Part 2

The migration of birds, as Baily observes, is by no means the least interesting part of their history. I have noted for many years the migrations of the birds that make a longer or shorter stay with us, summer or winter, and have tabulated their arrivals and departures. And it has been to me a labor of love. Few things cast such attraction around the young and tender spring or over brown and matured autumn, as the coming and going of migratory birds. With delight we welcome the first notes of the purple martin, the bank or sand swallow, and the chimney swift, as they return to us in spring from the far sunny southland; and with feelings of wonder we witness the flight of the wild geese, as they pass over us high in air, or listen to the notes that tell us the whippoorwill and the chuckwills-widow are again the denizens of our groves. And, night after night as I listen to their weird song, feelings almost akin to superstition creep over me, till I can imagine their utterances to be the omen of good or ill to the hearer. There is no more mysterious bird in our land than the chuckwills-widow. Its migration so far northward as southeast Virginia has been doubted by some naturalists, but facts are against them.

And as I look abroad in autumn, and view the bevies of snowbirds that have just returned to us, and hear again the familiar "chip," "chip," as a passing vehicle puts them to sudden flight, how the finger of thought touches again on memory's bell, and I think of boyhood's happy hours, when I welcomed with delight the snowbirds back again to our lanes and fields.

Each feathered songster, as it revisits us from northland or southland, awakens feeling of profoundest interest, and if we have within us a single spark of that divine love of nature that dwells with the poet or the naturalist, we instinctively receive the birds back to their old haunts as we would welcome a long-absent friend. What boy of sensibility, having a spark of the nobler touch of manhood, could have it in his heart to harm the least of these sinless creatures that enliven our homes with their presence and song? Who can look without admiration upon them? Who could wish to destroy them? And when we reflect that the martins, willets, swifts and swallows that sport about our homes in summer, and the mocking bird that trills its polyglot song in our cedar groves by night, have returned to us from tropical or sub-tropical climes--that only a few weeks before they were flitting through the orange groves of Cuba, or building their nests amid the vine-latticed thickets of Florida, we cannot but admire and wonder at that "peculiar instinct," as Howitt calls it, that guides them with such unerring certainty through all the changes of their mysterious round.

For a period of twenty years the average time of the arrival of the purple martin has been about the last five days in March; and its departure for the South the second week in August. A few individuals may remain longer, but it is only when their breeding has been delayed. The earliest appearance of the martin that I have noted was the 8th of March, 1871, the latest the 26th of April, 1885. The last date was a cold and backward spring. This bird rears two broods of four or five each during the four months that it remains with us.

The chimney swift comes a week or ten days later than the martin, and seldom begins to build before the 10th of June. It raises one brood of four to six young, usually in some unused chimney. It remains with us longer than the martin, even until the cool nights of the last of September remind it that "the summer is over and gone." The flight of this bird is employed as a weather sign by country people. When it soars high, they say fair weather will continue, but when it flies low, then rain is near at hand.

The whippoorwill arrives, commonly, the last of March, but often not before the 10th or 15th of April. The chuckwills-widow comes three weeks later. Both of these strange birds rear one brood of two young. The nest is placed upon the bare ground, under a clump of low bushes, or a dense holly, or other low-growing tree. The eggs have the same markings as those of the bull bat, or night hawk, another very interesting migratory bird.

The catbird and the wood sparrows do not reach us till near the end of April, and often May is far advanced before these birds are noticed. The last is one of the sweetest songsters of our groves in summer, rivaling any bird of our clime. It seeks the coolest and darkest wood, where it pours forth its notes hour after hour, being one of the earliest to begin its mating lays.

The humming bird is the latest visitor to come to us in summer. This diminutive aerial voyager is one of the most charming of the migratory tribe, and worthy all the admiration that has been lavished upon it. It loves to sport in the flower gardens, where it sips the nectar from the honeycups of Flora's train. Only one species comes to us, the well-known ruby-throat.

But the young reader interested in these things should begin observation, and make a list for himself of all the migratory birds in his locality. A good form for such a record may be found in Howitt's "Book of the Seasons," an English work, but one from which a great deal about nature can be learned.

We will close our too brief sketch with the inquiry of Mrs. Kimball, of Connecticut:

"O, wise little birds, how do ye know The way to go, Southward and northward, to and fro? Far up in ether piped they, 'We but obey A voice that calleth us far away.'"

ACROSS THE WAY.

GEO. KLINGLE.

A distant line of misty hills, A stretch of meadow low, With wreaths of brush a-skirt the woods, Midst fabrics spun of snow: A vista through the forest trees-- A temple if you choose, With pictured screen and arabesque, Mosaic's dusky hues, Dim mullioned windows half confessed Beyond far-columned aisles, And arches lost and found anew Through tracery's defiles; A roof?... we might perchance ascribe The misty, stooping sky Beyond the wreaths of crystal Swung where winds go singing by. Beneath, where worshiper might tread A glimpse of crystal tile, Caught through the weeds and tangled reeds Which guard the near defile. A myriad forms a-glint and white Close, close beneath the feet; Fantastic hands that reach across A myriad hands to greet; Low shrubs in fleecy, white array, Tall stems with hood and wings, And vines a-glint in crystal lace Wound through fantastic rings; And grasses frosted into gems; Near by a bough bent down With such a wealth of clinging leaves Stained deep in ruddy brown. These and the woods' low breath of song Just now across the way; To-morrow?... visions change, you know, To meet each hour of day.

THE PURPLE MARTIN.

(_Progne subis._)

Beautiful and interesting as this bird is known to be, less has been said about it than of any of our common birds of agreeable song and manners. Its common names are house martin, purple swallow, American martin, and violet swallow. The young male is several years in attaining the uniform glossy violet-black plumage, the steel blue feathers appearing in gradually coalescing patches. It is common to the whole of temperate North America, wintering in Mexico and the Bermudas. It is only accidental in Europe. The adult female is glossy blue-black above, becoming hoary grayish on the forehead, and sometimes on the nape also. The young are similar to the adult female.

Ridgway says that no bird of America is more deserving of protection and of encouragement to live about the habitations of man than the purple martin. One pair of them will destroy more insects in a season than all the English sparrows in a township will kill in their life-time. Besides, their notes are pleasing to the ear, and their actions both when on the wing and when perching upon their boxes extremely interesting. During the breeding-season the male has a continued and varied song of great beauty and considerable power; and it is as much on account of the sweetness of their notes as for their familiarity and usefulness that these birds are such general favorites. In the wild woods where they have not had opportunity to avail themselves of man's hospitality they are as lovely and musical as when semi-domesticated in our door-yards, and, it is said, are in all respects exactly the same birds. When Audubon was traveling through the Middle States, he reported that almost every country tavern had a martin-box on the upper part of its signboard, and commented: "I have observed that the handsomer the box, the better does the inn prove to be." The Indians hung up calabashes for the martins, so they would keep the vultures from the deerskins and venison that were drying. Mr. Nehrling says that the martin is as well satisfied with the simple hollow gourd attached to a pole near a negro hut as with the most ornamental and best arranged martin-house in the beautiful gardens and parks of rich planters and opulent merchants. He claims that where no nesting boxes are provided our martin will not breed, and that it hardly ever accepts nesting-boxes attached to trees, preferring localities where the chance is given to dart in and out uninterrupted by any obstacle.

The struggle between the martins and sparrows is so bitter that one pair of martins watched by Mr. Widmann adopted the plan of never leaving the nest alone, taking turns in going for food, because, as he explains, "it is comparatively easy to keep a sparrow out of a box, but it is impossible for a martin to dislodge him after he has built a nest."

Mr. Keyser says that in the autumn the martins assemble in flocks, sometimes large enough to suggest an ecumenical council, and fall to cackling, twittering, discussing, and in many other ways making preparation for their aerial voyage to another clime. They really seem to regret being compelled to leave their pleasant summer haunts, if one may judge from the length and fervor of their good-byes. "Perhaps they are like human beings who have a strong attachment for home, and must visit every nook and tryst to say _au revoir_ before they take their departure. One can easily imagine how dear to their hearts are the scenes of their childhood, and of their nest-building and brood-rearing." After departing, they sometimes return in a day or two before they begin their southward pilgrimage in real earnest. Do they get homesick after they have gone some distance, and return once more to look upon the familiar scenes? It is one of the mysteries of bird life.

A GLIMPSE AT BEAUTIFUL PICTURES.

ANNE WAKELY JACKSON.

How many of you, I wonder, have a west window? Not one opening upon a blank wall, nor upon a vista of houses, but one from which you can see the sky. If your sky-view extends to the horizon, you are indeed blest; for then your window is no less than a frame for the most beautiful pictures--nature's own.

No landscape painter ever lived who could put upon canvas such beauty as you may see, on the majority of days, from your west window. It will only cost you a little time, and you will be richly repaid for time thus spent.

Of course finer views can be seen from a hilltop, or looking across an open plain. But one cannot often be in these places, while one might spare ten or fifteen minutes to stand by the window at sunset?

After a busy day, I know of nothing more composing to the spirit than the contemplation of some majestic form of beauty. And what could be more tranquillizing than the ever-changing beauty of a sunset?

Unless the day close enveloped in clouds, there will be some picture, well worth looking at, to be seen from your window. When a sunset is unusually gorgeous, we frequently exclaim, "That is the most beautiful one I ever saw!" But when we have watched them day after day, we will find comparisons impossible. Each one will have a special beauty of its own, quite beyond compare. Some will be more brilliant than others, but each one will be perfect in its way, and every one will have something new of beauty to reveal to us, if we look with seeing eyes.

I am particularly blessed with an open view to the west, just screened at its base by a delicate fringe of trees. The sunsets this winter have been a constant joy to me, and I long for others who love the beautiful to share this great pleasure with me.

The artistic nature, and love and appreciation of beauty, are well developed in many people whose lives are so hard and busy and full of care, that the delights of the world of art are out of their reach. It is to these particularly that I would commend the world of nature, which is more wonderful and far more beautiful than any art, and is a free gift to all.

It is an interesting study to note the different effect of the leafless trees against various backgrounds. I am one of the people who think trees are more lovely in winter than in summer. Nothing can be more exquisite, to my mind, than the tracery of bare branches and twigs against the sky.

What a study is offered by the varying lines of different trees--the limbs of some starting from the main stem in graceful curves, while others are twisted and bent at sharp angles.

During the cloudy days, I am apt to think a gray background the best that could be imagined. But next morning, perhaps, the clouds have melted away, and I find my trees wearing an entirely new expression, against the bright blue sky. Where they appeared just dark lines against the gray, they have brightened up, and taken on new and varied colors, seen against the blue; and I notice how much darker the trunks and lower limbs are, compared with the upper branches.

How different, again, they look with the sunset sky behind them! The whole western horizon, and upward for quite a space, is a blaze of orange flame! How black they look, silhouetted thus! Again, we have a pale, cold orange, or pink, fading into golden white! How clearly every twig is brought out!

How is it possible that we can pass such beauty by unnoticed, or be indifferent to it because it is common? It should be the cause of great rejoicing, that this miracle of beauty is an almost daily occurrence.

If the winter sunsets are less gorgeous than those of summer, they are full of refinement of detail. Theirs may be a cold beauty, but it is so clear cut and perfect.

Dear reader, if you possess the frame, don't let the pictures escape you. Remember that any day not absolutely cloudy and dull, will furnish you with a masterpiece. And even after the last bright rays of the dying sunlight have faded away, glance out of the window again, as you pass, for perhaps the calm beauty of the evening star has a message for you too.

GOOSE PLANT IN BLOOM.

All lovers of plants and flowers should visit the greenhouse at Washington Park, Chicago, and see the goose plant. It is growing in one of the small span-roofed structures, and as seen to-day there are over a dozen goslings and three or four geese growing on one plant.

One of the biggest geese is over a yard long and broad in proportion. This plant is one of the most unique, rare and valuable known to scientists. Its correct name is _Aristolochia gigas Sturtevantii_, and it was brought here for the World's Fair. At the Fair, however, it bore only one or two flowers, as it was too young to bear more. It is a native of South America and even there is considered a marvelous product. In one of the greenhouses next to the goose house at Washington Park is a collection of caladiums of the most varied shapes and colors ever dreamed of. Mr. Kanst, the head gardener, says the collection has no duplicate. Many of the plants have leaves as delicately traced as the finest valenciennes laces. A newspaper may be read if covered with one of these transparent leaves. The colors are all shades of red, pink, maroon, crimson and yellow. The collection of water lilies is now at the best and is truly beautiful. Mr. Kanst says that the aquatic plants are as amenable to cultivation as are the terrestrial plants.

* * * * *

A special stage is that of the semi-apes. Probably man's ancestors among the semi-apes closely resembled the existing lemurs, and, like these, led a quiet life climbing trees.

These are immediately followed by the true apes, or simians. It has long been beyond doubt that of all animals the apes are in all respects the most nearly allied to man. Just as on the one side the lowest apes approach very near to lemurs, so on the other side do the highest apes most closely resemble man.

The difference between man and the highest form of apes, the gorilla, is slighter than between the gorilla and the baboon. Below even the baboon, the oldest parent form of the whole ape group must certainly have been thickly covered with hair, and was, in fact, a tailed ape.

It is, after all, some satisfaction to know that a thousand million years may have been consumed in this evolution of man.

* * * * *

The heron seldom flaps his wings at a rate less than 120 to 150 times a minute. This is counting the downward strokes only, so that the bird's wings really make from 240 to 300 distinct movements a minute.

JOHNNY APPLESEED.

Johnny Appleseed, by which name Jonathan Chapman was known in every log cabin from the Ohio river to the northern lakes, is an interesting character to remember. Barefooted, and with scanty clothing, he traversed the wilderness for many years, planting appleseeds in the most favorable locations. His self-sacrificing life made him a favorite with the frontier settlers--men, women, and especially children; even the savages treated him with kindness, and the rattlesnakes, it was said, hesitated to bite him. "During the war of 1812, when the frontier settlers were tortured and slaughtered by the savage allies of Great Britain, Johnny Appleseed continued his wanderings, and was never harmed by the roving bands of hostile Indians. On many occasions the impunity with which he ranged the country enabled him to give the settlers warning of approaching danger, in time to allow them to take refuge in their block-houses before the savages could attack them. An informant refers to one of these instances, when the news of Hull's surrender came like a thunderbolt upon the frontier. Large bands of Indians and British were destroying everything before them, and murdering defenseless women and children, and even the block-houses were not always a sufficient protection. At this time Johnny traveled day and night, warning the people of the impending danger. He visited every cabin and delivered this message; 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, and He hath anointed me to blow the trumpet in the wilderness, and sound an alarm in the forest; for behold, the tribes of the heathen are round about your doors, and a devouring flame followeth after them!' The aged man who narrated this incident said that he could feel even then the thrill that was caused by this prophetic announcement of the wild-looking herald of danger, who aroused the family on a bright moon-light midnight with his piercing cry. Refusing all offers of food, and denying himself a moment's rest, he traversed the borders day and night until he had warned every settler of the impending peril. Johnny also served as colporteur, systematically leaving with the settlers chapters of certain religious books, and calling for them afterward; and was the first to engage in the work of protecting dumb brutes. He believed it a sin to kill any creature for food. No Brahman could be more concerned for the preservation of insect life, and the only occasion on which he destroyed a venomous reptile was a source of long regret, to which he could never refer without manifesting sadness. He had selected a suitable place for planting appleseeds on a small prairie, and in order to prepare the ground, he was mowing the long grass, when he was bitten by a rattlesnake. In describing the event he sighed heavily, and said, 'Poor fellow, he only just touched me, when I, in the heat of my ungodly passion, put the heel of my scythe in him, and went away. Some time afterward I went back, and there lay the poor fellow, dead!'"

"He was a man after all." Hawthorne might have exclaimed of him, too, "his Maker's own truest image, a philanthropic man! not that steel engine of the devil's contrivance--a philanthropist!"--_A. P. Russell's Library Notes._

* * * * *

Robins in the tree-tops, Blossoms in the grass; Green things a-growing Everywhere you pass; Sudden little breezes, Showers of silver dew; Black bough and bent twig Budding out anew; Pine tree and willow tree, Fringed elm and larch, Don't you think that May-time's Pleasanter than March? --_T. B. Aldrich._

RING-NECKED DOVE.

(_Zenaidura macroura_.)

The popular names for this favorite bird are turtle dove, common dove, and Carolina dove. It is an inhabitant of all of temperate North America to a little north of the United States boundary, south through Mexico and Central America to the Isthmus of Panama, Cuba, Jamaica, and some other West Indian islands. The species have even been known to winter as far north as Canada, Mr. John J. Morley, of Windsor, Ontario, informing Professor Baird that he had seen considerable numbers near that place on the 6th of December, 1878, and that he had on other occasions seen it in various places, from three to twelve at a time. It is a common summer resident in Illinois. The majority arrive the last of March or first of April, and depart by the middle of October. In many places it becomes partly domesticated, breeding in the trees in the yard and showing but little fear when approached.

THE RING-NECKED DOVE.

All day throughout the sunny sky, All other sounds above, As, breathing sweet tranquillity, Sweet voices of the dove Have rung the oft-recurring note, A constant vow of love.

Thus its dear mate to ever cheer, As, still together, near they fly, A distant echo, faint, yet clear, Quick falling now so strangely near When sunshine gladdens earth and sky.

But cold doth blow the dreary wind, Or clouds arise, and float above, With shadows darkening light of day; No echo then from greeting love, But, deep in quiet nest secure, For sunshine's cheer awaits the dove.

Oh, dove! Oh, love! forever bright, Like sunny skies your life appears, And songs of joy your hearts delight. If storms or shadows dark affright, My love endures and conquers fears!

SOME EARLY RISERS.