Chapter II: Part 2

Fain would I snare her, smit with mighty love;
But arrow-like she soared, and through the air
Fled to her nest upon the boughs above;
Wherefore to follow her is all my care,
For haply I might lure her by some snare
Forth from the woodland wild where she is flown.

I found myself one day all, all alone,
For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

Yea, I might spread some net or woven wile;
But since of singing she doth take such pleasure,
Without or other art or other guile
I seek to win her with a tuneful measure;
Therefore in singing spend all my leisure,
To make by singing this sweet bird my own.

I found myself one day all, all alone,
For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
—Angelo Poliziano, (1454-1494.)

TOURMALINE.

Early in the eighteenth century some children of Holland, playing on a warm summer’s day in a court yard with a few bright colored stones, noticed that these possessed a strange power when warmed by the heat of the sun. They attracted and held (just as a magnet attracts iron) ashes, straws and bits of paper. On reporting this strange discovery to their parents the latter, it is said, could give no explanation of the curious property, but a relic of their knowledge of it is left in the name of “aschentreckers” or “ash-drawers” which they gave the stones and by which they were known for a long time.

Such was the method of introduction to the civilized world of the mineral now known as Tourmaline, a mineral which in variety of color, composition and properties is one of the most interesting in Nature.

The lapidaries who had given the Dutch children the stones for playthings did not recognize them as different from the other gems in which they were accustomed to deal. So to the present day, although Tourmaline is considerably used in jewelry, it is rarely ever called by that name. The green varieties are often known as Brazilian Emerald, Chrysolite or Peridot, some varieties of blue as Brazilian Sapphire, others as Indicolite, the colorless as Achroite, and the red as Rubellite, Siberite, and even as Ruby.

It is only somewhat recently that these different stones have been recognized as being varieties of a single mineral species which is known by the name Tourmaline. This name comes from a Cingalese word (turamali) which was applied to the first Tourmaline gems sent from Ceylon to Holland.

At one time the name Schorl was chiefly applied to the species. This was before the means of distinguishing mineral species were as well understood as they are now, and a large number of minerals and even rocks were included under the name Schorl. One by one, however, they were distinguished by separate names until Schorl included only Tourmaline, and shortly afterward the name Schorl was dropped altogether.

In its opaque form, colored either black or brown, Tourmaline is a comparatively common mineral. It accompanies many so-called metamorphic rocks, i. e., rocks which have been changed by heat and pressure from their original condition, and is also common in granite and other eruptive rocks. As a rock forming mineral it often occurs as long, slender prisms, frequently about the size of a darning needle and radiating in all directions. The only mineral for which it is likely to be mistaken in this form is Hornblende. It can be distinguished from this in the following manner: On fusing the powdered mineral with a mixture of bisulphate of potash and fluor spar (best done on a little loop of platinum wire) Tourmaline will color the flame green, while Hornblende will produce no coloration.

The black opaque crystals often reach a large size, as some are known to be four feet in length. Both black and brown Tourmaline are usually opaque, and hence have no value as gems. The Tourmalines available for gems are transparent and have a great variety of color.

The gem Tourmalines are to be found in only a few localities. They occur in Maine, Connecticut and California in our own country, and also in Brazil, Russia and Ceylon. The crystals are usually in the form of long, slender prisms. They often have the peculiarity of being differently colored in different portions. Thus a crystal may be green at one end and red at the other, and in cross section may show a blue center, then a colorless zone, then one of red and then one of green. Some of the crystals from Paris, Me., change from white at one termination to emerald green, then light green, then pink, and finally are colorless at the other termination. In some crystals again the red passes to blue, the blue to green and the green to black.

Left Column:
Green Tourmaline (Brazil.)
Green Tourmaline (Haddam, Conn.)
Cross Section of Green Tourmaline (Cal.)
Center Column:
Red Tourmaline or Rubellite (Island of Elba.)
Brown Tourmaline (Gouverneur, N. Y.)
Red Tourmaline or Rubellite in Lepidolite (Cal.)
Right column:
Black Tourmaline (Finland).

Exactly what produces these differences of color is not known. It is known that black Tourmaline has an excess of iron, the red and green an excess of sodium and lithium, and the yellow and brown an excess of magnesium in their composition. These same differences of composition characterize similar colors in portions of the same crystal as well as separate crystals. Hence the evidence is quite conclusive that the color in some way depends on the composition. Many transparent Tourmalines, while appearing of a uniform color when viewed in any one direction, exhibit different colors when viewed in different directions. Thus, one of the long, slender crystals may appear green when held lengthwise in front of the eye, but when looked at from the end appears brown. Again, some crystals appear perfectly transparent when viewed perpendicularly to the sides of the prism, but when viewed from the end are perfectly opaque. This may be true even when the thickness is less in the latter direction. Both these properties are due to the arrangement of the molecules of Tourmaline, which is such as to make the power of absorbing light different in different directions.

The form of crystals of Tourmaline is usually that of a three-sided prism. The sides of the prism are usually marked by narrow parallel lines called striæ, and the prism may be more or less rounded by the addition of other planes.

If a doubly terminated crystal be examined carefully, it will be seen that the planes on the two ends are not alike, either in number or inclination. On one end there may be three planes, on the other six, or even twelve. If the planes on one end make a blunt termination, those on the other may make a sharply pointed one. Such a peculiarity of crystal form is possessed by but few minerals. Those possessing it are said to be hemimorphic, i. e., half formed. In such minerals it is evident that the forces of attraction by which the molecules were arranged differed in character at one end from those at the other. In other words, a separation of the molecular forces seems to have taken place, one kind going to one end and the other force to the opposite end. Now, it is a curious fact that most crystals which exhibit this peculiarity of form are also pyroelectric, i. e., become electric on heating. It was this development of electricity which caused the stones with which the Dutch children played, to pick up ashes, paper, etc., when the stones were warmed by the heat of the sun. Anyone can repeat their observation by gently heating crystals or even fragments of Tourmaline and applying them to bits of paper. The electrical attraction will often be found to be very strong, though it varies with different crystals. The fragments should not be overheated, the electricity being most strongly developed between 100 and 200 degrees Fahrenheit. A study of the kinds of electricity developed by the heat shows that positive electricity is produced at one end and negative at the other. Now, this exactly corresponds with what we have seen of the form of the crystal, and shows that the polar arrangement of the molecules producing different shapes at the two ends, also produces corresponding electrical properties. Crystal form, heat, electricity, and even light, are therefore seen to have intimate connection, and it may be that this interesting mineral will furnish us a means of learning more about these forces.

In composition Tourmaline is a complex silicate chiefly of aluminum and boron. Iron, magnesium, the alkalies, and water also enter in varying amounts into it. In fact, so complicated is its chemical nature that perhaps no other mineral has been so often analyzed or had its analyses so much discussed.

Ruskin, in his “Ethics of the Dust,” thus describes its composition: “A little of everything; there’s always flint and clay and magnesia in it; and the black is iron according to its fancy; and there’s boracic acid, if you know what that is, and if you don’t, I cannot tell you to-day, and it doesn’t signify; and there’s potash and soda, and, on the whole, the chemistry of it is more like a mediæval doctor’s prescription than the making of a respectable mineral.”

As to its hardness and specific gravity, Tourmaline may be said to be both harder and heavier than quartz, its hardness being 7-7.5 in the scale of hardness of which the diamond is 10. Its specific gravity is 2.98-3.20. These qualities fit it admirably for use as a gem. It is, however, quite brittle and even at times friable. Cracks therefore frequently cut across good crystals and spoil what would otherwise make a good gem. It is very common to find tourmalines in the rocks broken into a number of pieces and the fragments “mended” together with quartz or calcite. This has been true of the black Tourmaline shown in the accompanying plate. Scarcely any other mineral exhibits this change so often as Tourmaline, a result due probably to its brittleness and the character of the rock in which it occurs.

I have shown how one of the most remarkable properties of Tourmaline was discovered by children. It is also interesting to know that the locality of the finest Tourmalines in the world was discovered by two boys named Elijah L. Hamlin and Ezekiel Holmes. They were interested in the study of minerals and spent much of their leisure time searching for them. One day in the fall, having been out many hours hunting for new minerals, they were about to return home when a gleam of something green at the roots of a tree caught their eye. Eagerly bringing it to light, they found it to be a beautiful green Tourmaline. A fall of snow that night prevented their obtaining more of the crystals, but the following spring they returned and secured many fine gems. For many years thereafter the locality furnished gems of purest ray serene which have gone to adorn the coronets of kings and enriched the mineral cabinets of the world.

It is estimated that fifty thousand dollars’ worth of Tourmalines have been taken from this one locality. Auburn and Rumford, Me., are two other neighboring localities where good gems have been found. At Haddam Neck, Conn., fine transparent Tourmalines occur, generally green in color, and many of them of gem quality. They occur in a granite rock.

The red Tourmaline (Rubellite) from California, illustrated in the accompanying plate, is found in San Diego County of that State. The matrix in which it occurs is a lithia-bearing mica (lepidolite) of a delicate violet color. In this matrix the Tourmaline usually occurs in radiating masses. The rose color of the Tourmaline contrasting with the violet of the lepidolite makes an object which is quite a favorite with mineral fanciers, although the former is not sufficiently transparent to be used as a gem. At two other localities in the same State large transparent Tourmalines of varying colors have been found.

The Brazilian Tourmalines are chiefly green in color. They occur in connection with blue and white topaz. They are the source of the gem known as Brazilian Emerald, which has not, however, the value of the true emerald.

The Tourmalines from the island of Elba are generally red in color, transparent and well crystallized. They are, however, too small to use as gems.

The Ceylon Tourmalines occur in the gem gravels of that locality accompanying rubies, sapphires, etc., while those of Russia, chiefly red in color, come from the Ural Mountains, being found in company with amethyst, topaz, beryl and other gems.

Oliver Cummings Farrington.

THE STAR FISH.

One of the most common objects found along our New England sea coast is the star fish, called by the seamen “Five-fingered Jack.” The fact of its being common does not at all imply that its habits are commonly known. The great difficulty of watching it in its native haunts has been a drawback to getting better acquainted with it, but when taken to an aquarium it has been found to be an exceedingly interesting little star. At low tide you may find hundreds of them clinging to the rocks, sea moss or on the sandy bottom, but they prefer deep water. Their color varies from a dark rich brown to a reddish, and often a chocolate shade, sometimes lighter; but no matter the shade, they are always attractive.

The upper side is slightly convex, rough and tuberculous; the under side is soft and contains all the vital and locomotory organs. Immediately upon being taken from the water the soft under parts seem to shrink away and nothing substantial remains but the upper surface. This is perforated with pores, through which the water enters to all parts of the body by channels. Very near the center is a small opening through which the water is admitted to a strong, rather elastic, tube, which is encircled by a series of rings. Now turn the star fish over and you can see that this tube opens into a ring about the mouth, while similar tubes stretch out to the arms. From these cross tubes little fibers extend, terminating in discs. These are the true organs of locomotion, and are called ambulacra. They move very slowly and are not at all clumsy, but have even been called graceful by some naturalists.

A portion of these ambulacra are made fast by suction while the rest of the body is drawn forward; then the first are relaxed and the process repeated, thus they travel in the deep waters.

It is quite evident that the five bright red eyes at the tip of each ray are of some use in helping them on their journeys; but just how much they can see is not quite known. When a large object appears before them they prepare to surmount it, often going up very steep sides and down again as easily as though on a level stretch, often standing on the tip of one ray and sometimes on the five, thus resembling a five-legged stool.

The heart, situated near the opening on the back, is supplied with a set of blood vessels. They also have respiratory organs and a nervous system, but, judging from the manner they endure vivisection, their nervous system must be of a very low order, for if they are broken in pieces the missing parts will soon grow again—in fact, they do not seem to be disturbed in the least no more than if it were a cast-off garment, and evidently go about as happy with the remaining rays as with the complete body, and, what is still more strange, the broken ray will grow a complete set of arms and a new body. This is one way of reproduction, so if you wish to kill a star fish don’t break it in pieces. The only sure way of making an end to their lives is to drop them in fresh water, when they immediately die.

It is very interesting to watch them care for their eggs. These are kept in pouches at the base of the rays, and when emitted through an opening there provided, are actually brooded as a hen her chicks, by arching the central part of the body and bending the rays down, and if the eggs are scattered they take great pains to collect them again, often traveling long distances for them.

The star fish consumes a large amount of food; you would hardly think one stomach could care for so much, but each ray has an additional stomach, and all need food. Their favorite food is the whelk, a small black-shelled, snail-like mollusk. Indeed, they eat many varieties of the mollusk.

They are also very fond of oysters. You would be interested to watch the star fish as he slowly works his way along until directly over the oyster, then folds his five arms around it, holding it firmly in place, then pushing out his stomach, through his mouth, he wraps it around the unfortunate oyster, and by the power of suction the oyster is drawn from the shell and digested and the shell cast away. You can easily see what a nuisance they must be in an oyster bed.

They are known as the opossum of the sea, as they often appear to be quite dead when they are very much alive. If you wish to be sure, put him on his back, and if alive you will soon see a number of semitransparent globular objects beginning to move, reaching this way and that. These are the ambulacra seeking to regain their normal position. If you see no motion, you may safely conclude that he is an extinguished star.

Rest H. Metcalf.

IN THE MEADOW.

A butterfly with spangles gay,
Met a bumble bee, one day,
Where the sunshine warmly lay
Turning clover into hay.

“Hark!” said lovely Shining Wings,
“Hear how loud that blackbird sings!
Don’t you think the summer brings
Just the brightest, sweetest things?

“See the color of the sky;
See the clouds that sail so high;
See the milkweed floating by”—
Said the dainty butterfly.

“Smell the clover blossoms there,
Scenting all the summer air;
Nothing half so sweet or fair,
As this meadow, anywhere!”

Bumble jerked his little head,
Then he rather crossly said:
“Well, I like the clover red,
Not for perfume, but for bread!

“All the world knows that a bee
Much too busy is to see
Beauty merely. All that he
Cares for is utility.”

Shining Wings then made reply:
“Though I’m but a butterfly,
Beauty’s faithful lover I,
And without it fain to die.

“Life itself is naught, poor bee,
If it’s but utility;
Sure am I ’twas meant that we
Should the beauty, also, see;

“Else there were no summer sky,
Nor the clouds to sail on high;
Else no milkweed floating by,
Nor spangles for the butterfly!”

Angry Bumble flew away,
Leaving Shining Wings to stay
Where the sunshine warmly lay,
Turning clover into hay.
Sarah E. Sprague.

THE INDIAN ELEPHANT.
(_Elephas indicus._)

The Indian Elephant (_Elephas indicus_) inhabits the wooded parts of Southern Asia from the Himalayas to the Indian Ocean, and is found throughout Burmah, Siam and the Malay Peninsula. It differs from the African Elephant in having much smaller ears, a concave instead of convex forehead, smaller tusks, and in the possession of a finger on the end of the proboscis which, working against a tubercle on the lower part of the trunk, serves many of the purposes of the human hand.

The proboscis, which is an extension and enlargement of the nose and upper lip, is composed of as many as forty thousand interlacing muscles, and is capable of the most delicate and varied manipulation. At times it is used to strip twigs and leaves from overhanging trees, or again to uproot bamboo shoots or to pluck grass and plants from the ground, carrying all to the ever-grinding jaws behind. By sucking it full of water the Elephant may give himself a shower bath or squirt water into his mouth or even over people who offend him.

The presence of the trunk and tusks has greatly modified the cranium of the Elephant. Although a very intelligent animal, his brain is relatively small in proportion to his immense size. The great, rounded humps which crown an Elephant’s head are composed of bony air cells, and their function is to provide surface for the supporting muscles of the trunk. So thick are these bony processes that they will stop a rifle ball; and on the other hand Elephants have been shot through the skull without the least injury to the brain.

The tusks, which are often lacking in Asiatic Elephants, especially in the females, are the incisors of the upper jaw, grown straight out, and serve primarily as weapons, although in domesticated animals they are used to dig and lift and to carry heavy burdens. Besides these teeth the Elephant has four large molars, two in each jaw, and he is able to chew from four to eight hundred pounds of green fodder a day with them. In a wild state the Elephants wander about in bands through the forests, following their leader from feeding grounds to water, and concern themselves largely with eating and drinking and escaping from their enemies. The young weigh about two hundred pounds at birth, and attain to over eight thousand pounds at thirty years, when they have reached maturity. At sixty an Elephant is counted in his prime, and many live to be a hundred or even a hundred and fifty years old. Eleven feet is the extreme height of the Asiatic Elephant. His specific gravity is so great that in swimming rivers his whole body disappears below the surface; but this gives him no trouble, as he breathes by thrusting the tip of his trunk above the water and can surge up enough to get one eye out when he wishes to see where he is going.

The eyes are small and, probably on account of living in the forest so much, they are not very sharp-sighted. This defect is counterbalanced by very acute hearing and sense of smell. In browsing the Elephant is probably guided altogether by touch and his sense of smell; and in a dark forest even very sharp eyes are of little value either in selecting food or detecting enemies, especially in an animal with so short and heavy a neck.

The feet of an Elephant are great elastic cushions with which he passes noiselessly through the jungles. When he chooses to stand still it is almost impossible to distinguish his brown skin from the foliage with which he is surrounded. But an animal as large and strong as the Elephant does not need to conceal himself, except from man, his great enemy, and when a troop of Elephants wish to pass from one place to another they often charge through the jungles and forest, smashing down trees and vines and leaving a broad trail behind them. When disturbed or wounded by hunters they rush furiously through the thickets after their tormentors, and if they fail to catch and crush them in the first charge it has often happened that Elephants have returned and smelled them out as a dog scents a rabbit.

On account of the slow growth of young Elephants it has been found more satisfactory in India to catch wild Elephants than to breed them in captivity and wait fifteen years for the young to reach maturity and usefulness. The plan usually pursued is to build a huge corral in a tract of forest where wild Elephants roam, usually across an Elephant path. Where the path enters the corral a heavy gate is made and suspended over the way, so that it can be instantly dropped and fastened. Then, when a herd of wild Elephants wanders near enough to the trap on the gate side an army of native beaters is hastily gathered and the troop is surrounded on three sides. Each beater is provided with a tom-tom or torch, and in the confusion of shouting and torch-waving the whole herd is driven into the enclosure. At first they charge the stockade wildly, and the natives rush from side to side, resisting their attacks with fire and uproar. When at last they stand huddled together in the middle of the enclosure tame Elephants are driven in and allowed to mix freely with the wild ones. Cautiously they single out an Elephant, surround him and hold him in place, while men called noosers slip quietly down from the backs of the tame Elephants and fasten strong, soft ropes about his feet, after which he is marched out of the corral between two Elephants and tamed to work as they work, carrying heavy loads, dragging and piling timber, or perhaps marching in the splendid processions of Eastern kings.

Dane Coolidge.

THE WILD CLEMATIS.

Brave Clematis, through sunny days and long,
I watched thee toil to reach a leafy height,
Proud of thy kirtle green, and bloom-hood white;
And now when winds are riotous and strong,
Thou flauntest silken plumes sere leaves among,
To lead my glances from the Frost-King’s blight
And as of old my longing eyes delight,
Thou, fairest climber of the rustic throng;
And I take courage by thy bravery,
My much-plumed friend of tangled copse and vale,
That fain would hide the mars of autumn’s hour,
Henceforth I strive that others only see
My higher self as outward graces fail,
And see that self through love’s ennobling power.
Jenny Terrill Ruprecht.

TOPSY.

Ethel Tyler has a tame crow for a pet. It is so black and such a mischievous creature that Ethel named her Topsy.

Topsy was quite small when given to Ethel, and she has learned to say a number of words.

There is a large orchard back of the house, and Topsy seems to think this her special playground. Here she can play about and “caw” to her heart’s content.

She loves to hide among the branches of a tree, then call, “Ethel, Ethel,” expecting Ethel to come and hunt for her.

Topsy is very amusing, for there is no end to her tricks and pranks, but she can also be very troublesome if she is so disposed.

Her greatest fault is that of stealing. Small articles, as keys, thimbles, spools of thread and such things have to be kept where she cannot get at them or they will be missing.

Her eyes are quick and she is so sly that she generally gets away with the things without being caught.

When articles are missed, we know whom to blame, but it is quite another thing to find them, for she seldom uses a hiding place after it has once been discovered and her plunder removed.

There is one member of the Tyler family that has not a high opinion of Topsy, and that is Tony, Ethel’s cat.

Topsy does her part towards making the poor cat’s life miserable, and I guess Tony thinks she is quite successful.

She tips over his saucer of milk, pecks at his tail, swoops down upon him when he is eating, seizes his meat and flies to a place of safety before Tony realizes that he has been robbed. Topsy then proceeds to eat her booty, chattering to herself as though she had done a brave deed.

Tony stands in fear of Topsy, and she knows it, and is not slow in taking advantage of the knowledge whenever an opportunity presents itself.

When Topsy calls, “Tony, Tony,” the cat lengthens the distance between himself and the artful crow, for he knows by experience that she only wants the tuft of fur at the tip of his tail or a piece of the rim of his ear.

There is no trouble about feeding Topsy. As long as she has plenty to eat it does not matter what the food might be and she never stops to inquire whether it is fresh or not.

She is very fond of fish, and it is amusing to watch her when a fish cart comes along.

Mrs. Tyler patronizes a certain man that sells fish, and he stops in front of the house and blows his horn so that she will know he is there. Topsy has learned to associate the blast from the horn with “fish,” and the minute she hears a horn blown she starts for the street.

She always receives a piece of fish if it is Mrs. Tyler’s fish monger that is passing, but it often happens that it is a stranger going by and then Topsy follows the cart down the street to see if he will not throw her a piece of fish. If he does not, she comes back chattering angrily at being cheated out of so enjoyable a meal.

Ethel will call, “Topsy, Topsy,” and the crow will come hopping to her. “Shake hands,” and Topsy will raise one of her black feet and put it in Ethel’s hand for her to shake.

When Topsy wishes to go into the house she stands on the door step and calls, “Mamma, Papa or Ethel” until some one comes and lets her in.

She has many opportunities to leave the place and shift for herself, but she never goes far from the house and seems to prefer making her home with the Tyler family.

Martha R. Fitch.

THE WALRUS.
(_Trichechus rosmarus._)

The Walrus (_Trichechus rosmarus_) is a very fat, clumsy brute, much uglier than his picture, with a coarse, oily skin all wrinkled and scarred; long, protruding tusks; bristly whiskers and scuffling flippers that barely serve to move his bulky body over the land. In the water he is more at home, and though it does not require a high degree of strength and skill to dig clams, that being his daily occupation, yet he is able to keep very fat on the fruits of his industry and has much leisure to swim about or doze on ice floes and sea beaches.

It is only in the arctic regions that Walrus are found. Before the attacks of whalers and ivory hunters they were found as far south as Nova Scotia and the Gulf of St. Lawrence, but now they have retreated as far as possible into the frozen north, living in limited numbers about Hudson’s Bay, Davis Straits and Greenland and in Spitzbergen and Northern Europe. In the northern Pacific before the slaughter began the Walrus swarmed by thousands in the broad, shallow bays from the Alaskan Peninsula to Point Barrow, where the ice never melts.

The food of the Walrus consists of mollusks and crustaceans, which he digs from the muddy bottom with his long tusks, and the roots and stalks of sea-weed. He crushes the clams, shells and all, and swallows the mass, leaving digestion to proceed as it may. The stomach of a Walrus killed in Bering Sea by Mr. Henry W. Elliott contained more than a bushel of crushed clams in their shells, with enough other food to make half a barrel.

It is principally for its ivory tusks and the accumulated fat which comes from heavy eating that the Walrus is now being exterminated by whalers and hunters. To the Eskimo the Walrus means life itself. He eats the flesh, burns the fat for fuel and light, makes his boats, houses, harness and harpoon lines from the hide and trades what ivory he has not made into implements for the guns and whisky so acceptable to primitive man. The extermination of the Walrus will probably mean the extermination of the Eskimos, or at least an entire change in their habits of life.

Although a very fierce looking animal, the Walrus is reputed to be peaceful and inoffensive except when attacked in the water. At such times he has been known to hook his tusks over the edge of the boat and swamp it or even to call in his friends by bull-like roars and smash the boat to pieces. Besides man, his one enemy is the polar bear, which creeps upon him as he sleeps and worries him to death. As the Walrus’ skin is anywhere from half an inch to two inches thick and padded out by an average of six inches of fat, it is almost impossible to reach a vital place even with long teeth and bear claws, and the Walrus is often able to flounder into the deep water and escape by remaining under water until the bear has to come up for breath.

One of the favorite amusements of the Walrus is to float in the water with his hind flippers hung down and his nose comfortably above the wash and either fall asleep or indulge in deep roarings which are said to sound like something between the mooing of a cow and the baying of a mastiff and which often serve, like whistling buoys, to warn sailors from rocks and shoals.

The young are born in the spring, and generally on the ice floes, but being born fat the ice floes are probably as warm to them as is a nest to a little mouse. The mothers show great affection for their young, and will not abandon them in danger, even allowing themselves to be speared while protecting their offspring. As the Walrus are social by nature, wandering about in great herds, and as they also show a marked sympathy for each other’s misfortunes, it is very dangerous to wound one in the water lest the whole herd join in a common defense.

An adult male Walrus measures about twelve feet from the end of his nose to that of his very short tail, or fourteen feet to the end of his hind flippers, and weighs something over a ton. His girth is as great as his length, in fact, it has been often observed that his great circumference and too-loose skin seem rather a source of annoyance than otherwise to him, especially when he tries to land on a sandy beach. Even with the wash of the breakers he is rarely able to get beyond the water line, except as the tide goes down and leaves him, dry perhaps, but yet at the mercy of men and polar bears.

Dane Coolidge.

TOUCHING INCIDENTS ABOUT PIGEONS.

The homing pigeon has proved that locality is a faculty fully developed in the bird’s little brain, but I heard, the other day, an instance of memory in the species that was most touching. A lady living in the top story of a Boston skyscraper had been in the habit of feeding the pigeons and sparrows who flew to the little balcony before her window, and had succeeded in taming some of her pensioners, one or two pigeons even eating out of her hand. One day, while passing along Park street, this lady was surprised to see a pigeon flutter away from some companions strutting in the middle of the road, and come upon the sidewalk, where it almost tripped her up in its efforts to attract her attention. It fluttered around her, evincing every sign of pleasure and recognition, and when she called it by name the little creature fairly flew at her! Now, in the midst of all that passing throng the pigeon knew its benefactor, who, with tears in her eyes, says its recognition gave her more joy than if the queen had saluted her. Under the circumstances, it was to her great regret that she had no crumbs to give him then and there. But who ever dreamed of being accosted in the street by a pigeon?

Our attention has been called by a traveling friend to an incident which occurred recently in the family of G. F. Marsh, a member of the Pacific Coast Pigeon Society. It certainly proved to him, and to all his friends in that region, in a most impressive manner the valuable services which may sometimes be rendered by the carrier pigeon, and probably explains some of his enthusiasm in that direction. His little baby boy was taken suddenly sick with most alarming symptoms of diphtheria.

The mother, watching by the bedside of the little one, dispatched a message tied on a carrier pigeon to her husband at his store on Market street, San Francisco. In the message she wrote the nature of the child’s alarming illness, and made an urgent appeal for medicine to save its life. The bird was started from the home of the family near the Cliff House, five miles from Mr. Marsh’s store.

The bird flew swiftly to the store, where Mr. Marsh received it. He read the message, called a doctor, explained the child’s symptoms as his wife had detailed them in her message, and received the proper medicine. Then tying the little vial containing the precious restorative to the tail of the pigeon, he let it go.

The pigeon sped away swiftly through the air straight for the Cliff. It made the distance, five miles, in ten minutes, a distance which would have required the doctor three-quarters of an hour to cover.

In twenty minutes from the time the mother’s message was sent to her husband the baby was taking the medicine.

Naturally enough Mr. Marsh is partial to pigeons, for he considers that he owes his baby’s life to one.

George Bancroft Griffith.

ON THE SAN JOAQUIN.

It was in the latter part of the month of March that we started out from Fresno for a day’s outing on the San Joaquin river, hunting for hawk and owl eggs. The day was bright and warm, and we keenly enjoyed the ride of nine miles across the plains. Out past the old, deserted Holland Colony, where stumps of vines showed that the settlers had once made an honest attempt to win their daily bread out of the hard pan. The last half of the way lay across the hog-wallow country, that peculiar effect which has puzzled many scientists, but which all attribute to the action of water in long past ages. The rolling motion of rising over and descending these mounds was like the riding of a small boat over the waves of the sea. Here and there a burrow in the top of one of the mounds, the domicile of the frisky ground-squirrel or the billy owl, gave the landscape the appearance of a dish of mush cooking, with the air bubbles swelling up, and some bursting, leaving the little holes. On across canals, past a wheat country, and then the virginal hog-wallow lands that no plowshare has ever touched, covered with a short green growth which gives nourishment to bands of sheep, dirty, and with numerous lambkins, guarded by a few sagacious shepherd dogs and lonely, and equally dirty, bearded Mexican herders.

The mounds grow higher and the hollows deeper until we wonder if they stretch on forever and if we are lost among them, when all at once we come out right on the top of a high bluff overlooking the San Joaquin. The unexpectedness is quite startling. One could not possibly have suspected a moment before that we were within miles of a great river bed more than a mile wide, with steep bluffs more than 300 feet high on either side and a swift river sweeping down its channel in the center, but here we were right on the edge of it. We can look down almost perpendicularly and see, three or four hundred feet below us, great green meadows stretching to the north and south and to the trees and thickets that edge the river. The river from this distance and height seems but a thread in its once vast bed. What a sight—what a power it must have been when once it filled all this vast bed, which often is more than a mile across from bluff to bluff. On the further side a few trees grow right on the edge of the water, and then the bluff rises abruptly even higher than on our side. Buzzards and hawks are sweeping around us in the air, and dark spots in the tops of far-off trees betoken the presence of the objects of our search, the nests of the hawks. We begin the descent, which at first seems extremely hazardous, and even on further trial sufficiently steep to make walking down more of a pleasure than riding, as we find. The road or path winds around and around, as necessarily it must unless one would go head-first to the bottom. It is narrow and steep and the ruts deeply worn in places by the action of water. About half way down we come upon what was once a canal, and we can see the level ridge of its embankment stretching away above and below us along the side of the bluff, as it curves in and out. What a vast undertaking it must have been to build this great waterway along the face of the bluff. As we near the bottom clumps of elderberry and scraggly greasewood appear, and we come upon two little white eggs of the dove, laid in a hollow in the ground—an early bird surely.

At last we are safely down in the valley and across the meadow, which is one vast bed of poppies, a field of the cloth of gold. Then we come down among the huge cottonwoods and river oaks that line the river bank and unharness our horse and tie him where the grazing is good and then start on our search. We first make our way down to the river’s edge and, lying flat on the sand and rocks, drink to our content of the cool water fresh from the snow of the Sierras. The river is about five hundred feet wide and varies from two hundred to a thousand at this point. It is not high now, for the spring floods come later, with the melting of the snow, and in its deepest part is not probably over eight or ten feet, but it is swift—terribly swift. It is a good swimmer that can hold his own with the current for five minutes, and in the swiftest part it is impossible for a man to make any headway. The bottom is of shifting sand and the channel is ever changing. It is a deceitful and treacherous river, though laughing and sparkling in the sun to-day. It has taken value for value for all the gold it has given up. Here and there in the deep places under the shadow of the bank we can see catfish and big carp moving lazily about. The catfish and a fish known as the river trout can be caught with a hook and line, but the carp never touches bait, but there is considerable sport in spearing them.

We pass up the stream with our eyes directed at the tree tops, but now and then at the ever-changing aspect of the river, taking in all the beauties of nature and the curious formation of the steep sides of the bluff. The face of the bluff represents excellently the different geological layers of soil and stone, here chalky, there slaty, and here gaudily daubed with all the brilliant hues of a clay formation. The cottonwood and the willows are just beginning to show green. Now and then we come upon a nest in the cottonwood trees, far out over the water. Sometimes it is an old one, but often we are convinced otherwise by the sudden departure of a screaming hawk as we throw a dead limb in that direction. Then comes the hard climb, the toilsome shin to reach the first limb, with knees and elbows hugging tightly the smooth, slippery bark, taking advantage of every little knot and twig, and then, the limb gained, up from limb to branch, up into the air, into the cooling breeze, feeling for the instant the life of the birds, up into the swaying lesser branches, up to the tip-top, where the big, rough nest of sticks is firmly placed, the nether end of a jackrabbit carcass half hanging over the edge, and numerous ears, paws and small bones along the rim, and inside four handsome, large, speckled brown eggs of the squirrel hawk. Into our little sack they go, regardless of the remonstrances of the angry hawk, which is circling around overhead, and with the sack firmly held in our teeth we descend to the ground, pack the eggs into our case and go on. Sometimes in the distance huge clumps of mistletoe on the river oaks look like nests, but nearer approach shows the difference. Mistletoe is very plentiful here. What a place for a party of girls and boys to spend Christmas. Now we come upon a bend in the river where the ground is all strewed with driftwood left by some winter freshet. There is enough to keep many families in fuel for a long time, but it lies there untouched, inaccessible, to be carried on at the next flood—on to where? Who knows the ending of the travels of a piece of driftwood that starts from the mills far up in the Sierras? The wood is washed smooth and round and into every conceivable shape. At places we pass through thickets of rose bushes, blackberry vines, and elderberry, which grow profusely all along the river. In a many-limbed willow tree, an easy climb and not a high one, we find the nest of a horned owl, with five round white eggs within. The old bird stayed on the nest until we were nearly to it and then, with a peculiar cry, scrambled over the side and fell to the ground as if shot, then arose to a neighboring branch and sat there, uttering a cry like a cat and swelling out her feathers angrily, but all in vain. Further up the river ran in close to the bluff on our side, and as the traveling was rather difficult along land that lay at an angle of only five or ten degrees from the vertical, we scrambled to the top, at times slipping, and often pulling ourselves up by the weeds, so steep it was. A misstep would have sent us rolling into the river below. In the face of the bluff squirrels had their homes, and we found the dwellings therein of two handsome big snowy owls, but they had wisely chosen them in places where the five degrees of slope was in under us and a crumbling of the sand meant a straight drop of fifty or sixty feet, so we left them with “requiescat in pace.” For a quarter of a mile we followed along the top of the bluff, watching the river and the tree tops below us. Flocks of ducks were flying up and down the river, quacking vigorously. Now and then a big, ugly “shack” rose from a stump and flapped across the river. Isles big and little and middlesized were dotted in the stream, all heavily covered with underbrush, an excellent refuge for the ducks in their nesting season a little later on. A big white pelican sat on a log watching its victims in the water. The river curves and bends and doubles on itself, and never goes straight for forty yards at a time. At a bend we came upon a scene that delighted our ornithological eyes. One hundred feet below us, in the tops of a clump of cottonwoods, was a heronry. Dozens of big, basket-like nests blackened the tree tops, and perched on the very topmost branches were dozens of long-legged, crooked-necked, great blue herons. As we came upon them they started up, flapping their wings, stretching out their necks and pulling in their legs behind them. Uttering cries like those of the seagulls, they flapped off and lit away upon the plains, but within sight of us, and seemed to be holding a consultation. We could see into the most of the nests, and they were all empty. It was a little too early for the birds to begin nesting, and they were evidently mating and perhaps deciding who should have first choice. Some nests looked like old family residences of many generations, for they had several stories and additions, porticos and dormer windows, so to speak, in abundance.

We passed on, and when the valley widened out again we descended and sat down under the oaks to eat our luncheon. It soon disappeared, the last morsel, and we were on our way again. At long intervals farm houses appeared on the edge of the bluff, and in the river below one of them, on the opposite side of the stream from us, was a curious old water-wheel on a flatboat securely moored to the trees on the bank, and which laboriously and noisily jerked water up through a pipe to the bluff above. The meadows along the river are the pasturage of big herds of horses and cattle, and one is lucky if one’s perambulations are not interrupted by some inhospitable bull. As we ascend the river it grows swifter and more rocky and the top of the bluff rolls higher and higher and the hills appear in the distance. When we came to the first of these low hills we climbed the bluff and ascended it. It was a peculiar formation of stone resembling sand in softness or sand resembling stone in hardness, we could hardly determine which. It was seamed and ribbed, projecting cliff-like into the air, with boulders lying about and with caverns and precipitous sides. As we scaled to the top of it we scared away a number of turkey buzzards that had been watching our ascent, and it was evidently their nesting place, as we discovered traces of old nests and a good many bones of the hapless denizens of the plains. We started several of the big boulders at the edge rolling and plunging down, and, though most of them broke up in their downward career, they stopped only when, after a great plunge, they settled in the bed of the river. Sometimes as they thundered down they would startle a rabbit from his repose, and off he would scamper in great affright. But it was getting near sundown and we were miles from our wagon, and even when we reached that we would be ten miles from home, so we set out on our return with spirits not lacking, but appetites sorely pressing. The miles of climbing up hill and down hill in the pure air had done us more good than months in a gymnasium, and when, long after dark, we reached our home in Fresno town, what a supper we did eat.

Charles Elmer Jenney.

THE BENGAL TIGER.
(_Felis tigris._)

The Bengal Tiger (_Felis tigris_) inhabits the hotter regions of Southern Asia, but the species is found with certain color variations throughout the lower levels of all Asia from Siberia to the River Euphrates and as far south as Sumatra and Java. Next to the lion it is the strongest and most ferocious of carnivorous animals, and, on account of the heavily wooded country in which it lives being densely populated, the Tiger is even more destructive of human life. In Bengal alone three hundred and forty-seven persons were reported killed by Tigers in a single year, and this in spite of the best efforts of the government and people to mitigate the evil by poisoning, hunting and trapping.

Mr. William T. Hornaday, who hunted Tigers on his collecting trip in India, says in his book, “Two Years in the Jungle,” that only a limited number of Tigers, and those of the old and decrepit sort, ever kill men at all, but once they have tasted human flesh they continue to kill until some hunter reciprocates and brings peace again to the ravaged district. According to their habits in procuring food the people of India divide Tigers into three classes—the “game killer,” the “cattle lifter” and the “man killer.” The “game killer” lives in the dense forest, catches his own deer and wild hogs and is very self-respecting and honest, for a Tiger. The “cattle lifter” is a fat and lazy cat, who hangs around villages and kills a steer from the herds whenever he is hungry. Dragging away the carcass he returns to it until it is all eaten, when he kills again, while the timid and defenseless natives flee in terror or hover about, unable to protect their herds. It is after these fat “cattle lifters” get old and mangy that they turn “man eater,” finding it easier to catch the herdsman than to drag off a bullock. Then after the first taste they haunt the paths and villages, pouncing upon men, women and children until there is no safety, except within doors, until some hunter has slain the foe.

Among the English of India Tiger hunting is a favorite sport. A most picturesque and safe way is to mount on an Elephant and be driven about through the country beating up the Tigers from cover and shooting them with the huge four-bore rifles which the English sportsmen affect. The principal danger lies in the stampeding of the elephant or the attack of a wounded Tiger on the elephant himself. The more common way is to build a shooting platform by some water hole or carcass and lie in wait for the Tiger, or, better yet, have a small army of beaters drive him from his lair and past the spot where the platform has been erected.