Chapter II: Part 2

"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.

THE WOODCHUCK.

Very similar in its bodily structure to the marmot, of which it is said to be the nearest American relative, is the woodchuck or ground-hog (_Arctomys monax_). It is about eighteen inches in length, including the tail. The body is stout, the head broad and flat, the legs short and thick, the fur blackish or grizzled on the upper portion and of a chestnut red on the under surface of the body.

The ground-hog is found in all parts of the region extending from the Atlantic coast west to the Missouri, Iowa, and Minnesota. It inhabits woods, prairies, and meadows, lives on roots, vegetables, and herbs, and is especially fond of red clover. Its burrows are large excavations, and in the early autumn it busies itself in storing provisions for its long winter retreat. It is said to be one of the first hibernating animals to retire to winter quarters and one of the earliest to come forth in the spring, the length of its retirement varying with the locality, and being shorter in the south than in the north. In the northern United States it usually retires about the first of October and reappears about the middle of March. A recent writer and close observer says that woodchucks hibernate in pairs, but he never knew one of these proverbially sleepy creatures to leave its hole until warm weather came--in spite of the alleged practice it has of coming out invariably on the second day of February to fix the weather for the rest of the winter. He took the trouble once to dig into a woodchuck's burrow on a Candlemas day--and a warm, cloudy day it was; just such a day as the ground-hog is said to choose to come out of his hole and stay out. He found two woodchucks in the burrow, with no more sign of life about them than if they had been shot. From all outward appearances he could have taken them out and had a game of football with them without their knowing it. When the animal begins its hibernation it carefully closes the entrance to its burrow. Dr. Bachmann, who had marked a burrow to which he knew a pair of woodchucks had retired, caused it to be opened early in November, and found the two animals, perfectly dormant, lying coiled up close together in a nest of dry grass, twenty-five feet from the entrance.

The young woodchucks, of which there are from four to six in a litter, are born about the end of April. The mother takes tender care of them until they are able to shift for themselves.

The woodchuck, when taken young, is easily tamed, and becomes an interesting pet. The little animal can be taught to come when called, to run for food when whistled to, and to answer to a name. One called Chuck was very fond of bread spread with butter and sugar. If plain bread were offered to him he would taste it, make a wry face, spit out the bit in his mouth, and throw away the piece he held, and then he would straighten himself up and hold out his shining black hands for bread _with sugar_ on it. He always sat up stiffly on his hind legs when eating, and it was a comical sight to see him holding a long banana in his arms, until he had eaten the whole of it, blinking his bright black eyes with satisfaction. Chuck was taught many tricks, to balance a stick on his nose, swing in a trapeze, draw a toy cart, and the like. He was very affectionate and tractable.

Early in September Chuck began to eat voraciously and soon became very fat, but in the first week in October his appetite failed; he ate at first once a day, then once in two days, and after awhile he became quite restless and stupid. He was given his liberty, and watched closely to learn his habits. He began gnawing grass, gathering dry leaves and tucking them in various corners. At length he found a place that suited him to dig, and then he began making his nest. When the excavation was complete Chuck disappeared for several days. One evening he tapped on the kitchen door. When the door was opened he ran to a basket of apples and ate one, then ate a slice of bread and sugar. He appeared crazy with haste, and as soon as he was through eating he scampered off, to be gone a long time. On the first day of February Chuck crept out of his hole, and sat for a moment in the sun. Before he could be reached, however, he had returned to it. In six weeks and three days he again came out, and what was surprising, he did not appear to have forgotten any of his friends, of whom he had many among the cats, dogs, and rabbits of the neighborhood, trotting about among them on his hind legs. A cruel boy and a savage dog ended the life of this harmless little animal. C. C. M.

FLOWERS WITH HORNS AND CLAWS.

E. F. MOSBY.

The milkweed is best known to most of us by its pods--long, rough cases, packed close with shining white silk attached to little brown seeds. The lightest wind that blows can carry these a stage or two on their journey with such lovely silken sails. But perhaps everyone has not noticed one rather strange thing about them. Almost always there are two pods, one vigorous of growth, large and full; the other stunted and ill-formed. They are like the two brothers or sisters of Fairy Tales, one fair and well-favored and gracious, the other ill-grown and dwarfish. But _why_ this is so, is one of the many secrets of the milkweed.

It is quite a large family of flowers, or weeds, as you may choose to call them. There is the gorgeous orange-colored butterfly weed, always surrounded by hovering or fluttering butterflies, most of them also orange or yellow in their coloring; the fragrant, rose-colored milkweed of June, the purple milkweed and its cousin of the marsh. But it is the common milkweed that is called the horned herb. It was once thought possessed of many healing virtues when the business of gathering and drying herbs was more important than it is now. Yet one needs no idea of this kind to look with interest on this curiously formed plant which grows in such profusion by the dusty roadside or by our very doorstep. A milky juice exudes from the stem whenever a flower is gathered, and the pollen is in such sticky masses that a feeble insect is often caught and cannot escape with its fatal treasure.

The blossom cluster, reflexed so oddly, is pretty and quaint at first sight, but as we look deeper we find some unknown law of fives has ruled its structure--the recurved calyx is five-parted, so too the deeply recurved corolla; five stamens there are surrounding, like a circle of courtiers, a fairy king and queen, the two pistils in the center, above which hangs "a large five-angled disk," an awning of state. But oddest of all is the crown of five-hooded nectaries above the corolla, each nectary enclosing _an incurved horn_. Is not this a strange honey-cup with the horn concealed under the silky flower-hood? The insects love the banquet thus spread for their delight and no doubt they know the secrets of the blossom.

There is another family of wild flowers that abounds in horns and claws, especially the latter--the large crowfoot family. The hook-beaked crowfoot has little one-seeded fruits with long and hooked beaks, like those of birds of prey, collected into a head. The wild columbine, nodding so merrily from the high rocks, and the larkspur, have hooked spurs and claws and the larkspur hides its long spurs in its calyx. But the monk's-hood is the more interesting of all.

In early days, before stamens and pistils are ready for open air and wandering insects or pattering showers, you may find a dark blue bud in the meadow. The calyx is large and showy and blue like a flower, and its curved front sepals close the entrance before while the hindmost sepal, like a soldier's helmet, or a monk's hood, comes down over all as a covering. Then the sun shines and the blossom ripens and it is time to open.

Wide fly the little doors, back falls the blue hood, and the golden heart of stamens and pistils is ready with a welcome. But where are the petals? Hidden under the hood are two tiny hammer-like claws, the only petals this flower possesses.

THE COMMON AMERICAN MOLE.

This mole (_Scalops aquaticus_) is the most common species in the eastern portion of the United States. Moles are considered as animals of a fairly high order, on account of their forelegs' being developed into perfect scoops for digging. They live almost entirely in underground retreats, where they lead a very peculiar life. They are found over nearly all Europe, a great part of Asia, southern Africa, and North America, and their habits are in almost every respect similar. Their varieties are not numerous, but it is possible that there are still a great many species as yet unknown to naturalists. They are all shaped and endowed, says Brehm, in so striking a manner as to be instantly recognizable. The body is stout and of cylindrical shape, and merges into a small head without the intervention of a distinct neck. The body is supported on short legs; the forward pair appear to be relatively gigantic digging tools, while the hind limbs are longer and resemble those of the rat. The teeth are from thirty-six to forty-four in number.

Moles all delight in fertile plains, though they are also found in mountains. As the effect of light is painful to them, they seldom come to the surface, and even in the depth of the earth they are more active by night than by day. Their movements in their underground passages are much more rapid than when on the surface of the ground, where they can scarcely walk. They are also good swimmers when compelled by necessity to resort to the water.

Of the senses of the moles it is said those of smell, hearing, and touch are especially well developed, while that of sight is deficient. All moles are quarrelsome, are addicted to vicious biting, and they take pleasure in devouring their own kind. They eat only animal food, all kinds of insects living under ground, worms, and the like, though they also feed on small mammals and birds, frogs, and snails. They are exceedingly voracious, and as they can endure hunger only for a very short time, they do not hibernate. They are undoubtedly useful as exterminators of insects, though on account of their digging habits they are considered a nuisance by the farmer.

It was long thought that moles were blind, or had no eyes. The eyes, however, are about the size of a small seed lie midway between the tip of the snout and the ears, and are completely covered with the hair of the head. They are protected by lids, and may be projected or retracted at will.

Once or twice a year the female mole gives birth to from three to five young. They grow rapidly, and remain with the mother for one or two months. Then they begin digging on their own account and require no further attention. They have been found to be very difficult to keep in captivity by reason of their insatiable appetite.

As the mole is obliged constantly to construct new hillocks in order to secure its food, it cannot long hide itself from its enemies. It digs horizontal shafts at a slight depth from the surface, and in order to remove the earth it has dug up, it throws up the well-known hillocks. Many a beautiful lawn has been nearly ruined by the handiwork of this little creature, who likes to bore its snout into loose soil and throw it backward with its powerful forepaws. In a single night it can undo much of the labor of the gardener. In loose ground the animal is said to work with really admirable rapidity. Oken kept a mole in a box of sand for three months, and observed the animal work its way in it nearly as rapidly as a fish glides through the water, snout foremost, using the forepaws to throw the sand to the side and the hind limbs to push it backward. Lecourt, wishing to investigate the speed of a mole in its conduits, set up in a row a number of heavy straws in the main conduit, arranged so that the mole could not run along the passages without touching them. To the tops of these straws he fastened small paper flags, and when the mole was occupied in its hunting ground, he frightened it with the sound of a bugle, and thus caused it to run into the main conduit. Then the little flags fell down one after another, the instant the mole touched them, and the observer and his assistants had an opportunity to correctly record the speed of its course for a short distance. C. C. M.

THE OAK.

What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade is his!
There needs no crown to mark the forest's king;
How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss!
Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring,
Which he, with such benignant royalty
Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent;
All nature seems his vassal proud to be,
And cunning only for his ornament.

* * * * *

So, from oft converse with life's wintry gales,
Should man learn how to clasp with tougher roots
The inspiring earth--how otherwise avails
The leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots?
So every year that falls with noiseless flake,
Should fill old scars up on the stormward side,
And make hoar age revered for age's sake,
Not for traditions of earth's leafy pride.
--_Lowell._

"Had I wist," quoth Spring to the swallow,
"That earth could forget me, kissed
By summer, and lured to follow
Down ways that I know not, I,
My heart should have waxed not high,
Mid-March would have seen me die,
Had I wist."

"Had I wist, O Spring," said the swallow,
"That hope was a sunlit mist,
And the faint, light heart of it hollow,
Thy woods had not heard me sing;
Thy winds had not known my wing;
It had faltered ere thine did, Spring,
Had I wist."
--_Swinburne._

SKIN.

W. E. WATT.

One said he wondered that lether was not dearer than any other thing. Being demanded a reason: because, saith he, it is more stood upon than any other thing in the world.--_Hazlitt._

What! is the jay more precious than the lark,
Because his feathers are more beautiful?
Or is the adder better than the eel,
Because his painted skin contents the eye?
--_Shakespeare._

A gilded live pig is a sight rarely seen. The rarity of putting gold leaf all over a living animal of any kind comes from the fact that the animal dies so soon after the operation. It has been tried several times and always with the same result.

The idea arose from an experiment unfortunately performed upon a child on the accession of Leo X. to the papal chair. The child was gilded all over to represent the Golden Age. The people of Florence were delighted with the idea, but the death of the child took place so quickly that some thought the brief duration of the Golden Age was miraculously represented as well as its great glory.

The experiment has never been repeated upon a human subject, but men of science cautiously tried to find out the secret of the child's living but a few hours after the operation, and so gilded pigs and varnished rabbits and other small animals. From such tests of the value of an open skin to animal life they found that all things that have breath must have open skin pores in order to maintain life.

Closing the pores of the skin causes the temperature to fall directly and the heart and lungs become gorged with blood. The circulation of the blood is seriously interfered with and death follows with the usual symptoms of asphyxiation.

Strange as it seemed to those who first witnessed such experiments, the life of an animal is more directly dependent upon the action of the skin than upon that of the stomach, the liver, or even the brain. Monstrosities have been born without brains; but they have frequently lived for some time, taking their food regularly and having the appearance of as much comfort as others of their kind with brains. They died early, but their life was uniformly longer than the time which elapsed after the application of a coating which stopped the skin of other animals until death ensued.

A man will live much longer without stomach action than without the proper functions of the skin. In fact, the skin may take the place of the stomach in sustaining life for awhile, where the act of swallowing has been prevented by disease or accident. Feeding the patient through the skin has been accomplished with varying degrees of success. A bath of warm water or milk and water assuages thirst. Sailors deprived of fresh water wet their clothes with salt water, and the absorption of moisture sustains them where salt water taken into the stomach might have resulted fatally.

The health of the skin is closely connected with that of the whole system. Its appearance and condition as to moisture and dryness, as well as its temperature and color are regularly examined when the system is out of order. Since the skin is so important to the general health and its condition is placed so completely within our control, it is wise to care for it judiciously. We often find other organs of the body in an unsound condition and begin to doctor them when the whole trouble has arisen from bad treatment of the skin. The skin needs more care than the liver or the stomach, and many of the troubles laid at the door of one or both these organs may be avoided by proper care of the one organ over which we have entire control, the skin. Where the skin is prevented from doing its proper work other organs try to carry it on, and the result is that those organs which are really beyond our control, and which will work properly without any attention from us, become diseased by our bad treatment of the organ that comes first in the natural order of attention.

The skin throws off waste matter from the system. Two and one-half pounds of watery vapor is poured out daily from the average man. A clogged skin retains certain salts in the system supposed to have something to do with such diseases as rheumatism and gout if left in the blood by too little exercise of perspiration.

Besides the sweat glands there are glands which exude fatty substances upon the skin, keeping it suitably lubricated and somewhat impervious to water. In some animals this secretion is so abundant that the skin cannot become wet in swimming. Beneath the skin are frequently cushions of fat to protect the soles of the feet and the outside of the larger joints. The blubber of the whale, the thickest skinned of all animals, is of this sort, and is evidently intended to make his tremendous weight less destructive when brought in contact with other objects. The hide of the swifter ones is peculiarly fitted with large papillæ of feeling which are supposed to warn them of the presence of rocks and other objects by the action of the water while swimming near them.

Insects, not having lungs, receive air into their bodies through holes in the skin. These are called spiracles. They are so protected by hairs within the holes that water will not enter them. This is why it is so difficult to drown an insect. But if you touch the abdomen of one of these skin-breathing creatures, for instance the yellow part of a wasp, with a drop of oil, the minute openings become almost immediately clogged and the insect falls dead as if choked completely.

The skin consists of two layers, both of which are exceedingly interesting. The outer or scarf skin is called the cuticle on the outside of the body, while wherever the skin dips into the body it is modified into what is called mucous membrane. This outer skin is not what is rubbed off the surface in a Turkish bath manipulation or what is brought off by the rubbing one gives the body with a rough towel. These rubbings bring off merely the dead outer surface of the cuticle which should be out of the way because no longer useful. In man it continually wears off, in serpents it is shed annually in one slough.

The cuticle is the portion of the covering of the body which may best be noticed when a blister has been raised in the skin. The blister is an accumulation of fluid between the cuticle and the true skin.

The cuticle, or epidermis, is modified in many other ways than the one in which it becomes mucous membrane. Where the habits of the animal make warmth desirable the epidermis dips into the skin and without any break in its connection rises in the form of wool, which covers the body of the sheep so effectually. Where the animal is designed for flight there is the same characteristic dip into the material of the body, and out of the little sac so formed rises the feather which gives the bird its beauty and powers of flight. The feather is a modification of the scarf skin.

Where protection is needed for the body beneath the surface of the water this changeable substance covers the true skin with hard scales that make the friction of the water as slight as possible, while giving a firm and light resisting surface to prevent wounds. Horns and hoofs are modifications of the scarf skin. Where claws or talons are needed in the business of fighting or tearing food in bits or digging holes in the ground or elsewhere, the scarf skin changes itself at the extremities of paws and feet and produces nails, talons, and claws, whose powers are both marvelous and varied. For the protection of most mammals the whole of the body is favored by this power of the scarf skin to produce whatever seems necessary for the comfort of the individual, and the body is indented with innumerable minute holes called hair follicles into which the scarf skin dips and rises again to the surface transformed into hairs of varying degrees of fineness and color, beautifully arranged in order, and all pointing in such directions as will add to the beauty or comfort or terrifying aspect of the animal.