Chapter VI: Introduction (4)

Astronomers and microscopists make use of the strongest lines of the spider's web to form some of their delicate instruments. The thread is drawn in parallel lines at right angles across the field of the eye-piece at equal distances, so as to make a multitude of fine divisions, scarcely visible to the naked eye, and so thin as to be no obstacle to the view of the object. One means of classifying spiders is by the number of eyes they possess. These are usually two, six, or eight in number. The fangs with which the spider seizes its prey are hollow, and emit a venomous fluid into the body of the victim, which speedily benumbs and kills it. In Palestine and other countries a kind of spider is found which is entirely nocturnal in its habits, and never either hunts or feeds in daylight, but makes itself a little home, where it abides safely till sunset. It is called the trap-door spider, from the curious way in which it protects the entrance to its nest. It bores a hole in the dry earth of a bank a foot or more in depth, lines the hole with silk, and forms a lid, or trap-door, which secures the spider from all intruders. I have one of these nests in which the door is a wonderful piece of mechanism, quite round and flat, about as large as a threepenny piece, made of layers of fine earth moistened and worked together with silk, so that it is tough and elastic and cannot crumble. The hinge is made of very tough silk, and is so springy that when opened it closes directly with a snap. The outside is disguised with bits of moss, glued on so that no one can see where the door is. The only way of opening it is with a pin, and even then the spider will hold on inside with his claws, so that it is not easy to overcome his resistance. Amongst some insects sent to me from Los Angelos is a huge "Mygale," a hairy monster of very uninviting aspect. When its legs are outspread it measures nearly six inches across, and one can well believe the stories one hears of its killing small birds if it finds them on their nests. A gentleman living in Bermuda is said to have tamed a spider of the species "Mygale," and made it live upon his bed-curtain and rid him of the flies and mosquitoes which disturbed his nightly rest. He thus describes this remarkable pet: "I fed him with flies for a few days, until he began to find himself in very comfortable quarters, and thought of spinning a nest and making his home. This he did by winding himself round and round, combing out the silk from the spinnerets at the end of his body till he had made a nest as large as a wine-glass, in which he sat motionless until he saw a fly get inside our gauzy tent; then I could fancy I saw his eyes twinkle as his victim buzzed about, till, when it was within a yard or so of him, he took one spring and the fly was in his forceps, and another leap took him back to his den, where he soon finished the savoury morsel. Sometimes he would bound from side to side of the bed and seize a mosquito at every spring, resting only a moment on the net to swallow it. In another corner of the room was the nest of a female Mygale of the same species. She spun some beautiful little silk bags, larger than a thimble, of tough yellow silk, in each of which she laid more than a dozen eggs. When these hatched the young spiders used to live on her back until they were old enough to hunt for themselves. I kept my useful friend on my bed for more than a year and a half, when, unfortunately, a new housemaid spied his pretty brown house, pulled it down, and crushed under her black feet my poor companion." This kind of spider, or an allied species, captures large butterflies in the tropical woods by hanging strong silken noozes from branches of trees, and they have been seen to kill small birds by this method. One of our British spiders lives under water in a dome-like cell of silk, which is filled with air like a diving-bell by the spider carrying down successive globules of air between its legs, which it liberates under the dome until it is filled; and the young are hatched there.

The spider, on its way through the water, never gets wet. It is hairy, and is enveloped in a bubble of air, in which it moves about protected from wet and well supplied with air to breathe. As the spider's supply of food is always precarious, they are able to live a long time without eating. One is known to have lived eighteen months corked up in a phial, where it could obtain no food; but though thus able to fast, the spider is a voracious feeder, and will eat his own kith and kin when hard pressed by hunger.

I believe it is now thought that the spider of the Scriptures was a kind of spiny lizard called the Gecko. One of this species was sent to me from California, and lived for a few weeks, but as nothing would induce it to eat, to my great regret it pined and died. It was about as large as an ordinary full-grown toad, of a speckled grey colour, with rich brown markings, its head something like a lizard, with large thorny projections which extended all along the spine. The feet were very remarkable, each toe being furnished with a sucker which enabled the Gecko to walk with perfect ease in any position on a wall or pane of glass without losing its hold; and travellers say that it is a frequent inmate of Eastern houses, and may be seen catching flies as it creeps along walls and ceilings.

Many kinds of spiders run with ease upon the surface of ponds and ditches, and one forms a kind of raft of a few dead leaves woven together, on which it sits and is blown by the wind hither and thither, and thus is enabled to prey upon various aquatic insects.

The surface of grass lawns may be seen on autumnal mornings covered with tiny webs gemmed with dew. We may therefore estimate the immense number of flies captured by these traps so thickly spread over the grass, and see in them another proof of the adaptation of each created thing for its special purpose, and how wonderfully the balance of nature is maintained, so that one creature keeps another in check, and all work harmoniously together, according to the will of our great Creator.

TAME BUTTERFLIES.

In _The Century_, for June, 1883, Mr. Gosse described a monument, in which the sculptor had carved a child holding out her hand for butterflies to perch on. He went on to say that this was criticised as improbable, even by so exact an observer as the late Lord Tennyson. It may therefore be of some interest to record the following facts from my personal experience.

One summer I watched the larvæ of the swallow-tailed butterfly through their different stages, and reserved two chrysalides to develop into the perfect insect. In due time one of these fairy-like creatures came out. I placed it in a small Indian cage, made of fine threads of bamboo. A carpet of soft moss and a vase of flowers in the centre made a pleasant home for my tiny "Psyche."

I found that she greatly enjoyed a repast of honey; when some was placed on a leaf within her reach, she would uncoil her long proboscis and draw up the sweet food with great apparent enjoyment.

She was so tame that it became my habit, once or twice a day, to take her on my finger; and while I walked in the garden she would take short flights hither and thither, but was always content to mount upon my hand again. She would come on my finger of her own accord, and, if the day was bright, would remain there as long as I had patience to carry her, with her wings outspread, basking in the sunbeams, which appeared to convey exquisite delight to the delicate little creature.

I never touched her beautiful wings. She never fluttered or showed any wish to escape, but lived three weeks of tranquil life in her tiny home; and then having, as I suppose, reached the limit of butterfly existence, she quietly ceased to live.

On the day of her death the other butterfly emerged, and lived for the same length of time. Both were equally tame, but the second showed more intelligence, for she discovered that by folding her wings together she could easily walk between the slender bars of the cage; and having done so she would fly to a window, and remain there basking in the sun, folding and unfolding her wings with evident enjoyment, until I presented my finger, when she would immediately step upon it and be carried back to her cage.

The tameness of these butterflies I ascribed in great measure to the fact of their having been hatched from chrysalides, and having therefore never known the sweets of liberty. I often wondered if really wild specimens could be won by gentle kindness and made happy in confinement, and one bright summer's day I resolved to try. A "Painted Lady" had been seen in the garden the day before, and I soon caught sight of her making rapid flights from one bed of flowers to another, and when resting for a few minutes, folding and unfolding her wings on the gravel path, I crept slowly up to her with a drop of honey on my finger to try and make friends; but my "lady" was coy, "she would and she wouldn't," and after letting me come within a few inches with my tempting repast, she floated away, out of sight, and I feared she would not be willing to give me another chance; however, I waited quietly, and in a few minutes she alighted at a little distance. I again drew near very slowly, and again she sailed away, but the third time she gained confidence enough to reach out her proboscis and taste the honey, and finally crept upon my finger. I very gently placed the light bamboo cage over her and brought her indoors; she, all the while, entranced with the sweet food, remained quietly on my finger, and when satisfied, crept upon a flower in the middle of the cage, and after a few flutterings round her cage seemed content and folded her delicate wings to rest. Whilst engaged in her capture I had observed a "Red Admiral" hovering over some dahlias, and thinking "Cynthia"[2] might like a companion, I tried my blandishments upon him. I had not much hope of success, for though a bold, fearless fellow, he is very wary, and his powerful wings bear him away in swift flight when alarmed. Many a circle did I make around that dahlia bed! "Admiral" always preferred the opposite side to where I stood, and calmly crossed over whilst I went round. At last, by long and patient waiting, he, too, allowed me to come near and present my seductive food to his notice--the wiry proboscis was uncoiled and felt about for the honey; once plunged into that, all volition seemed to cease, he allowed me to coax him upon my finger, and he, too, was safely caged; but he behaved very differently from "fair Cynthia." The moment his repast was ended he flapped with desperate force against the bars, and in a minute he was out and on the window-pane, fluttering to escape. The cage had to be secured with fine net, and he was replaced and soon quieted down. Twice a day these delicate little pets would come upon my hand to receive their sweet food, and appeared perfectly content in captivity.

[Footnote 2: The former Latin name for the "Painted Lady" butterfly]

ANT-LIONS.

(MYRMELEON FORMICARIUS.)

Many years ago a friend sent me some of these remarkable insects from the Riviera, and for sixteen months I fed them as regularly as possible, but the cold of a remarkably severe winter killed them, to my great disappointment, as I had hoped to be rewarded by a sight of the perfect insect.

Ant-lions are not, I believe, found in any part of England, so I had to wait till I could again procure some from the south of France, where they are frequently met with in dry, sandy places.

Early in March this year (1890) three specimens were sent me and were at once placed in a box of dry silver sand, where they buried themselves and remained quietly resting for some hours.

Many of my readers may be interested to know what the ant-lion is like, and why I thought it worth while to take great pains to rear it. These young specimens were flat, grey, six-legged creatures about the size of a small lady-bird, covered with hairs, and possessing two strong forceps projecting from their heads. They are so formed that they cannot go forward, but move always backward by a series of jerks. As they live upon ants and are so strangely formed, they have to resort to stratagem in order to entrap their prey, and this they do by means of pits formed in the sand in which they live; into these pits the ants fall, and are seized by the forceps of the ant-lion, who lies in wait at the bottom.

Many a time have I watched the formation of these pits, and will try to describe the process. The insect begins describing a small circle on the surface of the sand by jerking himself backwards and flinging the sand away with his flat head and closed forceps, which form a kind of shovel. Each circle is smaller than the last, until the pit is like an inverted cone, and the ant-lion lies buried at the bottom, only his forceps being visible. When an ant has fallen headlong down into the pit it makes frantic efforts to escape, and if the ant-lion sees that it is likely to get beyond his reach, he then with his forceps flings some sand at it with such unerring aim the poor victim is sure to roll over and over until it reaches the jaws of its captor, who feasts upon it and then flings the remains of the body out of the pit.

One difficulty was how to ensure a supply of ants, but this was overcome by filling a box with part of an ants' nest, and as these insects settled down and seemed content with their quarters, they were ready when wanted, and three times a day the lions had to be fed! One learns to sacrifice one's feelings in the cause of science, but to the last it was a real distress to me to have to put the poor little ants where they would be devoured; but Nature is cruel, and from the real lion to his insect namesake, preying upon one another seems the prevailing law of her realm.

As the ant-lions grew, the pits increased in size. At first they were about as large as a threepenny-piece, but ended by measuring more than two inches across.

I could not tell whether the insect moulted its skin, as it was always hidden, but in July, after four months' feeding, the ant-lions changed into chrysalides, which looked like perfectly round balls of sand.

The box was placed in a warm greenhouse, and in seven weeks' time the perfect insects appeared. They were like small dragon-flies, with slender bodies, four black-spotted gauzy wings, two large black eyes and short antennæ.

I had read about their being nocturnal insects, feeding on flies, so they had that diet provided for them in the glass globe in which they were kept, but I could never feel sure that they ate the flies, and fearing they would be starved I tried giving them a little sweet food, a drop of raspberry syrup at the end of a twig; it seemed to be the right thing, for they greedily sucked it in, but in spite of all my care they only lived four weeks; which, however, is probably the term of their existence.

Whilst I was writing this paper a singular incident occurred. I heard a strange, wild note, and something brilliant dashed past me to the end of the room, and there, on a white marble bust sat a lovely kingfisher--a bird I had hardly ever seen, even at a distance, and here he had come to pay me a visit in my drawing-room. Would that I could have told him how welcome he was! but, alas! he darted about the room in wild alarm, flew against the looking-glasses, and though I tried to guard him from a plate-glass window, that has often proved fatal to birds, I was too late; he came with a crash against it and fell down quite dead, his neck being broken by the force of the blow.

I had heard that a kingfisher had been seen at my lake, and hoped that the bird might build and become established there; it was, therefore, a keen regret to me that this bright visitant had met with such an untimely fate.

ROBINS I HAVE KNOWN.

If I once begin to speak about these winning, confiding little birds, I shall hardly know when to stop. There can scarcely be a more delightful pet than a wild robin which has learnt to love you, and will come indoors and be your quiet companion for hours together. One can feel happy in the thought that he has his liberty and his natural food out of doors, and that he gives you his companionship freely because he likes to be with you, and shows that he does, by singing his sweet songs perched on the looking-glass or some vase of flowers.

Autumn is the best time to begin taming such a little friend. When one of those brown-coated young birds in his first year's plumage (before the red feathers show) takes to haunting the window-ledge, or looks up inquiringly from the gravel path outside, then is the time to throw out a mealworm, four or five times a day, when the bird appears. He will soon associate you with his pleasant diet, and come nearer, and grow daily less fearful, until, by putting mealworms on a mat just inside the room, he will come in and take them, and at last learn to be quite content to remain. The first few times the window should be left open to let him retreat, for unless he feels he can come and go at will he will probably make a dash at a closed window, not seeing the glass, and be fatally injured, or else too frightened to return.

Like all other taming, it must be carried on with patience.

One summer, many years ago, we occupied an old-fashioned house in the country, where, in perfect quietude, one could make acquaintance with birds and study their habits and manners without interruption. From the veranda of a large, low-ceilinged sitting-room one looked out upon a garden of the olden type, full of moss-grown apple-trees, golden daffodils, lupines and sweet herbs, that pleasant mixture of the kitchen and flower garden which always seems so enjoyable. It was an ideal home for birds, no cat was ever visible, and from the numbers of the feathered folk one could believe that countless generations had been reared in these apple-trees and lived out their little lives in perfect happiness. I soon found a friend amongst the robins; one in particular began to pay me frequent visits as I sat at work indoors. At first he ventured in rather timidly, took a furtive glance and then flew away, but finding that crumbs were scattered for him, and while he picked them up a kindly voice encouraged his advances, he soon became at ease, made his way into the room and seemed to examine by turns, with birdish curiosity, all the pieces of furniture and the various ornaments on the mantelpiece and tables. Much to my pleasure he began to sing to me, and very pretty he looked, sitting amongst the flowers in a tall vase, warbling his charming little ditty, keeping his large black eyes fixed upon me as if to see if I seemed impressed by his vocal efforts.

Once he stopped in the middle of his song, looked keenly at a corner of the ceiling, and after a swift flight there, he returned with a spider in his beak; one can well believe what good helpers the insect-eating birds must be to the gardener, by destroying countless hosts of minute caterpillars and grubs that would otherwise prey upon the garden produce. Bobbie continued his visits to me throughout the summer, remaining happy and content for hours at a time, pluming himself, singing, and at times investigating the contents of a little cupboard, where he sometimes discovered a cake which was much to his taste, on which he feasted without any leave asked, though truly it would have been readily given to such a pleasant little visitor. He soon showed such entire confidence in me that he would perch on the book I was reading, and alight on my lap for crumbs even when many people were in the room.

When we had to leave this country home I wished that dear Bobbie could have been packed up to go elsewhere with our other possessions, but since this could not be, let us hope he still inhabits the old garden and cheers other home-dwellers with his confiding manners and morning and evening songs of praise.

ROBERT THE SECOND.

After slight intimacies with various robins who were visitors to the conservatory and found their way in and out at the open windows, I was led to special friendship with a brown-coated young bird I used often to see close to the open French window where I was sitting. He was coaxed into the room by mealworms being thrown to him until he made himself quite at home indoors. By the time he had attained his red breast the weather had become too cold for open windows, but Bobbie would sit on the ledge and wait till I let him in, and then he would be my happy little companion for the whole morning, flitting all about the room, along the corridor, into the hall--in fact, he was to be found all over the house; but when hungry he returned to me as his best friend, because I was the provider of his delightsome mealworms. It was always amusing to visitors to see me feed my small fowl! He would be on the alert to see where his prey was to be found, and he would hunt for it perseveringly if it happened to fall out of sight. He was often to be seen perched on the Californian mouse's cage, and I wondered what could be the attraction; at last I discovered that he coveted mousie's brown biscuits, and after that he was allowed one for his own use, kept in a special corner, where a cup of water was also provided for his small requirements.

However tame wild birds may seem there will be times when all at once a sort of intense longing to get out seems to possess them. When this was the case Bobbie would fly backwards and forwards uttering his plaintive cry (one of the six kinds of notes by which robins express their feelings), and his distress was so evident that the window was always opened at once to let him go out.

I am sorry to have to confess that robins are most vindictive towards each other! Bobbie maintained a very angry warfare with a hated rival out-of-doors, in fact his chief occupation in life seemed to be watching for his enemy. He might often be seen sitting under a small palm in a pot on the window-ledge, and whilst looking the picture of gentle innocence he was, I fear, cherishing envy, hatred, and malice in his naughty little heart, for, all at once, there would be a grand fluttering and pecking at the window whilst the two little furies, one inside and the other out, expended their strength in harmless warfare which only ceased when they were too exhausted to do more, and then followed on both sides a triumphant song of defiance or victory.

I must now weave into this biography the life-history of a poor robin which, I suppose, must have been caught in a trap, for it had lost the lower mandible of its beak, and had only a little knob remaining of the upper mandible. It haunted the windows, and looked so hungry and miserable from its inability to pick up its food, that I thought it kindest to coax it into a cage where it could be fed with suitable food. By placing mealworms in a cage I at last induced it to hop in, and for five months it had a very happy life indoors, feeding on soaked brown bread and all the insect diet I could secure for it. When the cage was cleaned each morning Bobbie was let out, and would take a bath in a glass dish, and then fly to the top of the looking-glass, where he would often remain all day unless we were quick enough to secure his cage-door when he went in to feed. By the middle of May I thought caterpillars would be plentiful enough for him to find his own living, so one day he was released, but unhappily Robert the Second was close by, and the moment he saw the invalid in his cage on the lawn with the door open, he rushed in and savagely fought the poor defenceless bird. Before we could interfere he drove our pet out of his cage, and terrible was the battle that went on; the beakless bird was driven far away, and I was quite unhappy about his fate, for he was now beyond my loving care, and I never expected to see him again. Two months passed by, and I only once caught a glimpse of the invalid, but at last he came just as before to the window, looking thin and ill, with ruffled feathers, and evidently again at starvation point. Once more he entered his cage and began his old life, only now he was hung under the veranda so as to enjoy fresh air and the songs of his companions. For two months I endeavoured to keep the dear little creature happy; we were all so fond of him, and it seems very touching to think that in his times of extremity he should have come willingly into captivity and felt sure that a kind welcome would be accorded him. But no amount of care could bring him through the moulting season, the lack of a beak to plume his feathers and his great difficulty in picking up even the mealworms made him weak and sickly. He got out of his cage one day into the garden, and a few days after we found his poor little body lying dead close to the window where he had always found the help he needed, and yet we could not but be glad that his sorrowful little life was ended.

When robins have been thus tamed for years the families they rear are like pet birds; they are fed by their parents close to the windows, and then come indoors, as if they knew they would be welcome everywhere.

There is one feature in the robin's character that, as far as I know, is shared by no other bird; I mean his adopting a certain spot as his district and always keeping to it, just as the stickle-backs portion out a pond and jealously defend the territory they have chosen. Here, there is a special robin to be found at each of the lodges; one haunts the Mission Hall and will often sing vigorously from the reading-stand while classes are going on. A very tame one lives in the coachman's house, running about the floor like a little brown mouse, and sitting inside the fender on cold days to warm himself. He must have met with trouble in his early youth, for when first seen he was very lame, and had lost the sight of one eye. Through kind care he has become well and strong, but he is much at the mercy of his enemies, who often attack him on his blind side. The conservatory, dining-room, and drawing-rooms have each their little redbreast visitor; the latter is so tame he will take meal-worms from my hand, and sits on my inkstand singing a sweet, low song whilst I write. As long as each bird keeps to his domain there is peace, but woe to any intruder! The conflicts are desperate, and I have often to mediate, and separate two little furies rolling over and over on the ground. I suppose it is in this way that the idea has arisen about the young robins killing the old ones; I cannot ascertain that it has any foundation--in fact, every robin fights his neighbour all the year through, except when paired and busy with domestic duties. As dead redbreasts are not found specially in autumn, I do not think there can be any truth in the superstition.

FEEDING BIRDS IN SUMMER AND WINTER.

On wintry mornings, when leaf and twig are decked with hoar-frost and the ground is hard and dry, affording no food for the birds, it is a piteous sight to see them cowering under the evergreens with ruffled feathers, evidently starving and miserable, quietly waiting for the death that must overtake many of them unless we come to their rescue.

It is one of my delights to feed the small "feathered fowls" through all the winter months, and I only wish all my readers could enjoy with me the lovely scenes of happy bird life to be witnessed through the French window opposite my writing-table. These gatherings of birds are the result of many years of persistent kindness and thought for the welfare of my bird pets. Their tameness cannot be attained all at once; it takes time to establish confidence; it needs thought about the kinds of food required by various species of birds, regularity in feeding, and quiet gentleness of manner to avoid frightening any new and timid visitors. Doubtless there are very many lovers of birds who share this pleasure with me, but for those who may not happen to know how to attract the feathered tribes I will go a little into detail.

This being a large garden near game preserves, and surrounded by a wide, furze-covered common, I have been able to attract and tame the ordinary wild pheasants by putting out Indian corn, buckwheat, and raisins, till now they come to the doorstep and look up with their brilliant, red-ringed eyes, and feed calmly whilst I watch them. It is a really beautiful sight to see three or four cock birds, with their golden-bronze plumage glistening like polished metal as the morning sun rests upon them, and as many of their more sober-coloured mates feasting on the dainties they find prepared for them; as a rule, they are very amicable and feed together like barndoor fowls. When satisfied, the brown hens run swiftly away to cover, while the cocks, with greater confidence, walk quietly away in stately fashion, or remain under the trees.

Wood-pigeons are usually very shy and wary birds, yet these also come, six and eight at a time, and feed at my window, Indian corn and peas being their specialities. I have large quantities of beech-nuts and acorns collected every autumn, and thus I can scatter this food also for pigeons and squirrels all through the winter. Jays, jackdaws, rooks, and magpies also approve of acorns and beech-nuts, so it is doing a real kindness to tribes of birds to reserve this food for them until their other stores are exhausted, and we can thus bring them within our view and study their interesting ways, their modes of feeding, and, I fear I must add, their squabbles also, for hungry birds are very pugnacious.

Blackbirds and thrushes are very fond of Sultana raisins; they also like split groats and brown bread crumbs, as also do starlings and, I believe, most of the smaller birds. Fat in any shape or form will attract the various species of titmice to the window. I always keep a small Normandy basket full of suet and ham-fat hanging on a nail at the window. It is a great rendezvous for these charming little pets, and it is also supplied with Barcelona nuts for nuthatches, who fully appreciate them and carry them off to the nearest tree with rugged bark into which they fix the nuts, and then hammer at the shell till they can extract the contents.

In very hard frosts I used always to put out a pan of water, as I feared the birds suffered from thirst and needed this help. One day, however, I was comforted to see some starlings, after a good meal of groats, run off to the grass plot and eagerly peck at the hoar-frost, which, while it exists, thus supplies the lack of water.

Bewick says linnets are so named from their fondness for linseed, and I think most of the finches like it. The greenfinch is soon attracted by hemp seed, and all the smaller birds by canary seed. I hope this paper may induce many kind hands to minister to the needs of our feathered friends during the winter months. It is sad to think of their dying for lack of the food we can so easily afford them, and they will be sure to repay us by their sweet songs and confiding tameness when summer days return.

One is apt to think that winter is the only time when birds need our help and bounty, but there is almost as much real distress after a long drought in summer, especially amongst the insect-eating birds.

I was led to think of this by the pathetic way in which a hen blackbird came to the French window of my room early in June last and stood patiently waiting and clicking time after time in trouble of _some_ kind I knew, and, supposing it might be food, I threw out a plentiful supply of soaked brown bread. At once the poor bird went to it, devouring ravenously for her own needs, and then, filling her beak as full as it would hold, she flew off with a supply for her young brood. Then came thrushes, robins, sparrows, a whole bevy of feathered folk all doing the same thing--carrying the provisions in every direction for unseen families at starvation point, and I began to realize that the month of continued sunshine in which we had rejoiced had brought great distress upon the birds by drying up the lawns so that no worms could be found, and, as it was early in the year, but few insects were to be had, so that just when each pair of birds had a clamorous brood to provide for the food supply had fallen short. Now I understood the pathos of the hen blackbird's appeal; her dark eyes and note of distress were trying to say to me, "I know you care for us; you seemed so kind last winter; when we were without food you fed us and saved our lives; but now I am in far deeper distress--my children are crying for food, the grass is dried up, and the ground so hard that I cannot find a single worm, I am thin and worn with hunger myself; do help me and my little ones, and we will sing you sweet songs in return to cheer you when wintry days come back again. Does she understand? I've said all this several times before, but I thought I would make one last appeal before my children die. Yes; she has left the room! I will wait. Ah! here it is, just the soft food that will suit my little ones: how they _will_ rejoice and all want to be fed at once. I hope my friend can understand that I am thanking her with all my heart." Love has a universal language and can interpret through varied signs, and thus I quite believe the mother bird's heart wished to express itself.

Ever since that day I have been careful in nesting time to supply suitable and varied food for the families of young birds in times of drought, for it seems mournful to think of their dying from want, in the season of flowers and green leaves, when nature is to us so attractive, and rendered all the more so by their sweet songs.

RAB, MINOR.

This familiar name recalls the delightful story of "Rab and his Friends" in "Horæ Subsicivæ," with its naïve description of a very original "tyke" of a doggie--a biography which had so lived in my recollection that when a queer little fluffy dumpling of a puppy was given me I could not help giving it the old familiar name, little knowing how aptly true the name would prove to be in after years.

Is there anything more comical than a young Scotch terrier puppy, with its preternatural gravity, its queer, ungainly attempts at play, its tumbles, and blue-eyed simplicity, and, best of all, its sage look, with head on one side, trying to consider the merits of some doggie idea which is puzzling his infant brain? Rab went through all the stages of puppyhood, showing the usual amount of mischief and fun; he might be met carrying about some unfortunate slipper frayed to pieces by his busy teeth, or burying a favourite bone under a wool mat in the drawing-room, or, worse still, it is recorded in domestic chronicles that he buried a hymn-book in the garden, whereupon the cook remarked that she believed he had more religion in him than half the Christians; but that reasoning was not apparent to any one but herself.

Rab's most notable adventures took place after he had emerged from puppyhood. He had a most indomitable spirit of disobedience; he would hunt rabbits or anything else he could find in the woods, and one day he reached home with a snare tightly drawn round his neck, and panting distressingly for breath; the wire was cut only just in time to save his life.

Another time he was poisoned by something he had eaten, and had a long suffering illness.

His fights with other dogs were fierce and frequent, and whilst engaged in a scrimmage with a hated rival, Rab was run over by a passing cart, and limped home in a very dejected state; no bones were broken, but he was an invalid for some months in consequence.

At last it was thought needful to tie him up, and he had his appointed house and a long chain, and with frequent exercise he became quite content. One morning our brave little friend was found nearly dead, with two terrible wounds in his neck, which must have been made by a sharp knife, driven twice through his throat, but, strangely enough, had each time just missed severing the wind-pipe. He had nearly died from loss of blood, and was scarcely able to breathe; still, our kind servants did not give him up; warm milk and beef tea were given him constantly through the day; and by night he had revived a little, and was evidently going to live. We could never trace the origin of this outrage, and could only suppose that burglars had purposed breaking into our house, and, enraged at Rab's barking, had at last got hold of, and, as they thought, killed him, and flung the body into an adjoining field. Poor little doggie! he suffered grievously for his brave defence, and for months the wounds were a great distress to him and to us; but all that loving care could do was done, and once more his wonderful constitution enabled him to regain health and strength. We kept at that time several very large mastiffs, and the next adventure occurred early one morning, when we were aroused by a terrific noise in the stable-yard, and the message brought to us was to the effect that Rab was quite dead. He had been worried by one of the mastiffs which had got loose in the night. I rose quickly and went to see the poor little victim's body, and looking at it, I saw a little quiver in the eyelid that led to a gleam of hope. I had him carried indoors, and again teaspoons of milk, &c., were given, and actually he began to revive, and a feeble wag of his tail, seemed to say, "I'm very bad, but not dead yet." The sad part was that the shaking and worrying he had received had reopened the previous wounds, and though after a time he was able to get about, he was quite a wreck; one ear was gone, and the other, strange to say, was but a fragment, like his namesake in "Rab and his Friends." Still, he lived to be nearly fifteen, and then rheumatism and loss of teeth made his life a distress to him, and he was peacefully dismissed to the rest he had bravely earned by his life of courageous devotion to what he thought the path of duty.

A VISIT TO JAMRACH.

There is an old and true saying--"Everything comes to him who waits." I thought of this saying while on my way to visit the well-known place near the London Docks where Mr. Jamrach is supposed to keep almost every rare animal, bird, and reptile, ready to supply the wants of all customers at a moment's notice. For many long years I had wished to pay him a visit, but ill-health and other causes had proved a hindrance and I could hardly believe my wish was going to be realized when I found myself on the way to his menagerie. After driving through a labyrinth of narrow, dirty streets, we were at last obliged to get out and walk till we came to the shop, and then we did indeed find ourselves in the midst of "animated nature." We had landed amongst the cockatoos, macaws, and parrots, and they greeted our arrival with such a chorus of shrieks, screams, and hideous cries that my first desire was to rush away anywhere out of the reach of such ear-piercing sounds. One had to bear it, however, if the curious creatures in the various cages were to be examined, and after a time the uproar grew less, and I could hear a word or two from Mr. Jamrach, who called my attention to some armadillos, huge armour-plated animals, very curious, but somehow not attractive as pets; one could not fondle a thing composed of metal plates, shaped like a pig, with a tendency to roll itself up into a ball on the slightest provocation, and even Mr. Jamrach's argument that if I got tired of it as a pet I could have it cooked, as they were excellent eating, failed to lead me to a purchase. There was a fine, healthy toucan, with his marvellous bill, looking sadly out of place in a small cage in such a dingy place. Did he ever think of his tropical forest home, I wondered, and wish himself in happier surroundings? A long wooden box with wire front contained rows and rows of Grass Parrakeets: many hundreds must have been on those perches, one behind the other, poor little patient birdies, sitting in solemn silence, never moving an inch, for they were wedged in as closely as they could sit and how they could eat and live seemed a mystery. As I was in quest of some small rodents I was asked to follow Mr. Jamrach to another place where the animals were kept. We came to a back yard with dens and cages containing all kinds of tenants, from fierce hyenas and wolves to tame deer, monkeys, cats, and dogs. A chorus of yelps and barks and growls sounded a little uninviting, and a caution from Jamrach, to mind the camel did not seize my young friend's hat, made us aware of a stately form gazing down upon us from a recess we had not before noticed. Every nook and corner seemed occupied, and in order to see a kangaroo rat I was invited up a rickety ladder into a loft where a Japanese cat, a large monkey, and sundry other creatures lived. I did not take to the kangaroo rat, he was too large and formidable to be pleasant, and was by no means tame, but to be pulled out of the cage by his long tail was, I confess, enough to scare the mildest quadruped. At length I was shown some Peruvian guinea-pigs. Wonderful little creatures! With hair three or four inches long, white, yellow and black, set on anyhow, sticking out in odd tufts, one side of their heads white and the other black, their eyes just like boot buttons, they _were_ captivating; and a pair had to be chosen forthwith, and packed in a basket with a tortoise and a huge Egyptian lizard, and with these spoils I was not sorry to leave this place of varied noises and smells. The lizard was about fourteen inches long, a really grand creature. He came from the ruins of ancient Egypt, and looked in his calm stateliness as though he might have gazed upon the Pharaohs themselves. When placed in the sun for a time he would sometimes deign to move a few inches, his massive, grey, scaly body looking very like a young crocodile. I was greatly teased about my fondness for "Rameses," as I called this new and majestic pet; there was a great fascination about him, and as I really wished to know more of his ways and habits, I carried the basket in which he lived everywhere with me indoors and out, and studied all possible ways of feeding him; but alas! nothing would induce him to eat. After gazing for five minutes at the most tempting mealworm, he would at last raise up his mighty head and appear to be revolving great ideas to which mealworms and all sublunary things must give place. Jamrach told me that the lizard would drink milk, so a saucerful was placed before him, and once he did drink a few drops, but generally he walked into and over the saucer as if it did not exist.

I believe the poor creature had been without food so long that it had lost the power of taking nourishment, and to my great regret I found it grew weaker and thinner, and at last it died, and all I could do was to send the remains to a naturalist to be preserved somewhat after the fashion of its great namesake.

The odd little guinea-pigs were named Fluff and Jamrach, and were a source of much amusement. As they could not agree, and as the fights grew serious, Jamrach was banished to the stable and Fluff occupied a cage in the dining-room. When let out it was curious to see how he would always keep close to the sides of the room--never would he venture into the middle, the protection of the skirting board seemed indispensable, and when let out under the tulip-tree he ran round the trunk in the same way, only occasionally making an excursion to the edge of the branches which rested on the ground, the space beyond was a _terra incognita_ which could not be explored by the timid little beastie.

There the two little guinea-pigs enjoyed a happy life on fine days and grew to be friends at last, grunting little confidences one to the other and going to sleep side by side. They had to be watched and their liberty a good deal curtailed when we found a weasel began to appear upon the scene, and as it is proverbially difficult to catch a weasel either awake or asleep, he has not at present been captured. I much fear if he ever attacked the little Peruvians they would stand a poor chance of their lives, for they have no idea of self-defence and would fall an easy prey to such a fierce, relentless persecutor. Perhaps the gardener may devise some way of trapping the wary little creature, so that my little friends may dwell in peace under the shady tree.

As the winter came on the cold prevented Fluff going out-of-doors, and he led a most inactive life. I don't think he ever had more than two ideas in his little brain--he just lived to eat and sleep, and was about as interesting as a stuffed animal would have been. He is the only instance of any animal I have ever known who seemed to be literally without a single habit, apparently without affection, without a temper good or bad, with no wishes or desires except to be let alone to doze away his aimless life.

HOW TO OBSERVE NATURE

There is all the difference between taking a walk simply for exercise, for some special errand, or to enjoy conversation with one's friends, and the sort of quiet observant stroll I am going to ask my kind readers to take with me to-day.

This beautiful world is full of wonders of every kind, full of evidences of the Great Creator's wisdom and skill in adapting each created thing to its special purpose. The whole realm of nature is meant, I believe, to _speak to us_, to teach us lessons in parables--to lead our hearts upward to God who made us and fitted us also for our special place in creation.

In the nineteenth Psalm David speaks of the two great books God has given us for our instruction. In the first six verses he speaks of the teachings of the book of nature and the rest of the Psalm deals with the written Word of God.

We acknowledge and read the Scriptures as the book which reveals the will of God and His wondrous works for the welfare of mankind, but how many fail to give any time or thought to reading the book of nature! Thousands may travel and admire beautiful scenery, and derive a certain amount of pleasure from nature, just glancing at each object, but really observing nothing, and thus failing to learn any of the lessons this world's beauty is intended to teach, they might almost as well have stayed at home save for the benefit of fresh air and change of scene. The habit of minute and careful observation is seldom taught in childhood, and is not very likely to be gained in later life when the mind is filled with other things. Yet if natural objects are presented attractively to the young, how quickly they are interested! Question after question is asked, and unconsciously a vast amount of information may be conveyed to an intelligent child's mind by a simple, happy little chat about some bird or insect. This is _admirably_ shown in a chapter on Education in the Life of Mrs. Sewell. I would strongly urge every mother to read and follow the advice there given.