a mere frolicksome display of surplus energy, but a veritable instinct and a matter of serious moment as well as necessity.

However that may be, the fact remains that they do play and, as the writer can aver, in a spirit not at all serious, but with all the happy abandon of a child.

Among the wags of the feathered tribe the mockingbird and blue jay deserve special mention, though the raven, crow, catbird, jackdaw, and magpie may, from the point of mischief, be numbered in the list. In looking at the ungainly pelican one would smile to hear him called a "humorist," but as the seal is the buffoon of the aquarium, so the pelican plays the part of the clown in the zoo. His specialty is low comedy and generally the victims of his jokes are the dignified storks and the rather stupid gulls, companions in captivity. The stork's singular habit of standing on one leg affords the pelican a rare chance for a little fun, so he watches until a stork, in a meditative mood, takes up his favorite attitude beside the tank. Then up waddles the pelican and, with a chuckle, jostles against him, and sends him tumbling into the water. It is a question whether the stork enjoys the sport, but the pelican evidently does, for he leaps about evincing the utmost delight, flapping his wings, and squawking, or laughing, in triumph. The gulls he treats in a different fashion. No sooner does he see one seize a piece of bread, or some dainty contributed by a spectator, than up he rushes with a squawk and prodigious flapping of wings, forcing the gull to take refuge in the water, while he with much satisfaction devours the morsel.

"Our Animal Friends" tells of a pelican who made friends with a tiny kitten. When in a lively mood the pelican, perhaps recalling how his parents, or himself, in a wild state, were wont to catch fish, would pick up the kitten, toss it in the air, and stand with his huge mouth wide open as if intending to catch it as it came down. Puss seemed to consider it excellent fun, as with a quick motion she turned over in the air, alighting every time uninjured upon her feet; then off she would scamper to the pelican, running about his long legs as though seeking to knock him down. Watching his opportunity he would grasp her again, toss her into the air, and thus the sport would go on till the bird himself tired of it.

The mockingbird, that prince of song and mimics, possesses a sense of humor highly diverting and very humanlike—the male bird that is, for the female views life from a more serious standpoint, her domestic duties, it would seem, weighing heavily upon her mind. We speak of the "thieving" instinct of this bird, as well as of the blue jay, and other kindred species, because of that mischievous spirit which leads them to seize any small bright article which comes in their way, and, when unobserved, to secrete it. That they never purloin or hide these objects when observed is thought to be proof conclusive that it is done from the pure love of stealing and nothing else.

"I hide and you seek." In that childish game does not the one who is to secrete the article insist that the "finder" close his eyes till the object sought is carefully hidden? What amusement would be afforded the jay, or the mockingbird, should he attempt to secrete an article while you are looking? If we could only interpret the sparkle in their bead-like eyes, as we can that in a child's when engaged in the same game, how much mischief we would read there as the owner of these secreted articles hunts "high and low" for them in presence of the fun-loving birds!

"Where did you hide it, Jay?" pleaded a lady, who had left her silver thimble upon a table, and after a few minutes' absence returned to find it gone. "There has been nobody in the room since I left, so you must have taken it."

Mr. Jay, the pet of the household, hopped into his cage, and, standing upon his perch, looked demurely at the questioner.

"You are a naughty bird," said his mistress, who had in remembrance finger-rings, watch-keys, collar-buttons, and similar articles, which, from time to time, had as mysteriously disappeared, "and I am going to shut you in," which she did, fastening the insecure door of his prison with a stout piece of string.

Jay gave a shrill shriek, as of laughter, when his mistress continued the search, turning up the edge of the carpet, searching the pockets of garments hanging on the wall, anywhere, everywhere, that articles, one-time missing, had been secreted. But look where she would the thimble could not be found.

A month went by, and still Jay remained an unwilling, if not a subdued, prisoner. As his mistress one morning sat sewing in the room, Jay gave a final peck at the string which confined him, and at once, without a word, hopped to a chair from which one rung was missing. His mistress was watching him, and to her intense amusement saw him very deftly extract from the hole in the leg her lost thimble.

In the same household came, as visitor, a little boy named Johnny, of a very peevish and fretful disposition. When refused anything he especially desired, the whole house was made to resound with shrieks of: "Ma, ma, ma-a-a-a!"

Jay listened very attentively at first, but in a few days had not only caught the words but the very intonation. Johnny never entered the room without the bird crying in a peevish tone, in a very ecstacy of mischief: "Ma, ma, ma-a-a!"

"I hate that bird," said the boy one day, when Jay had greeted him with an unusually whining cry: "He ought to be killed. He makes me nervous."

"Then I would stop whining if I were you," suggested his mother, and Johnny wisely concluded he would.

A mockingbird which frequented the grounds of a gentleman in Virginia was noted not only as a most mischievous fellow, but as one of the most divine songsters of his tribe. So heavenly was his music, and so superior to that of his fellows, that at eventide in the general chorus his voice soared above all the rest. Men, women, and children gathered—for his fame had traveled far and near—to hear him sing, but in the very midst of his divine strains, Jip—for so they named him—would suddenly cease, and flying away, conceal himself behind a chimney on the housetop. Presently he would sneak down to the eaves and peer cautiously over, to see if his self-invited audience had scattered. If they were still there he would again hide himself, returning shortly to peer over the eaves again. As soon as the back of his last auditor was visible down he would fly to his chosen perch and resume his glorious song, tempting his audience to return. This time he would regale them with the choicest of his trills, breaking off in the midst as before and mischievously flying away to hide himself. This little comedy he would repeat three or four times during an afternoon or a moonlight night.

A black cat of the household was a recipient of his practical jokes. When she was passing Jip found it exceedingly amusing to spring upon her back, give her a sharp dig with his beak, and then spring nimbly to a low branch, exulting over the cat's vain effort to locate her tormentor.

A favorite joke of a mockingbird in Richmond, Va., was, when espying a dog, to utter a shrill whistle in exact imitation of a man summoning that animal. Thus peremptorily called, the canine would suddenly halt, prick up his ears, look up and down the street, then, seeing no master, trot on his way. Again the bird would whistle, but in a more mandatory tone than before. The dog would stop, gaze about in a puzzled manner, then, in response to another whistle, dash forward in the direction of the sound. The mystification of the dog appeared to afford the mockingbird the most delight, more particularly when not only one dog, but several would collect under his cage, whining and barking, vainly seeking to locate their masters.

Among the mammals, the elephant, in general estimation, possesses the drollest sense of humor. The writer never will forget the mischievous pranks of a huge fellow among a herd of elephants tethered in a pen in Central Park, New York. Only those beyond his reach escaped his teasing, his sinuous trunk tickling those near, now here, now there, his little pig-like eyes twinkling with genuine humor. His companions did not respond in kind, not feeling perhaps in a playful mood, which fact seemed in no way to diminish the big fellow's amusement, for he continued the sport at intervals much to the edification of the spectators.

Even when engaged in piling up huge slabs of lumber in the sawmills in India, these huge animals while away the tedious hours of labor by many a little prank or joke at the expense of their drivers. A favorite one is, after disposing of one load and returning for another, to fill their trunks with odds and ends as they move leisurely along, a stray nail, three or four pebbles, a tuft of grass with a bit of earth still clinging to its roots, a discarded cheroot, or other small articles which may lie in their paths. These are collected, and when the trunk is packed to their satisfaction, quietly curled upward and the mass blown against the naked stomachs of the drivers dozing upon their backs.

TAMING THE SMALLER WILD ANIMALS.

ALDA M. MILLS.

THERE is a great difference in the dispositions of the small wild animals, some quickly responding to care and petting, while others seem incapable of being tamed. It is the same with birds. I have found owls, hawks, and other species very easily tamed, while prairie chickens and quail appear to be incapable of domestication even in a small degree. They will lose considerable fear of human beings if left in their freedom to become accustomed to their near approach, but if placed in captivity they pine away and die, or, finding some avenue of escape, wander away and are lost. The nearest approach to domestication in the prairie chicken tribe I ever noted, was that of a young bird that grew up with a flock of young turkeys. We noticed it among the turkeys when they were quite small. The prairie chicken must have been considerably older than the turkeys, as at first it was larger than they were, but they rapidly gained on it and were soon much the largest. However, the little wildling clung to its adopted family and in the fall, when the turkeys came and roosted in the plum trees near the buildings, it came too and after a time lost most of its shyness and, strangest of all, adopted the turkeys' mode of roosting in the trees. Later on, however, it disappeared, probably joining a flock of its own kind.

The common striped ground-squirrel is very easily tamed if taken while young and will soon learn to come if called by name, and will learn many little tricks. The gray squirrels, though much prettier than the striped ones, are naturally shyer and harder to tame. Rabbits of the several species inhabiting the United States are capable of domestication in a degree, though of all I ever owned but one would return at my call when allowed its liberty out-of-doors. Western jack-rabbits when young make most interesting and beautiful pets, and, while confined, seem to lose all fear. Notwithstanding their prettiness and their soft cuddling ways, they are stupid little things, all their knowledge seeming to come through the calls of their appetites.

Minks and weasels have too fierce a nature to accept domestication, and, so far as I have observed, show not the slightest degree of affection for the one who feeds them. That odorous animal, the skunk, however, is very susceptible to kindness, and will become as tame and tractable as a pet dog. One of the most interesting pets I ever had was a skunk taken when very young. It was allowed its full freedom and would follow me around, come at my call, do many little tricks at command, and was as playful as a kitten. Being thoroughly tamed it did not make use of its objectionable means of offense and defense, though when frightened it often "threatened" to. As in the case of the prairie chicken, my pet skunk also disappeared when it was nearly grown, thinking, perhaps, that it could make a better living for itself than I could furnish it. Its favorite food was insects such as May-beetles and their larvæ, grass-hoppers, and almost every kind of bug, worm, or beetle; even hairy caterpillars were devoured after being rolled or moulded with its paws to rub off most of the hairs. This little pet of mine was never troubled with dyspepsia or indigestion and crammed its capacious stomach with a vast amount of food—mostly insects—though small mammals, eggs, birds, and once a young chicken were devoured with relish. Mice of many species can be tamed to some extent though I have found one of the shyest species when in a wild state to be the most readily and thoroughly tamable. I refer to the deer mice. They are pretty, yellowish brown creatures, white underneath, and have large, dark, brilliant eyes and erect ears giving them a very handsome expression. Their hind legs are much longer and stronger than those of the ordinary mouse and they are capable of making extraordinary leaps like the animals from which they get their common name.

When tamed they will learn little easy tricks such as sitting erect and "begging" for food, coming when called by name, etc., and are not so ready to use their teeth on the slightest provocation, as are their cousins, the blue field mice.

By making pets of wild animals much can be learned of their habits, dispositions, and characteristics. Especially their food habits, which, in the wild state, exert so much influence in the economy of nature as checks to the undue increase of other species of animals, insects, or plants.