Part 2

At the Atlanta Cotton Exposition in 1882 the old and the new were strikingly contrasted. The mountain people of the South, in many instances, live after the old fashions of colonial times. They make homespun cloth which is a revelation to us. Some of these people were induced to show their work at the exposition, and they were as much astonished at the apparel of their visitors who gazed upon them and their strange labor as were the visitors at the work and manners of the mountaineers.

Two carders operated hand cards, two spinsters ran the spinning-wheels and one weaver made cloth upon a hand loom. In ten hours these five people made eight yards of very coarse cloth.

THE CINNAMON TEAL.

(_Anas cyanoptera._)

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

The eggs of this species are creamy-white or pale buff, the average size being 1.88×1.38.

A SCRAP OF PAPER.

ELANORA KINSLEY MARBLE.

"A bluebird sings on the leafless spray, Hey-ho, winter will go!"

He arrived that year very early in the season. It was about the twelfth of February that I first heard his plaintive note far up in the maple tree. Could it be Mr. Bluebird, I questioned as I hastened to the window opera-glass in hand? Yes, there he stood, not too comfortably dressed I am afraid, in his blue cap, sky-blue overcoat and russet-brown vest edged with a trimming of feathers soft and white.

There had been a slight fall of snow during the night, and I fancied, from his pensive note, that he was chiding himself for leaving the Mississippi Valley, to which he had journeyed at the first touch of wintry weather in Illinois.

"If it wasn't for the snowdrops, the crocus, the violets, and daffodils," he was saying in a faint sweet warble, "I'd linger longer in the South than I do. They, dear little things, never know, down in their frozen beds, that winter will soon give place to spring till they hear my voice, and so, no matter how bleak the winds or how gray the sky, I sing to let them know I have arrived, my presence heralding the birth of spring and death of winter. It well repays me, I am sure, when, in March under the warm kisses of the sun their pretty heads appear above the ground, and, smiling back at him, out they spring dressed in their new mantles of purple and yellow."

At this moment from the topmost branch of an adjoining maple came a low, sweet, tremulous note very much indeed like a sigh.

"Ah," said he, surveying the new-comer with flattering attention, "that is the young daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird who nested in Lincoln Park last summer. For some reason they decided not to go South this season but remained in Chicago all winter. She strikes me as being a very pretty young-lady bird, and certainly it will be no more than friendly upon my part to fly over there and inquire how she and her family withstood the rigors of a Northern winter."

From Miss Bluebird's demeanor, when he alighted upon a twig beside her, I concluded she greatly disapproved of his unceremonius approach. Prettily lifting her wings and lightly trembling upon her perch she made as if to fly away, but instead only changed her position a little, coyly turning aside her head while listening to what the young gentleman had to say.

Encouraged by this Mr. Bluebird's manner became very friendly indeed, and very soon, reassured by his respectful demeanor and sentiments uttered in a voice of oh, such touching sweetness, the young-lady bird unbent, responding at length in a very amiable manner, I noticed, to her companion's remarks.

The conversation which followed may have been very commonplace or very bright and sparkling, but as there is always an undercurrent of sadness in the bluebird's note, and an air of pensiveness expressed in its actions, one could only conjecture what the tenor of this one might be.

The pair, to my intense satisfaction, the next day met again in the top of the maple tree exchanging confidences in low, tremulous strains of surpassing sweetness, uneasily shifting their stations from time to time, lifting their wings, as is their pretty habit, and trembling lightly upon their perches as though about to rise and fly away.

The following morning, which was the fourteenth day of February, Mr. Bluebird's manner when he greeted his new acquaintance appeared to offend her very much. She was cold and distant, whether from maidenly coyness or a laudable desire to check his too confident, proprietorship sort of air, who can say? In no way daunted, that gay bachelor pressed his suit warmly, picturing in tones of peculiar tenderness the snug little home they would establish together, what a devoted husband he would be, attentive, submissive, following her directions in all things. Miss Bluebird shook her head.

It was all very well, she replied, for him to talk of poetry and romance, but he knew well enough that upon her would devolve all the serious cares of life. While he would be very active in hunting for tenements, submitting, no doubt, to her choice, was it not the custom of all the Mr. Bluebirds to fly ahead in quest of material, gayly singing, while their mates selected and carried and builded the nest? What poetry would there be in life for her, she would like to know, under such circumstances, and then, when all was done, to sit for hours and days on the eggs she had laid in order to rear a brood. Oh, no! She was not ready to give up all the pleasures of life yet, and then--and then--Miss Bluebird lowered her eyes and stammered something about being too young to leave her mother.

What argument Mr. Bluebird brought to bear against this latter reason for rejecting his suit I cannot say, but being a wise bird he only stifled a laugh behind his foot and continued more warmly to press it. Again and again he followed her when she took a short flight, quavering _tru-al-ly_, _tru-al-ly_, no doubt telling her of the many good qualities of the Mr. Bluebirds, how devoted they were, how they ever relied upon the good judgment and practical turn of their mates, never directing, never disputing, but by cheerful song and gesture encouraging and applauding everything they did. Then, too, unlike some other husbands that wear feathers, they regularly fed their mates when sitting upon the nest and did their duty afterward in helping to rear the young.

As he talked Miss Bluebird's coldness gradually melted till at length she coyly accepted his invitation to descend and examine a certain tenement which, hoping for her acceptance, he had the day previous, he said, been to view.

"We can at least look it over," he said artfully, noticing the elevation of her bill at the word "acceptance," "though of course it is too early in the season to occupy it. Mr. Purple Martin lived in it last year and----"

Miss Bluebird interrupted him, a trifle haughtily, I thought.

"Is the tenement you speak of in a stump, fence hole, or tree cavity?" she inquired.

"Neither," he hastened to answer; "it is a box erected by the owner of these premises."

"Ah," said she, graciously, "that is another matter," and very amiably spread her wings and descended upon the roof of the box in question.

"You see," explained Mr. Bluebird, "the man who put up this dwelling knew what he was about. He had no intention the sparrows should occupy it, so he built it without any doorsteps or piazza, as you have no doubt remarked."

"Really," replied Miss Bluebird, "in my opinion that is a great defect. A house without doorsteps----"

"Is just what certain families want," interrupted Mr. Bluebird, smilingly. "Our enemies, the sparrows, cannot fly directly into a nest hole or box like this, as we can, but must have a perch upon which first to alight. It is for that reason, my dear, this house was built without doorsteps. No sparrow families are wanted here."

Miss Bluebird at this juncture thought it proper to be overcome with a feeling of shyness, and could not be prevailed upon to enter the box.

More than once her companion flew in and returned to her side, singing praises of its coziness as a place of abode.

"With new furnishings it will do capitally," said he; "we might even make the Purple Martins' nest do with a little----"

Miss Bluebird's bill at once went up into the air.

"If there is anything I detest," said she, scornfully, "it is old furniture, especially second-hand beds. If that is the best you have to offer a prospective bride, Mr. Bluebird, I will bid you good-day," and the haughty young creature prettily fluttered her wings as if about to fly off and leave him.

"Do not go," he pleaded; "if this house does not please you I have others to offer," and Miss Bluebird, moved apparently by his tender strains, sweetly said _tru-al-ly_ and condescended to fly down and enter the box.

It was scarcely a minute ere she reappeared, and, flying at once to her favorite branch in the maple tree, called to him to follow. A scrap of paper, woven into his nest by the Purple Martin the past season, fluttered to the ground as she emerged from the box, and while the pair exchanged vows of love and constancy up in the maple tree, I picked it up and saw, not without marveling at the sagacity of Mr. Bluebird, who probably had dragged it into sight, a heart faintly drawn in red ink, and below it the words:

"_Thou art my valentine!_"

THE CLAPPER RAIL.

(_Rallus longirostris crepitans._)

This bird, sometimes called the salt-water marsh hen, is found in great abundance in the salt marshes of the Atlantic coast from New Jersey southward. It breeds in profusion in the marshes from the Carolinas to Florida, and has lately been found breeding on the coast of Louisiana on the Gulf of Mexico, Dr. A. K. Fisher having taken an old bird and two young at Grand Isle in 1886. The clapper rail arrives on the south-eastern coast of New Jersey about the last of April, its presence being made known by harsh cries at early dawn and at sunset. Nest-building is commenced in the latter part of May, and by the first of June the full complement of eggs is laid, ranging, says Davie, from six to nine or ten in number, thirteen being the probable limit. Farther south the bird is known to lay as many as fifteen. On Cobb's Island, Virginia, the clapper breeds in great numbers, carefully concealing the nest in high grass. The color of the eggs is pale buffy-yellow, dotted and spotted with reddish-brown and pale lilac, with an average size of 1.72 × 1.20, but there is a great variation in this respect in a large series.

At the nesting-season the rails are the noisiest of birds; their long, rolling cry is taken up and repeated by each member of the community. The thin bodies of the birds often measure no more than an inch and a quarter through the breast. "As thin as a rail" is a well-founded illustrative expression.

"To get a good look at these birds in their grassy retreats," says Neltje Blanchan, "is no easy matter. Row a scow over the submerged grass at high-tide as far as it will go, listen to the skulking clatterers, and, if near by, plunge from the bow into the muddy meadow, and you may have the good fortune to flush a bird or two that rises fluttering just above the sedges, flies a few yards, trailing its legs behind it, and drops into the grasses again before you can press the button of your camera. A rarer sight still is to see a clapper rail running, with head tilted downward and tail upward, in a ludicrous gait, threading in and out of the grassy maze."

The rail can swim fairly well, but not fast. Its wings are short, but useful, and it is so swift-footed that dogs chase it in vain.

THE SWINGING LAMPS OF DAWN.

REV. CHARLES COKE WOODS.

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

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

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

But when the lights began to wane, As sea-tides slowly ebb, I heard the minor notes of pain Issuing from a web; And as my cautious feet drew nigh, I heard the dying song Of one deluded, wayward fly That watched the lamps too long.

THE LATE DR. ELLIOTT COUES.

C. C. MARBLE.

The subject of this sketch, whose death occurred on Christmas, 1899, at Baltimore, Md., was one of the few men who have become famous both in physical and psychical science. He had long been recognized as one of the leading naturalists of America, and of late years had acquired equal distinction as a philosopher.

Early in April last Dr. Coues supplied us with the material for a sketch of his life, to which we are indebted chiefly for what this article contains. He was born in Portsmouth, N. H., Sept. 9, 1842, and was the son of Samuel Elliott Coues and Charlotte Haven Ladd Coues. His father was the author of several scientific treatises which anticipated some of the more modern views of physics, astronomy, and geology; so that young Coues would seem to have inherited his bent of mind towards study and research. The name is of Norman French origin. Dr. Coues' father was a friend of Franklin Pierce, and early in the presidency of the latter received from him an appointment in the United States patent office, which he held nearly to his death in July, 1867. The family moved to Washington in 1833 and Dr. Coues had always been a resident of that city, excepting during the years he served in the West and South as an army officer or engaged in scientific explorations. As a boy he was educated under Jesuit influences at the seminary now known as Gonzaga College. In 1857 he entered a Baptist college, now Columbian University, where he graduated in 1861 in the academic department, and in 1863 in the medical department of that institution. To the degrees of A. B., A. M., Ph. D., and M. D., conferred by this college, his riper scholarship added titles enough to fill a page from learned societies all over the world.

His taste for natural history developed early in an enthusiastic devotion to ornithology, and before he graduated he was sent by the Smithsonian Institution to collect birds in Labrador. Among his earliest writings are the account of this trip, and a treatise on the birds of the District of Columbia, both published in 1861, and both papers secured public recognition in England as well as in this country, thus making a beginning of his literary reputation.

While yet a medical student, Dr. Coues was enlisted by Secretary Stanton as medical cadet, U. S. A., and served a year in one of the hospitals in Washington. On graduating in medicine in 1863, he was appointed by Surgeon-General Hammond for a year as acting assistant surgeon U. S. A. and, on coming of age passed a successful examination for the medical corps of the army. He received his commission in 1864, and was immediately ordered to duty in Arizona. His early years of service in that territory, and afterward in North and South Carolina, were utilized in investigating the natural history of those regions, respecting which he published various scientific papers. Though he wrote some professional articles, during his hospital experience, Dr. Coues seems never to have been much interested in the practice of medicine and surgery. After about ten years of ordinary military service as post surgeon in various places he was, in 1873, appointed naturalist of the U.S. northern boundary commission, which surveyed the line along the forty-ninth parallel from the Lake of the Woods to the Rocky mountains. In 1874 he returned to Washington to prepare the scientific report of his operations. He edited all the publications of the United States geological and geographical survey of the territories from 1876 to 1880 and contributed several volumes to the reports of the survey, notably his "Birds of the Northwest," "Fur Bearing Animals," "Birds of the Colorado Valley," and several installments of a universal Bibliography of Ornithology. The latter work attracted especial attention in Europe, and Dr. Coues was signally complimented by an invitation, signed by Darwin, Huxley, Flower, Newton, Sclater, and about forty other leading British scientists to take up his residence in London and identify himself with the British Museum.

Dr. Coues also projected and had well under way a "History of North American Mammals," which was ordered to be printed by act of Congress when suddenly, at the very height of his scientific researches and literary labors, he was ordered by the war department to routine medical duty on the frontier. He obeyed the order and proceeded to Arizona, but found it, of course, impossible to resume a life he had long since outgrown. His indignant protests being of no avail, he returned to Washington and promptly tendered his resignation from the army in order to continue his scientific career unhampered by red tape.

As an author he is chiefly known by his numerous works on ornithology, mammalogy, herpetology, bibliography, lexicography, comparative anatomy, natural philosophy, and psychical research. He was one of the authors of the Century Dictionary of the English Language, in seven years contributing 40,000 words and definitions in general biology, comparative anatomy, and all branches of zoölogy. During the last few years he contributed several volumes on western history, in all twelve volumes, and by study and research was enabled to correct many errors. In 1877 he received the highest technical honor to be attained by an American scientist in his election to the Academy of National Science and was for some years the youngest academician. The same year saw his election to the chair of anatomy of the National Medical College in Washington, where he had graduated in '63. He then entered upon a professorship and lectured upon his favorite branch of the medical sciences for ten years. He appears to have been the first in Washington to teach human anatomy upon the broadest basis of morphology and upon the principle of evolution. Nearly all his life Dr. Coues has been a collaborator of the Smithsonian Institution of Washington, his name being most frequently mentioned in that connection. Many of the numberless specimens of natural history he presented to the United States government were found new to science and several have been named in compliment to their discoverer.

At the height of his intellectual activity in physical science the spiritual side of Dr. Coues' nature was awakened. He became interested in the phenomena of spiritualism, as well as in the speculations of theosophy. Belonging distinctively to the materialistic school of thought and skeptical to the last degree by his whole training and turn of mind, he nevertheless began to feel the inadequacy of formal orthodox science to deal with the deeper problems of human life and destiny.

Convinced of the soundness of the main principles of evolution, as held by his peers in science, he wondered whether these might not be equally applicable to psychical research, and hence took up the theory of evolution at the point where Darwin left it, proposing to use it in explanation of the obscure phenomena of hypnotism, clairvoyance, telepathy and the like. He visited Europe to see Mme. Blavatsky, founded and became president of the Gnostic Theosophical Society of Washington, and later became the perpetual president of the Esoteric Theosophical Society of America. In 1890 he published an exposé of the impostures of Blavatsky, and from that time his interest in the cult gradually ceased.

Most men can do some things well, but nature is seldom so lavish of her gifts as to produce a genius who does all things equally well. It is rare to find a man like Dr. Coues, who was capable of incessant drudgery in the most prosaic technicalities, yet blessed with the poetic temperament and ardent imagination, able to array the deepest problems in a sparkling style which fascinated while it convinced. His literary labors would have killed most men, but to his grasp of mind nature had kindly joined a strong, healthy body that proved capable of any demand upon his physical endurance that his intellectual activity might make. He was tall, well-formed, classic in features, straight as an arrow, with the air of the scholar without the student's stoop, betraying no trace of mental weariness--a man with the tastes of a sybarite and the soul of a poet; to quote from a leading journal, "the imagination of a Goethe and the research of a Humboldt."

In conversation he was fascinating, possessing much of the personal magnetism ascribed to James G. Blaine. It was the pleasure of the writer to have many interviews and to enjoy a somewhat intimate correspondence with him almost up to the time of his death.

BOBBY'S "COTTON-TAIL."

GRANVILLE OSBORNE.

I.

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

II.