CHAPTER III.

SUB-KINGDOM IX.—VERTEBRATA.

Though reptiles are generally regarded with aversion, there is much of interest in their natural history, and even they may serve some useful purpose. There are four genera, and about fifteen hundred species. The respiratory organs are the same in all, and are such as belong to air-breathing animals. With few exceptions they are carnivorous; generally sluggish in their habits, and their sensations dull. Nearly all the winter they are in a state of lethargy.

AMPHIBIA.—There are several species of cold blooded amphibious vertebrates which are properly neither fishes nor reptiles, but, having some things in common with both, should be mentioned here. Their respiration is most peculiar, as they have only gills when young, and, when adult, lungs. In their immature state they are fish-like, but develop no fins; and their limbs, when they at length have them, show the same articulations as those of higher animals. These amphibia, in the progress of their development undergo a series of remarkable metamorphoses. They begin life as water-breathing larvæ. In some of the lower orders the gills remain through life; others, when mature, have lungs only. Aquatic Newts, two-legged Mud-Eels, Toads, and Salamanders, are their representatives. The _Batrachia_[1] include the frog, a well known, tailless amphibian. Its metamorphose is peculiar. The ova are deposited in a jelly-like mass at the bottom of the water, and, if the temperature is suitable, develop rapidly. In a few days very interesting microscopic observations are possible. The embryo presents four distinct appearances before leaving the egg, and five more before assuming its complete organization. For a time it seems a soft-skinned, scaleless fish, breathing only as fishes do, and having a long, flexible tail, used as an oar. Then it develops the palmated hind legs, as assistants in its locomotion, the caudal process diminishes, the forelegs protrude, true lungs are developed, the wriggling tadpole is a frog; abjures kinship with its still aquatic relatives, hops to the land, and enters on pursuits befitting its new mode of life. The common frog is well known, and we present one of a different family. It is distinguished by having the ends of its toes dilated into discs, or suckers, by which it sticks to the smooth bark, and is capable of its arboreal life. It is often called the “flying frog” and the “tree frog.” The webbed feet are large, and when spread out serve to bear up the body, as would paper kites of the same size. But the animal does not fly. It is active, and leaps from branch to branch expertly, and, when it wants to descend, by spreading those fan-like feet, it comes down with less violence. Tree toads are noisy little creatures, and seem to be ventriloquists, as their voices do not indicate their true position. This deception, and their color, make their capture more difficult.

CLASS II.—REPTILIA.

ORDER I.—_Ophidia_,[2] or serpents, are oviparous, air-breathing vertebrates, having round, tapering bodies. They crawl or glide on their ventral surface. The serpent’s body is very flexible. Its numerous vertebræ, concave in front, and hemispherically convex behind, are so jointed as to allow a free horizontal motion. Its progress is usually by lateral undulations, made practicable by the great number of the vertebræ, attached flexible ribs, and muscles along the sides, specially arranged for prompt action on the spinal column. The bones of the head are loosely jointed, and movable, making the mouth very dilatable. The sharp teeth are hooked backward, so that whatever is seized is likely to go down the capacious throat. The entire skeleton and skin are so elastic that objects much larger than the serpent, in its normal condition, can be swallowed whole. Though without limbs, they perform with dexterity a great variety of movements; creep, climb, swim, raise the body almost erect, and spring from the ground. There are two classes, the poisonous and the harmless. Of the former the Cobra, Copperhead, Viper, and Rattlesnake are representatives. They have extensile fangs, and, along the side of the upper jaw, a large gland, which secrets a poisonous liquid that is injected through the hollow or grooved fangs into the wounds they inflict. Harmless snakes have much the same structure, but nothing of this special arrangement.

ORDER II.—_Lacertilia_[3] or lizards, are snakes with short legs, and usually much quicker in their movements than most other reptiles. Most species are harmless, though a few are said to be venomous, and, because of them, all are dreaded. They differ much in appearance, some being really beautiful, and others about as hideous as reptiles can be. There are an immense number and variety of lizards, having some distinctive characteristics. Several extinct species, as the Iguanadon,[4] Megalosaurus,[5] Plesiosaurus,[6] and Ichthyosaurus,[7] are known only by their gigantic fossils, casts of which may be seen in many of our college museums.

ORDER III.—_Chelonia._[8] This name is derived from the Greek word for tortoise. The class includes all the varieties of tortoises or turtles. Tortoise means crooked, or twisted, and refers to the awkward manner in which the limbs are twisted about when in motion. There are two skeletons, the one external, including the viscera and the whole muscular system, which is internally attached to it. The upper plate of this covering, called the carapace, is more or less convex, and made up of strong elastic plates. The lower, or plastron, is flat and smooth, being apparently an extension of the sternum or breast bone. These plates are joined together at their lateral edges, leaving anterior and posterior openings through which the head and limbs are extended. When at rest, these are usually under the covering. The head and neck are covered with a rough, corrugated skin, and the horny upper jaw terminates in a strong, hooked beak. They are usually distinguished as marine, fresh water, and land turtles. The former are good swimmers, but their movements on land are slow and awkward, and if turned on their backs they are quite helpless. Some marine turtles are very large, being from four to six feet in diameter, and weighing from 600 to 2,000 pounds. Usually they weigh much less. All are oviparous, the female producing about one hundred and fifty hard-shelled eggs at a time. For this purpose she cautiously comes ashore, and, dextrously using her hind flippers, excavates a hole in the sand, from a foot to eighteen inches in depth, lays her eggs, and, having carefully covered, leaves them to be hatched by the heat of the sun. The green, edible turtle is very valuable, and furnishes much wholesome and delicious food. The “hawks-bill” is seldom used for food, but supplies the greater part of the well known “tortoise shell” of commerce. There are many other species, both marine and fresh-water, whose flesh or shells are of considerable value. Soft Tortoises, Snappers, Mud-Turtles, and Terrapins, all have some peculiar characteristic.

ORDER IV.—_Loricata._[9] This corselet or armor-covered family includes Crocodiles and their allied species. Their upper parts are covered with a corselet of bony plates set in the tough, leathery skin. The jaws are long, and have many strong, conical teeth, fixed in sockets. The lower jaw extends back of the cranium, and the upper is hinged and movable. Crocodiles belong in tropical climates, are sluggish animals, and live a long time if not destroyed by violence. Their legs are short but powerful, and when on land they manage to wriggle, or drag, their immense bodies along with considerable speed. They are found in India, and in all the large rivers of Africa. The Gavial of the Ganges, the Crocodile, and the Mississippi Alligator are closely related, though there are some structural differences. Of whatever variety, whether of the Old World or of the New, they are more numerous than desirable, not being noted for either their beauty or usefulness.

CLASS III.—_Aves._[10] Birds furnish a delightful study, and their leading characteristics are easily stated. Widely as they differ, they all have a common type of structure, and are essentially alike in those particulars that distinguish them from other orders in the animal kingdom. They are all warm blooded, feathered, biped vertebrates, mostly with wings fitted for flight, and with either webbed feet for swimming, or claws for seizing, scratching, and perching.

There are several points of interest in the anatomy of a bird that may be used to bring out general characteristics: (1) The long neck, with vertebræ so adjusted as to allow great freedom of movement, makes the head a convenient prehensile organ. (2) The skeleton is remarkably light. It has fewer bones than other vertebrates; the thin skull bones, the dorsal vertebræ, and bones of the feet being anchylosed.[11] They are also harder, of lighter material, and filled with air, thus having the greatest possible strength with the least weight. (3) To make respiration sufficient during rapid flight, an abundant supply of air not only inflates the lungs as in other animals, but fills little membranous sacs, or cells, distributed through the body, and extends even into the wing feathers. (4) The digestive apparatus differs materially from that of either fishes, reptiles, or mammals. The æsophagus[12] before reaching the sternum is dilated into a large sack, or crop, and serves as a first stomach, in which the food is softened, and prepared for other digestive organs. Below this is another slight enlargement, the walls of which are thicker, and secrete gastric juice. Still further down, the canal is enlarged into a third stomach, the muscular gizzard, in which the process is completed. (5) There are no teeth set in the bone sockets, as their weight would be inconvenient, but the mandibles are sheathed in a horny case, which has sharp edges, and terminates in the beak, or bill.

Both genera and species are very numerous, but any two birds that can be selected differ less in their anatomy than some reptiles of the same order differ. The leading orders only of this class have been selected. _Raptores_[13] (robbers). This is a mild term when used to indicate the ferocity of most birds of prey which not only plunder but destroy. They are almost constantly committing murderous assaults on their weaker neighbors. This is their nature, and accords with their physical structure. The strong hooked bill, powerful legs, feet armed with sharp claws to seize and hold their victims, while the murderous beak is tearing off bits of flesh, are some of their chief characteristics. These murderers have representatives in nearly all countries, but as civilization advances they become less numerous.

They are usually divided into three great families: Falcons, Vultures, and Owls. The first includes all kinds of Hawks and Eagles. True falcons reveal a predatory character, not only by their general structure as described, but have a special arrangement for keeping their formidable weapons in order. The continual sharpness of their claws is necessary, and to maintain it they must be kept from coming in contact with hard substances. To make this practicable, though they are not retractile, like a cat’s claws, there not being sufficient integuments to cover them, the bird has power to elevate their points when stepping or perching on anything likely to dull them. Being very powerful and rapid flyers, falcons were in former times tamed, and trained for catching other birds and small game. Falconry, in the middle ages, was one of the principal diversions of kings and noblemen, lords and ladies, and in later times the same sport was practiced in England under the name of “hawking.” The training of the birds was a profession, and there were teachers who became proficient in it. The Eagle, king of birds, belongs to this class; he is, perhaps, inferior in activity and enterprise, but is more powerful, and his supremacy is undisputed. The Bald Eagle adorns our American flag, and is a fit emblem of national sovereignty, though there was, it is confessed, some ground for Franklin’s protest, “The bird has a bad moral character, and does not get his living honestly.” The Gypætos, or Vulture Eagle, is the largest bird of Europe, and often a terror to the peasants near the Pyrenees and Swiss Alps. Its great strength, bold, predatory habits, and impetuosity in pouncing on animals exceeding itself in size, make it more formidable than most eagles are.

Vultures are cowardly, disgusting creatures, and feed mostly on putrid flesh, yet they are useful scavengers in hot climates, devouring much animal matter that would otherwise cause pestilence and death.

Owls are nocturnal birds of prey, and though seldom abroad except in the darkness, or twilight, being often captured and confined, they are pretty well known.

_Insessores_[14] (perching birds). This term is adopted as vaguely descriptive of many species, of which no particular mention can be made. They include our common singing birds and skillful nest builders. Some of these build low, among the grass, others on branches of trees. Some are solitary, and during the nesting season isolate themselves. Others, as the “sociable weavers,” unite in building them cities, in which each pair claims a private residence.

_Cursores_[15] (runners). Birds of this class run rather than fly, have no keel on the breast bone, no well developed wings, and their feathers are loosely put together, without the connecting barbs that strengthen the wing feathers of others. But they have strong legs, and feet with nails rather than claws. The Ostrich is most distinguished for its size, strength, speed, and peculiar feathers. The Emeu and Apteryx belong to the same class, the latter being tailless.

_Grallatores_[16] (waders). These aquatic birds are distinguished by their very long, bare legs, also necks and bills of like proportions. Herons, Storks, and Flamingoes are representatives.

The latter is a peculiar bird, common in some portions of America, Southern Europe, Asia, and Africa. When walking erect it is about five feet high, the body of a light color, and the wings red. When a number go in single file, as such birds do, they appear like a company of British soldiers in uniform. As their legs are quite too long for convenience when incubating, they construct, of grass, rushes, and mud, a little cone of sufficient height, make their nest on the top, and sit astride, the long legs hanging down the sides. This also protects the eggs and young from moisture in wet weather.

_Natatores_[17] (swimmers). Aquatic birds being keel breasted, with short legs, webbed feet, and thin, light, warm covering, delight in swimming. Some of these have also good flying qualities, as Wild Geese, Swans, Sea-Gulls, and Petrels, which spend much time in skimming over the water, either on or above the surface.

This family includes the wandering Albatross, which is among the largest of the sea birds, having from ten to fifteen feet expanse of the wings, and weighing from twenty to thirty pounds; yet it sustains itself in the air for many hours together without any apparent difficulty. It is often met far out at sea, and sailors have many superstitions respecting it. Like all petrels and sea-gulls, the albatross makes its nest on crags and cliffs along the coast, choosing places that seem inaccessible. To gather the eggs of seafowls, which are esteemed a delicacy, and to capture the birds themselves for the feathers, is one of the most perilous employments. The adventurous fowlers are swung over precipices from five hundred to a thousand feet above the sea, sustained simply by a rope, that, by breaking, or slipping from the hands that hold it, must hurl them to certain destruction.

CLASS IV.—_Mammalia_ (milk givers). Though there are some very low species in this order, it reaches upward and includes the highest forms of animal organization, all of what ever degree, that have the mammary glands, and secrete milk for the nourishment of their young. There are more than two thousand species of these in North America alone. They have several distinguishing characteristics. The heart is four chambered, having two auricles and two ventricles. They are warm blooded, the blood having two kinds of corpuscles, the red predominating, and being globular. The impure blood from the body pours into the right auricle, passes to the right ventricle, and thence to the lungs. In the lungs, which are spongy and full of air cells, it is supplied with oxygen from the air freely circulating through them. Being thus changed to purer arterial blood, it passes back through the left auricle to the left ventricle, and, by a muscular action, is forced through the great aorta and its innumerable branches to every part of the body. Mammals always breathe by lungs enclosed in a membranous sack called the pleura. They are viviparous, or produce their young alive, though some when in a very immature, helpless state. They are for convenience subdivided:

ORDER I. _Monotremata._[18] These animals, the lowest of mammals, have long, flattened beaks, webbed feet, and other bird-like characteristics. But they are of little importance, few in number, and not widely distributed, being confined mostly to Australia and Tasmania.

Belonging to this class is the Water-Mole, with a broad, duck-like, horny bill. It lives on worms and vegetables, and burrows in the banks of streams, having the opening to its quarters under the surface of the water.

ORDER II. _Marsupial_, or pouched animals. The young are brought forth in a very premature state, but are immediately placed in a marsupium or pouch under the abdomen, where, attached to the little teats, they receive their nourishment. They are thus protected and carried by the mother as long as such care is necessary. The opossum, the only native marsupial of the United States, is about twenty inches long, exclusive of the peculiar rat-like, prehensile tail, by which the animal often suspends itself from the branches of trees. When in danger, it feigns death as a way of escape—and can survive injuries that would be fatal to most animals. They were once very numerous in this country, and though destructive to fruit and poultry, are of some value. Their flesh is used by some, and the skins are in demand, the hair or coarse fur being wrought into felt.

ORDER III. _Edentata_[19] (toothless). Animals without incisors, and having separate clawed toes, are included under this order. The chief representatives are the Armadillos, Sloths and Ant-eaters.

Armadillos[20] are remarkable animals, with a covering of horny plates, not unlike a tortoise shell, but arranged in sections in a way that allows more freedom of motion. Some of the extinct species were of gigantic proportions. A fossil armadillo found near the La Plate was as large as a full grown rhinoceros.

The Sloths are natives of South America. They are covered with long, coarse, gray-and-black hair, resembling the moss of the trees in which they live, for these animals are arboreal, while the other members of the order burrow.

Ant-eaters, of which there are several varieties, are covered with spines like the hedge-hog. Even the long, rough tongue and palate are provided with the sharp little spines with which they spear and hold their prey. Their claws also are fitted for digging into the ant hills, where the food is obtained. They are very inferior mammals, but have their place, and are useful in destroying noxious insects.

The giant ant-eater of South America is much the largest of the genus, and an animal of considerable strength. From its long, bill-like snout it thrusts out its longer tongue, and the frantic ants, disturbed in their quarters, on rushing out stick to it, and are rapidly swept into the mouth. When sleeping, it is coiled up under its immense bushy tail and looks more like a little heap of dried grass than an animal.

ORDER IV.—_Sirenia_[21] (sea cows), include the Manatee, found between the Amazon and Southern Florida, and the Dugong, of India. They are amphibious milk givers. In appearance and structure they are very unlike most mammals. Their forelimbs resemble fins, having fingers or toes. The hind legs are wanting, and the tail like that of a fish, but they suckle their young, sometimes supporting them for the purpose with their flippers.

ORDER V.—_Cetacea_[22] (Whales). They are much the largest of mammals. They live entirely in the sea, and have in general a fish-like appearance. Their forelimbs are huge paddles, the others being only rudimentary. But they produce their young well developed, and nourish them with an abundance of rich, creamy milk. The amount of blood in a large whale must be immense, the great artery being a foot in diameter, every pulsation of the heart forces many gallons along the channels prepared for it. A single whale, captured in 1884 by the crew of a New London vessel, produced whalebone and oil worth $15,720, beside other products of considerable value.

ORDER VI.—_Insectivora_ (insect eating). An order of small animals, having well developed teeth, the molars remarkable for their sharp cusps; and five-toed feet furnished with claws. The Mole, Hedge-hog and Shrew are examples.

ORDER VII.—_Cheiroptera_[23] (wing handed). Bats are not generally favorites, and are by many regarded with aversion. Their strange and rather uncomely forms are seen on wing only in the dim twilight, as they spend the day mostly in deserted buildings and gloomy caverns. In eastern countries, where such receptacles of the dead are common, bats are often found in sepulchers or catacombs, and are regarded as fit dwellers with desolation and death. There are many species, with enough variety in their appearance; and the study of their natural history softens prejudice and reveals much of interest in their structure and habits.

ORDER VIII.—_Rodentia_[24] (gnawing animals). Animals of this order have two large, chisel-like incisors in each jaw, and, separated from them by a wide space, are the molar teeth. The incisors never cease growing from the roots, but are constantly worn away by nibbling. The lower jaw moves backward and forward. This order includes more than half of the known mammals, and its representatives range from the equator to the poles. Hares, Mice, Rats, Squirrels, and Beavers are among those best known.

ORDER IX.—_Ungulata_[25] (hoofed animals). An order of mammals most valuable to man. They are grouped in two divisions, according to the number of toes. The uneven-toed ungulates include the Elephant, Rhinoceros and Horse. The elephant is marked by the prolongation of the nose and upper lip into a trunk or proboscis, which is said to contain over 40,000 muscles. It has no canine teeth, and incisors only in the lower jaw. Elephants are found in Asia and Africa. There are two extinct species, the mastodon and mammoth. The rhinoceros is a native of Africa and India. It is an immense animal, covered by a hairless skin, which lies in folds on the body. The nose bears one or two horns, which grow sometimes three feet in length. The horse includes animals having one toe upon each foot, upon which they walk. The family includes the Ass, Zebra and Quagga.

The even-toed ungulates include all the _Ruminates_, or cud chewing animals, with the Swine and Hippopotamus. The ruminants are remarkable for their peculiar method of digesting their food. They possess a very peculiar stomach, of four compartments. The food, mixed with saliva, is swallowed and passes into a paunch where it is mingled with water, and then forced into what is called the honey-comb stomach, a sack in which the food is formed into cuds, and by a muscular arrangement is forced back into the mouth to be masticated a second time before passing directly into the third stomach or manyplies, where it is strained, and then driven into the true stomach to be acted upon by the gastric juice and assimilated.

The deer is a fine representative of the ruminant, with solid branching horns. Like all ruminants it has two toes. There is a large class of cud-chewers having hollow horns, which usually are not shed, as are the solid horns. The Buffalo, Ox, Sheep, Goat and Antelope belong to this division.

The Giraffe, an inhabitant of Central Africa, and remarkable for its long neck, is another ruminant. The camel also belongs here. The true camel has two fatty humps upon its back; another species, called the dromedary, has but a single hump. The camel has a peculiar modification of one compartment of the ruminant stomach. The paunch is divided into cells which hold supplies of water.

ORDER X.—_Carnivora_ (flesh-eaters). The distinguishing characteristics of this order are sharp canine teeth, and one molar on each side in the upper and lower jaw, longer and sharper than the rest; and feet which are provided with toes, generally supplied with claws. According to the modifications of the feet they are divided into _Pinnigrades_, _Plantigrades_ and _Digitigrades_. The first have short, webbed feet which they use as paddles for swimming, and are represented by Seals and Walruses. These are amphibious mammals of a high order. They spend much of their time in the water, and both the form and covering of their bodies are adapted to their aquatic mode of life. They swim and dive with the greatest facility. The soft woolly down, close to the skin, is covered with a coat of long, smooth, shining hairs which lie close to the body, offering no resistance to their passage through the water. Their skins and oil are of considerable mercantile importance. The Plantigrades include those animals which in walking place the sole of the foot flat upon the ground. Such are Bears and Raccoons. The Digitigrades are those which walk on the toes, as Weasels, Foxes, Dogs, Cats, Lions and Tigers.

ORDER XI.—_Primates_ are at the head of the animal kingdom. The distinguishing characteristics of this class are the more erect carriage of the body, a hand better adapted for use, its fingers being furnished with nails, and a thigh free from the body. The order includes the Lemurs, Monkeys, Apes and Man. The lowest division of the primates, the lemurs, are small animals whose bodies are covered with hair. They have a fox-like face, a pointed nose, large ears, and a long tail, and they walk on all fours. The monkeys have long prehensile tails, and though their hands can be used for grasping, the thumbs are not opposable. A distinguishing mark is the number of teeth; they have thirty-six instead of thirty-two, as the apes and man. Among the monkeys are the Baboon, the Howling Monkeys, the Mandril, and the Sleepers of Africa and Asia.

The apes are more erect than the monkeys, have no tail, and have longer arms. The division includes the Orang-Outang of Borneo and Sumatra, the Chimpanzee, of Africa, and the Gorilla of Africa and Asia.

Man commands the highest physical development among the primates. In him the partially erect position of the monkey and ape becomes complete. His limbs are more nearly equal in length and more perfectly developed than those of other primates, the skull is larger, the forehead more rounded, and the brain nearly twice the size of that of the gorilla, the dentition is more perfect, the teeth being regular and rarely protruding. The great distinction between man and the lower primates is that of mind. He alone, of all animals, possesses the power of articulate speech, of forming abstract ideas, and of reasoning.

_End of Required Reading for the Year 1884-85._

SUMMER HOMES FOR THE CITY POOR.

BY HELEN CAMPBELL.

Who began it?

The germ theory.

This answer may be regarded as not strictly to the point, yet it is certain that it holds the truth more nearly than any statement which might give New York or Philadelphia as the first cause. By this mysterious law, which from time to time we encounter in settling precisely such questions, minds entirely remote and with no kinship of faith or mutual purpose, felt the sudden moving toward action practically simultaneous. A hint of things to come had been given half a dozen years before, but full action waited for the Centennial year of 1876.

Up to this time summer rest, save for the rich, had been regarded as a needless luxury. Increased knowledge of sanitary laws had demonstrated that change of air might be as vital a necessity for poor as for rich. But that this applied also to the lowest and most helpless classes had no place save in the mind of a practical philanthropist here and there. Nor had it yet become a part of the creed of such workers, and, far less, a subject of common discussion among those who sought the most practical methods of help, that the children were the ones to whom such help would mean the most. Charity concerned itself chiefly with alleviation, and looked in more and more hopeless dismay on the ever-increasing numbers of this army of incapables. It was evident to all who walked through city streets as August sunshine blazed on squalid home and reeking gutter, and gaunt women and pale, unchildlike children came and went in noisome street and alley, that something must be done, but what? A good woman had opened a summer home for very young children on Staten Island, and in 1873 transferred its management to the Children’s Aid Society on the understanding that four thousand dollars should be collected to insure its success. The founder, Mr. A. P. Stokes, at once gave half the amount, and the rest was quickly made up, the headquarters for the new home being made at Bath, Long Island, where the work still goes on with largely increased facilities. Beginning with the rental of a private house, in which every inch of space was so utilized that the parlors became a sleeping room for twenty-four persons, and the carriage house was so made over as to contain nearly sixty beds, it has grown into one of the most efficient and beneficent of charities. A week is given to each detachment, chosen most generally from the members of the industrial schools under the direction of the Children’s Aid Society. The children are abundantly fed, the dietary including milk, bread, butter, oatmeal, fruits, vegetables, fish and meats. The salt water is almost at the door, while on the other side are woods and wild flowers, and the children change even in a week of such life, sometimes almost beyond recognition. But there are objections to these homes, beautiful as is their mission in many points, and a writer in the New York _Evening Post_, after faithful examination of this and other summer homes, writes: “Neither the excursions, which are only for a day, nor the seaside homes quite reach the best results. What the pinched sufferers in alley-ways and courts, garrets and basements need is to be sent to the country. It is not enough to give them a day on the river, though that is good as far as it goes. Even in seaside homes they are housed with children of their own sort; they have the same conversation, the same plays, the same depressing companionship with disease and want. What they need is to meet the healthy life of the country; to make acquaintance with nature, to learn the difference between a calf and a pig; to have a whole new set of objects before their eyes and mind. The country is a bit of heaven to such children. They catch a new life from it; they bring back into town a better tone of mind, body and morals.”

Such had long been the conviction of a woman whose name is synonymous with every advance that has been made in wise dealing with social problems, and who, as she came and went in the narrow streets and stifling heat of Philadelphia, yearned always more and more, to give the children some hint of what lay almost within their reach, yet inaccessible as the poles. At the meeting of Progressive Friends in 1876, one of the earliest addresses, and one of the most powerful in its effects, made an impassioned appeal for an end of dreaming and theorizing, and a life of action—action which should mean help to every human soul in need of help. There was a flutter of interest and excitement as the speaker ended, but no one made suggestion as to what form such action might take. Great issues were apparently ended. To a gathering made up in great part of veteran Abolitionists, any other struggle seemed weak and puerile, and they looked doubtfully at one another as the words ceased.

The wise woman saw her time, and when the afternoon meeting brought them together, rose in her place, and in few words told what her eyes had seen and her heart desired. A buzz of interest and of opposition was heard at once. One and another stated objections; objections made by many since then, but that have proved no obstacle to the progress of the work. Such children would bring in their train, dirt, disease, vermin, foul language and general demoralization for every child in the neighborhood who came in contact with them.

“Such things are all possible, and may all be anticipated,” said the wise woman, who had already in her own experience demonstrated that each and all could be overcome, “but I think you will find that there are ways of meeting them.”

Still objections were made, and a warm argument was under way, when a Quaker wife whose eyes flashed from the shade of the close bonnet, and whose voice held a ring not unknown even to Quaker gentleness, rose before the debating broad-brims:

“I’m going to have two of those children, if I have to tie my own to a tree,” she said, and said no more.

More was not needed. The tide had turned, and one and another volunteered to open the doors and at least make an experiment. And now, curiously enough, came a difficulty not even imagined; the difficulty of securing children for the offered and waiting places. Fathers and mothers looked with dark suspicion on the people who requested the loan of the children.

“Shure it’s none o’ mine ye’ll be gettin’,” said one of them. “Makin’ out it’s for play ye’s want ’em, an’ settin’ them to work soon as our eyes is off of ’em.”

“It’s not work I’ll have child o’ mine do, long’s I’ve hands that’ll earn the bit an’ sup she’ll be takin’,” said another, and the children themselves, hollow-eyed and haggard, watched the fracas with small interest. The first who went out had to be compelled, as it were, to come in to the feast, but never again were like measures necessary. The good work went on with courage, even with glee. Baths, clean clothes, plenty to eat, sweet air and sunshine did their work, and the dirty, forlorn little wretches chosen in the beginning returned home, imploring for longer time, and with a new sense of life born in them. Season after season the same doors opened, and as the work grew, funds poured in; a method formulated itself, and the management became a model for all similar work elsewhere.

This is what had happened at one point, but the germ was not a single one, and at another in the same state, another mind had felt the same touch, and the same result had come. The project had been talked over before it took positive form, and talked over with a woman, who, from the upper chamber where long years had held her prisoner to pain, looked out upon the world through others’ eyes, but with an insight that went to the heart of all possibilities for help. The young minister who counted her word as equivalent to the united force of a dozen elders, went home to his flock among the Pennsylvania mountains—hard-working farmers from whom quick response could hardly have been expected—and this is the letter he wrote on a Sunday when he had spoken to them his first word of the wish born a year before:

“SHERMAN, PA., June 3, 1877.

“MY DEAR MRS. L.:—The ball is set in motion. I took for my text this morning, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me,” and made the practical bearing of my words the bringing out into our homes some of the waifs and outcasts from the city. One man stopped on his way home to say that he would take four. In another house there is a call for a mother and a baby, and so on through the town. The enthusiasm and response of my people have delighted me.

“Next to get the money; then to tell the children. Must not two weeks in this pure mountain air be felt by them in after life? It seems to me that they are all but here.

“Now may I have the introduction you promised me to Dr. Eggleston? I shall try for a pass over the road to go back and forth with the children myself, and perhaps I can arrange with some of these good people on the way to bring us a country lunch as the train comes along. Some good angel whisper it in the ear of a little one! Tell a tired mother there is life for her child in this fresh country air.

“WILLARD PARSONS.”

It was an unknown name then, but through Dr. Eggleston, then on the point of sailing for Europe, interest was roused. The Erie Railway officers proved that corporations have sometimes a soul, and full fares were reduced to half fares, and half fares to quarter fares, and a pass was given to Mr. Parsons, and on July 19th went out the first group of nine. They were mere wraiths of children, crippled, in consumption, enfeebled from whooping cough; each one stamped with disease and pinched and thin for want of food. It was doubtful how they could bear the journey.

The children who swarmed out next day “to catch raspberries” proved perfectly manageable, and when their two weeks ended, returned home transformed from sad-eyed, prematurely old little figures, into live children, loaded with gifts and crying to stay longer. The story has become a familiar one, but it can never become tedious. The second group gave less anxiety. The work was better understood. Seventeen boys and girls, each wearing a blue ribbon bow as the badge of “country week” children, gathered from all quarters, and all, delicate, half-starved, suffering with hip-disease, asthma, and a dozen ailments, met at the Erie train.

The diary of the summer’s work runs over with small absurdities, with pathos, with promise. Sixty in all shared the good provided for them at a total cost of only one hundred and eighty-seven dollars and sixty-two cents. But for New York as for Philadelphia, it was easier to get the money than to get the children. Often a pale and care-worn child was the breadwinner. “Sometimes the mother had a fear of separation, or the feeble, childish hands must tend baby and do the housework while mother goes out by the day. ‘It is harder for Jack than for any one else when the baby comes,’ one mother said. ‘The care comes on him.’ Baby was in her arms as she spoke, but Jack was close by, thirteen years old, under size, and washing stockings at the tub!”

In many cases the children made friends for life, in a few the attachment formed being so strong that adoption followed. For all of them was the same experience; a fortnight or more of bliss and revelation and a return, loaded down with bundles and boxes and bags of the things that each one chose to gather.

That ticks had to be washed and straw burned after the occupation of many of them, made no apparent difference, and even to-day, when it is all an old story, and board must in many cases be paid, there is unfailing consideration for the tastes and whims of the strangers. Now and then there was fright and tears and long wails for mother, soon quieted. Now and then rebellion and ingratitude; sometimes lying and petty thefts, but all yielding to kindness.

In Philadelphia, to whose markets the farmers for miles about come in, the children were in many cases able to keep up their acquaintance, and were often found behind the stalls, in long talks with the friends who now and then bundled them into the great Conestoga wagons and gave them an unexpected country week. The work has grown at this point, as in New York, beyond any expectation, and rooms and officers have both become necessary, the modest reports giving small hint of the patient labor bestowed. The work was long confined solely to children, with now and then a worn-out mother smuggled in, but the same eyes that had seen their needs were studying now into possibilities for the class just above them—the working girls. Of all grades, from factory to store, all were living on the least sum on which body and soul could be kept together, and all needed quite as strenuously as the children, the change from narrow, stifling homes to country air and sights. To accomplish this has been far more difficult than the first undertaking, but has resulted in a success quite as complete. The objections were natural. Children could be disciplined and taught even in a week’s stay, but growing or grown girls, probably pert, self-sufficient and generally unpleasant, were quite another matter. It was impossible to say what airs they might not put on, or what demands they might make, and quiet housewives turned in dismay from even the thought of such inmates. The same woman who had decided that her own children should be temporarily tied up rather than to stand in the way of more needy ones, opened her doors again, not as a charity, but on the lowest terms that could well be fixed, and half a dozen girls came to her for a fortnight, each paying two dollars per week, and finding such interest on the investment as no dollars of their earning had ever known before. The girls were gentle, quiet, over-worked and timid, and so far from putting on airs, required all the assurances that could be given to make them willing to take the good before them. Other doors opened at once, and the neighborhood soon found even more interest in this phase than had attended work for the children. Girls in many cases clubbed together, and it has been found, wherever attempted, that three dollars per week for board and washing still leaves a margin of profit for the entertainers. Home after home has sprung up by the seashore or in the country proper; but the same objection applies to massing girls together that has already been mentioned as affecting the children. Numbers seem always to include inevitable demoralization, and to develop unpleasant possibilities in even the most inoffensive, and the conclusion is the same for both, that the best results follow where private families open their doors and the workings of home life can be part of the vacation experience. Hints have come in silent ways stronger than any words, that have borne fruit in many lives. A new sense has been born—a sense of the beauty of order and many a quiet virtue unknown to the crowded and scrambling city life, and the lesson has as yet reached but the alphabet.

It is not the intention of this article to describe any one work at length, or to define more than the possibilities before us all. More and more we have come to recognize that only in dealing directly with the individual, can any efficient work be done, and this principle now underlies the best that the Associated Charities has given us. Summer rest is but a phase of the wide-reaching work, but not one holds a larger significance. Two or three years ago the writer recorded one case, which, while hardly typical, still shows what may lie in wait for the young soul of whose possibilities we can never judge in full, and the story is given again, as the best illustration of what a country week may mean.

Long ago in a dull, old street, making part of an equally dull and colorless part of old New York, a very solitary child extracted such amusement from life as forty feet of back yard could afford. He sat in his small rocking-chair and listened to the talk about him, growing a little paler, a little more uncanny all the time, till one day when a country cousin appeared, and, horrified that anything so old and weazened could call itself a boy, begged that he might go home with her.

There was infinite objection, but her point was finally carried, and the child found himself suddenly in a country village, a great garden about the house, a family dog and cat, a cow, an old horse, and all the belongings of village life. Old-fashioned flowers were all about, and the old-fashioned boy sat down in the path by a bed of spice pinks and looked at them, his hands folded and a species of adoration on his face.

“Pick some,” said the cousin; “pick as many as you want.”

“Pick them?” repeated the old-fashioned boy. “I’m afraid to. Ain’t they God’s?”

An hour later the seven years’ crust had broken once for all, and the child, who had to be put to bed exhausted from his scrambles through and over every unaccustomed thing, began to live the first day of real child life. When the time came for his return he begged with such a passion of eagerness, such storm of sobs and cries for longer stay that the unwilling aunt and grandmother left him there, and finding the transformation, when he did return, beyond either comprehension or management, sent him back to the life he craved.

To-day he takes rank among American painters, though only heaven knows how the possibility of such development found place in this strange off-shoot of a Philistine race. But he counts his own birthday from the hour when the first sense of sky and grass and flowers dawned upon him, and he looked upon the garden that he thought truly God had planted.

Such revelation is the portion of few, but for all it comes in degree. To aid such revelation is hardly a charity. Is it not rather self-protection? Men and women in the slums are beyond much power of ours for reconstruction or reformation, but the children can be influenced still. And so let every one who looks with apprehension at the daily criminal record, and wonders what should be done, remember that a very small sum will be one means of giving a chance to some child born to all evil, whose first sense of something better will come, not through school or mission, but through the silent teaching unconsciously working in them, through every breath of fresh air, every sight of blue sky and sunshine, and green grass and trees. A “country week” may come from a very small sum, but it is an investment on which interest is unending, and whoever has once made it will find that the pleasure is not for the child alone, and that life opens up more possibilities than had come even to one’s deepest dreams.

For those who desire more specific knowledge than that afforded by the story of the undertaking as a whole, it is sufficient to give one or two details which will enable any one interested in further examination of the matter to obtain reports and information from headquarters. For Philadelphia these headquarters are at 1112 Girard Street, from which the companies of children, registered and numbered, are sent out. A letter addressed “Officers of the Country Week,” at this number, will always receive prompt attention, the work having received formal organization some years since, and owning a regular board of untiring and devoted officers. They have come to include now not only children, but tired shop-girls, young mothers worn with care, and working women of all orders, and there is opportunity not only for those who are willing to open their houses without charge, but also for those who must cover expenses, the Board paying wherever necessary, a sum per child, sufficient to cover these. For New York there is perhaps a trifle less system, but a work equally beneficent, and for all information regarding it, it is sufficient to address either “The Tribune Fresh Air Fund,” THE TRIBUNE, Park Row, New York, or the Rev. WILLARD PARSONS, care of New York _Tribune_.

Contributions or inquiries either will be welcomed, and matters are now so perfectly systematized, that distance to be traveled proves no obstacle, and even the remotest village on the lines of the great railroads may have its share in this most beautiful and essential form of service.

LEARN TO ENJOY PEOPLE.

BY MARGARET MEREDITH.

There is one surpassing beauty of manner which, I think, might be attained by cultivation—that of taking an interest in people who are talking to you, with the subtile added charm of seeming at leisure to enjoy them as long as they choose to stay.

With some it is natural. I was struck to-day with the sweet graciousness of a young girl, ill dressed (for her) and very busy, who almost deceived me into wasting ten extra minutes of her precious time, by the satisfied air with which she sat down beside me in her parlor and welcomed my inopportune appearance. It was not politic, to be sure, for getting her cake making done, but, ah how politic for winning admiration!

Of the few whom I have remarked, in our busy American life, as possessing this faculty supremely, one family had long lived abroad, and were people of leisure. The look of content, and of being established for an indefinite time, with which any one of them sat on the sofa before a dull chance acquaintance, was an imprint, no doubt, of their idle life, but it was also the imprint of an exquisite training. It was the quintessence of the aristocratic manner.

We do not want gilded uselessness; far better remain as we are; busy, even if chiefly for ourselves; but there are some who, in the midst of hard work, have been wise enough to leave spare time in their plan of life for casual meetings with their fellows. I think of two women, both, as it happened, the main stay of churches—churches widely removed in geography and opinion; both were responsible in the care of those churches, and both entered with marvelous industry into the details and into the drudgery of their work. I heard a servant say of one that she had never known her to utter an impatient word when cards were handed in; while her cordial ways won the hearts of all. The other, older and poorer, and not versed in the ways of the world, it was even more wonderful to see sitting hour after hour engrossed and pleased as one and another used up her morning; though the standing puzzle among all who knew her was, how she possibly found time for all she did.

This heartiness is more attractive to the small than to the great among one’s friends; for those full of attractions themselves are not so apt to be received with indifference. It is those modest as to their own fascinations who are grateful for being made welcome and at home; the shy girl just emerged from the school room to do her difficult part in society, the old lady who is painfully conscious that she knows very little about the topics of the day, the estimable young man of moderate capacity. These must be tolerated—why should they not be made happy?

I know that I am playing with edged tools, advising an attempt that is all too apt to end in affectation, even in deceit, an overdone aspect of admiration which would disgust; but you can avoid that. Really, about all you need is to deal strictly with yourself as you walk down stairs to the parlor; force yourself to stop inwardly fuming that you are interrupted, to accept the fact that this is not an interruption, but probably a better occupation for you for twenty minutes than that from which you were called, at any rate the inexorable duty of the moment, and to be discharged as such. Instead of sitting half numb and self-absorbed, talking only in the _rôle_ of a machine for receiving a caller, try at once to throw yourself quite away from the life upstairs out into the life of your visitor. The calls will consume a little more of your time, will average a little longer, even in spite of waiting carriages, but they will prove a recreation instead of a weariness, and you will gain twenty friends where you now gain one.

A little girl once traveled in the stage-coach with Madame La Vert, and the child’s indignant contradiction afterward: “She isn’t a fine lady at all! She’s just like me, and I love her,” made plain in a sentence the secret of her power.

Why is not this sympathetic treatment of others aimed at by all? Why should the reigning belle be so nice with her tongue and her smile, and the older woman, who probably feels the want of affection far more keenly, be quite oblivious that this same winning kindliness which she has so long ceased to exhibit, and has replaced by the dry manner of formal endurance, would, perhaps as promptly as the wand of Cinderella’s god-mother, transform some of these prim callers into life-long friends.

OUR LADIES OF SORROW.

BY MRS. E. A. MATTHEWS.

Three sisters guard the lives of mortal men With care unvarying, from youth to age. Ever around us, though beyond our ken, Do they in silent ministry engage. Mysterious Trio—hand in hand, they go Through the sad realm of human pain and woe!

Mother of Tears, of bitterness, and grief, Thou art, to-day, in many a silent room— Before thy steps, death stealeth, like a thief, And turns life’s sunshine into blackest gloom. When hearts are rent with unavailing prayer For life’s lost treasures, Mother, thou art there!

Dark-browed and dreadful, Tenebrarum, thou! Bringer of unbelief, doubt, and despair, Mother of suicide, revenge, and gloom— With frenzied look, and maniac’s awful glare— When man is hated, and when God denied, Thou standest, mocking, at the wretch’s side!

But thou, O Goddess, mild Mother of Sighs, Sweet source of pity, patient sorrow’s balm, At thy mild bidding all our anguish dies, And grief’s wild billows soften into calm. When human hearts bring sympathy and share The woes of others, Mother, thou art there!

When the sad penitent laments in vain O’er wasted moments—thou dost hope restore— To the pale captive, and the child of pain, Thou bringest liberty and health once more! All generous deeds and tender charities Are in thy hands—O, blessed Mother of Sighs!

THE NICARAGUA AND PANAMA ROUTES TO THE PACIFIC.

BY FELIX L. OSWALD, M. D.

It is curious how often the first impression of experts has been confirmed by the verdict of posterity. During one of his journeys of inspection Peter the Great visited the mouth of the Volga River and pointed out the advantages of fortifying a certain promontory which a military commission, after long controversies, has now selected for the site of a bombproof arsenal. The gold discoveries in Upper California were predicted by Sir Francis Drake; those of the Ural by Baron Humboldt; and after fifty years of coast surveys, mountain surveys, negotiations, reports and counter reports, it seems now probable that two American Republics will ratify the opinion of Don Rodrigo Contreras, who more than three hundred years ago called the attention of the Spanish Government to the advantages of the Nicaragua Lake system, and its navigable effluent, as the rudiment of an inter-oceanic canal, and the superiority of that route over those both of Darien and Panama—Tehuantepec having then not yet entered into competition. This Rodrigo was the son-in-law of Davila Pedrarias, the first governor of Panama, and in his coasting trips between the landings of the southern isthmus had probably noticed a circumstance which may yet turn the scales in the decision of the canal problem, though it had escaped the attention of the routine sailors of a latter age, and perhaps even of some professional engineers who confined themselves to the comparison of altimetrical surveys.

The matter is this: Along the north shore of the Caribbean Sea the coasts are deep and rocky, but further south, as the Cordilleras decrease in elevation, the shore is lined with sandbanks, and can be approached only through shallow estuaries, just as the coasts of the Mediterranean become sandy at their southeastern extremity, the only point where the circle of lofty coast ranges is broken by the delta of a swamp river—the depth of the shore waters being apparently proportioned to the height of the shore lands. Even single depressions in the chain of a long-stretched coast range are often confronted by isolated sandbanks—as if a collapse of the mountain walls had shoaled the littoral sea. But at Panama that tendency is aggravated by another cause. For the last two hundred years the line of the overland route has followed the Rio Chagres and its western tributaries; the adjoining hill country became studded with settlements, and, as usual in Spanish colonies, “civilization” led to forest destruction and progressive aridity. The abundant rains of the summer solstice, which were formerly absorbed by the not less exuberant vegetation of a tropical coast region, now reach the valley in the form of raging torrents, saturated with the mould of the treeless hill-slopes; and the alluvium deposited at the river mouth has thus gradually formed silt banks, against which the repeated improvements of the estuary have proved only a temporary remedy. The Russians had a similar experience with the port of Azof, once the best harbor in the basin of the Euxine; but after the destruction of the inland forests the naked hills of the Don revenged themselves by a hydra growth of dunes that defied all expedients of human skill, and after diking and dredging away some ninety million roubles, the government yielded to Nemesis and removed the wharves to the harbor of Taganrog. In order to enable vessels of deeper draught to enter the mouth of the Chagres, the canal itself would have to be supplemented by a _channel mole_, a marine canal of nine miles, protected by dikes which in their turn might become a source of peril to sailing vessels approaching the estuary during the prevalence of the frequent gales which make the headlands of the southern Caribbean so many Guardafuis.

The Bay of San Juan de Nicaragua, on the contrary, is remarkably free from storms, and the San Juan is not a swamp river. It is the effluent of a chain of rockbound lakes, one of them of sufficient extent to equalize the drainage of torrents from above, so that an overflow of the San Juan could be caused only by the simultaneous rising of all its lower tributaries, aided by a northwest gale that would drive the waters of the lake toward the estuary. A conjunction of that sort occurred in the summer of 1872, when the San Juan rose some twenty feet in as many hours; but even then the river did not shoal its delta, but tore out a new channel through Costa Rican territory, which now receives a lion’s share of the outflow; but there is no doubt that an isolated mishap of that sort can be remedied by a short-line canal from the coast to a point above the divergence of the rival streams, or by the same means that reclaimed the channel of the Mississippi at New Orleans. Further up all serious difficulties cease. The rapids of the San Juan can be passed by locks of moderate depth, the total difference between the level of Lake Nicaragua and that of the Atlantic being hardly twenty-five feet. The lake itself will need no improvements. Throughout its breadth of seventy-five miles (three fifths of the distance from ocean to ocean) it maintains an average depth of fifteen fathoms, has no dangerous sandbanks, no driftwood islands, while its undercurrents secure it against the danger of being shoaled by the floods of its affluents. The project of locating the western terminus at Port Brito, on the Pacific, would reduce the length of the canal proper to about twenty-eight miles, and shorten the trip for vessels from our ports by nearly seven hundred miles—the distance from Port Brito to Panama.

The question is, if all these advantages would justify the construction of a second canal. For we need not delude ourselves with the fear—or hope—that the Panama project would be abandoned; the _present_ interests of the French stockholders, if not the name of Monsieur de Lesseps, is a guarantee that their work will be completed. They have gone too far[A] to retreat before the completion of a single rival; for on the other hand it is equally sure that the Tehuantepec scheme has lost its last hope of practical support, since even the promise of a monopoly could hardly override the veto of Nature. It is enough to say that the Mexican projectors admit that the proposed route through the lowest gap of the Chimalapa Range would require the construction of _one hundred and forty locks_—with the alternative of tunneling through thirty miles of granite rocks—for we know how nearly a difference of fifteen locks defeated the chances of the Wellington canal against its American rivals.

Nor should we, in this respect, underrate the advantages of the Panama route. The distance from ocean to ocean is only forty-eight miles, against one hundred and fifteen at Nicaragua, and two hundred and twelve at Tehuantepec, and neither hills nor rocks oppose any obstacle that could not be overcome by the conqueror of Suez. Yet there remains a consideration which in connection with the result of other comparisons must leave a preponderance of arguments in favor of Nicaragua. For three fifths of the year the valley of the Rio Chagres is a reeking hotbed of malaria,[B] and from Aspinwall to Panama only dreary sandhills alternate with festering swamps. Nicaragua, on the other hand, is the healthiest region between Chili and California, and offers scenic attractions absolutely unequaled in any other part of the New World, and which can hardly have been surpassed when the Mediterranean peninsulas were still clad in the glory of their primeval forests. I visited the lake region of Nicaragua in 1875, after having seen California, the West Indies, and the highlands of Mexico, and only here I relinquished my doubt that the international park of Switzerland had, after all, a transatlantic rival. The harbor of San Juan is nearly a thousand miles from anything an Anglo-American would call civilization, and since their Walker and Spalding experiences the natives are, on the whole, rather inclined to dispense with the patronage of enterprising foreigners; but, for all that, the time is near when the islands of Lake Nicaragua will be studded with international hotels. The luxuriance of the tropical hill forests is equaled in the mountains of Oaxaca; the climate is not superior to that of the northern Antilles; but the scenery of the highlands, with their fourteen active volcanoes, would turn the scales. Of the forty-six craters in the maritime Cordilleras, five are eruptive and nine smouldering and smoking volcanoes, besides a score of _infernillos_—smoking caves and fissures, opening in the rocks of the foothills, as if the obstruction of the roof-chimneys had forced the subterranean fires to break a vent through the basement of the Sierra. And, moreover, these craters are, with few exceptions, of easy access from both sides of the mountains, and at all seasons of the year. The climate of Nicaragua enjoys the advantages of the real tropics. In the western hemisphere that term is as ambiguous as the “beginning of spring.” At Brownsville, Texas, nearly twelve hundred miles further south than Naples, I have seen snowstorms that would appall a Shetlander; and even in Mexico frosts are not confined to the upper tablelands. But the traveler who reaches the fourteenth parallel has left the winter zone behind. In Leon, near the northwest end of the lake system, he will find butterflies in December, and when he sits down to his Christmas dinner of sweetmeats and broiled bananas, mine host will introduce a _caza-moscas_, or fly-brush boy. _Moscas_ of a larger variety also infest the lagoons of the old town, but mosquitoes are rare, and further inland unknown, for Leon is the gate city of the western highlands, one of its suburbs being only a short distance from the foothills of the Cerro de las Pilas, a naked peak whose summit affords a complete panorama of the lake region and the coast range. In the north the Sierra Madre of Honduras looms on the horizon like a white-crested cloud, flanked by the blue ridge of the coast range, and the volcanic domes of the central plateau which attains its maximum altitude in the uplands of Matagalpa. But forty miles southeast of Leon the great tableland which stretches in an almost unbroken line from Denver across Mexico and the highlands of Central America is intersected by the basin of the Isthmus lakes; and here, as if the disruption of the Sierra had opened a vent for the furnaces of the nether world, volcanoes and hot springs are massed in a way which to my knowledge is paralleled only in the Island of Java, where a highland region of twelve hundred square miles is veiled with the almost perpetual smoke of its burning mountains. About twenty miles north of Las Pilas the continuity of the coast range is broken, and the main chain seems to be segregated into numerous isolated mountain groups, each of them crowned with two or three volcanic cones. At the end of the cape which forms the breakwater of the sound known as the Estero Real stands the volcano of Conseguina, the Vesuvius of the New World. In one of its last eruptions it caused an inundation by completely obstructing the outlet of the Rio Casco, and in 1835 it scattered its ashes as far as La Guayra and Tehuantepec, _i. e._, over a circle fourteen hundred miles in diameter. The head of the bay is begirt by the dolerite cliffs of two other volcanoes, one of which fronts the shore with a sheer precipice of 4,400 feet, rising from a pedestal of rock colonnades with cavernous interspaces where trickling springs have generated a rank vegetation of climbing evergreens. The same arrangement repeats itself at the head of Lake Managua, where the volcano of Monotombo rises in tower-like basalt cliffs to a vertical height of 7,400 feet. Professor Vanhouten, of the canal survey, makes the highest point of the peak 7,700—at all events a thousand feet more than the summit of Mount Washington. The “South Dome” of the Yosemite, if my memory serves me right, rises hardly 5,000 feet above the valley, and the granite front of the “Captain” considerably less than 4,000, while the grandeur of the basalt coliseum is yet doubled by the mirror of the Island Sea, as the first colonists translated the Indian name of Lake Managua. The lake is dotted with wooded islands which accompany the south shore into the strait of Panalaya, and where that strait opens into the broad basin of the lower lake, the islands, too, expand, two of them so much, indeed, as to have mountain ranges, broad valleys and secondary lakes of their own. Like all the higher ridges those island mountains culminate in volcanoes; the steep peak of Ometepec rises to a height of 5,200 feet, and gives its island the form of a pyramid. West, east, and north of both lakes volcanoes rise above the shore mountains in all directions, and northeast of Lake Managua not less than seven of them stand close together, like the peaks of the Sieben-gebirge, on the upper Rhine. The volcano of Chiltepec can be recognized by its cloven peak, the upper part of the cone having collapsed during one of its eruptions; Tellica and Santa Clara by the smoke trails of their ever-seething craters. The “Hell of Mesaya,” sixty miles further south, has the deepest crater of any known volcano, as Kilauea has the widest, and Stromboli the most obstreperous. The upper two thousand feet of the cone form a mere shell, and from the brink of the crater the spectator looks down into a dizzy abyss of trachite cliffs, rent by vertical fissures, and now and then veiled by the eruption of a smoke whirl. From the hills on the east shore of the lake the prospect toward the peaks of the island mountains affords views of marvelous and almost incomparable beauty. Yet all along the shores of that lake land, with the exception of the richest alluvial creek estuaries, can be bought for three dollars an acre, even on flat topped bluffs and near rock springs in sheltered dells, more inviting than the finest artificial parks. Thus far only camping British sportsmen have now and then availed themselves of such opportunities, though Nicaragua offers hunting grounds to the lovers of nearly every kind of outdoor pastime and science. Geologists can watch the active operations of the Titans that have transformed so large a portion of our planet. Antiquarians can here find treasures, from the tomb of a Toltec warrior to the monuments of a buried city; the neighborhood of San Carlos and Mayagalpa is covered with ruins, and on the island of Zapotera colossal idols rise like sphinxes from the ground and from the debris of fallen temples. Naturalists can watch the jaguar and the tapir in their native haunts, catch butterflies enough to stock a museum, study the habits of five different species of quadrumana, including the large Coaiti (_Lagothrix paniscus_), with his spider arms and strange, flute-like cries, can visit the bat caves of Dipilta or the bird islands of Bluefield’s Lagoon, that make Nicaragua a zoological epitome of the American tropics, and offer a winter asylum to legions of feathered refugees from the North.

In Nicaragua the rainy season ends in November, and the winters are dry and pleasant, and far less capricious than in Florida, where sultry Gulf winds so often alternate with very perceptible polar waves. Nicaragua will become the winter rendezvous of American tourists. An international highway, built by American engineers and American capital, would soon aggregate North American settlements that would add to the charms of a tropical garden-land a feeling of security which the traveler in other parts of Spanish America must generally forego; villas, watering places, and hotels for the accommodation of winter guests will spring up by scores, and the canal will soon become something more than a thoroughfare of international travel. The stockholders of such an investment could well dispense with a formal protectorate, and the obstacle of the Clayton-Bulwer treaty[C] is precisely analogous to the scruple which no politician would blame Prince Bismarck for setting aside in the Congo affair. In both cases England had for years the refusal of an opportunity which she failed to improve, and in the unwritten by-laws of international ethics the _iners non obstet_ is a rule which held good even in the Black Sea controversy. Besides, the alternative of a French monopoly and eventual protectorate in Panama may help to moderate the opponents of the Monroe Doctrine.[D]

While Nicaragua will be visited for its own sake, Panama, like Vera Cruz and Cayenne, will be shunned by northern travelers, though considerations of proximity will secure it the inter-oceanic traffic of South America. Vessels carrying tobacco from Brazil to Peru, or guano from Peru to Caracas, will prefer the risk of the Chagres fever swamps to the certain disadvantages of a voyage around the distant south cape of the continent.

Nicaragua will compete with Switzerland, Italy, and the winter resorts of southern California, as well as with our transcontinental railways. Panama will compete with Cape Horn.

[A] The Panama _Star and Herald_ reports that $68,000,000 of the total appropriation of $120,000,000 have already been expended. The preliminary surveys alone cost 7,000,000 francs. After the plan of Monsieur de Lesseps the canal will be thirty feet deep, one hundred and twenty feet wide, and about forty-six miles long.

[B] Panama (the city), too, is one of the unhealthiest spots on earth. Two months ago (January 2, 1885) the wife of Monsieur Jules Dingler, the Director-General of the Canal Company, succumbed to the same fever that had cost the lives of all her children. Dr. Ferdinand Lahr, the Sanitary Superintendent, died on the same day.

[C] Captain Bedford Pim, of the British navy, states various reasons that would insure the tolerance, or even the coöperation of Great Britain. He estimates the aggregate cost at $200,000,000, and believes that England, under certain conditions, would assume one half of the demanded guarantee of three per cent. interest.

[D] It is a curious fact that the originator of that doctrine is not an American, but a British statesman. George Canning, on the eve of his departure for Verona, having got an inkling of a South-European federation for the purpose of assisting Spain in the reconquest of her lost transatlantic possessions, postponed his trip and put himself in communication with the American minister, in order to call the attention of our government to the favorable opportunity for asserting the claims of a counter alliance.

GEOGRAPHY OF THE HEAVENS FOR JUNE.

BY PROF. M. B. GOFF,

Western University of Pennsylvania.

THE SUN.

“’Tis by thy secret, strong attractive force, As with a chain indissoluble bound, Thy system rolls entire; from the far bourne Of utmost Saturn, wheeling wide his round Of thirty years, to Mercury, whose disk Can scarce be caught by philosophic eye, Lost in the near effulgence of thy blaze.”

Had our poet written his _Summer_ in 1781, the year in which Uranus was discovered, instead of 1727; or could he have waited till 1846, his “utmost Saturn wheeling wide his round of thirty years” would probably have been changed and in beautifully flowing verse would have been expressed the wonderful fact of “utmost Neptune, wheeling wide his round, whose years could only be by four and sixty and one hundred told.” So much in one respect had astronomy grown in a little more than a century. But we could have no heart to blame our poet’s neglect of our “utmost” planets, even had he known of their existence, since he was so evidently in earnest in giving its due to our glorious orb, recognized to-day as the source of all our light, and heat, and life.

“From brightening fields of ether fair disclosed, CHILD of the SUN, refulgent Summer comes, In pride of youth, and felt through Nature’s depth; He comes, attended by the _Hours_ And ever-fanning _Breezes_, on his way; While from his ardent look, the turning _Spring_ Averts her blushful face; and earth and skies, All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.

…

“When now, no more the alternate Twins are fired, And Cancer reddens with the Solar blaze, Short is the doubtful empire of the Night; And soon, observant of approaching Day, The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of Dews, At first faint-gleaming in the dappled East; Till far o’er Ether spreads the widening glow; And, from before the luster of her face, White break the clouds away.”

Had our poetic friend, Thompson, lived in Meadville or New York, instead of London, he would not even on the 21st of June, have been so much disposed to sing:

“Short is the doubtful empire of the Night;”

for the shortest night of New York is over an hour longer than the shortest night of London. But what were Meadville and New York in 1727? June 21st is our longest day, in latitude 41° 30′, a little more than fifteen hours from sunrise to sunset; the night, of course, a little less than nine hours. On this day the sun reaches his northern limit, 23° 27′ 3.2″, and at 2:42 a. m. begins his southern journey; or, to put it astronomically, the sun enters _Gemini_, and summer begins, on June 21st, at 1:42 a. m. On the 1st, sun rises at 4:31 a. m., sets at 7:24 p. m.; on the 16th, rises at 4:29 a. m., sets at 7:32 p. m.; and on the 30th rises at 4:33 a. m., sets at 7:34 p. m. Many persons judging from the temperature will be inclined to think on the 21st that the sun must be at midday directly above their head; but it will have an elevation of not more than 73°.

THE MOON

Enters upon its last quarter on the 5th, at 6:56 p. m.; new moon on the 12th, at 5:34 p. m.; first quarter, 19th, at 8:40 a. m.; and full on the 27th, at 6:09 a. m. Farthest from the earth on the 28th, at 12:54 a. m.; nearest the earth on the 13th, at 11:12 a. m. Greatest elevation, 66° 56′ 25″, on the 13th; least elevation, 30° 2′ 40″, on the 27th. Rises on the 1st, at 10:15 p. m.; sets on the 16th, at 10:41 p. m.; and rises on the 30th, at 9:27 p. m.

MERCURY

Will be our morning star till the 27th, after which it will be evening star till the end of the month. On the 1st it will rise at 3:34 a. m., or about one hour earlier than the sun, and can probably be seen by good eyes. On the 16th, it will rise at 3:46 a. m.; and on the 30th, will set at 7:51 p. m., or a few minutes after sunset, but will be too near the sun to be visible. Its motion will be direct, amounting to 59° 50′. Its diameter will decrease from 7″ to 5″. On the 5th, at 2:00 p. m., will be 48′ south of Neptune; on the 11th, at 10:57 a. m., 2° 57′ north of the moon; on the 23d, at 11:00 p. m., 1° 41′ north of Saturn; on the 24th, at 3:00 a. m., in perihelion (nearest the sun); and on the 27th, at 10:00 a. m., in superior conjunction with the sun.

VENUS,

Although she acts the part of an evening star, is rather “mild” this month. She rises after the sun, and sets on the 1st, at 7:56; on the 16th, at 8:20; and on the 30th, at 8:33 p. m. Her diameter increases four tenths of a second of arc; and she makes a direct motion of 40° 3′. On the 7th, at 5:00 p. m., she is 1° 32′ north of Saturn; on the 13th, at 10:54 a. m., 5° 48′ north of the moon; and on the 26th, at 3:00 p. m., in perihelion.

MARS

Has a direct motion of 22° 6′; his diameter remains constant, 4.4″, during the month. Can be seen at the early dawn. He rises at the following times: On the 1st, at 3:22; on the 16th, at 2:59; and on the 30th, at 2:33 a. m. On the 10th, at 6:00 p. m., 1° 29′ north of Neptune; on the 10th, at 7:55 p. m., 3° 51′ north of the moon.

JUPITER

“Speaks for himself” every evening this month. On the 1st, he rises at 10:34 a. m., and on the 2d sets at 12:06 a. m.; on the 16th, rises at 9:50 a. m., and sets at 11:16 p. m.; and on the 30th, rises at 9:03 a. m., and sets at 10:23 p. m. He has a direct motion of 4° 2′ 31″; and his diameter decreases from 34″ to 31.6″. On the 17th, at 9:44 a. m., he is 3° 44′ north of the moon. It may interest the general reader to know that while he is admiring, night after night, this beautiful body making its way through the “lesser lights” of the heavens, that the astronomer is laboring diligently to discover its properties and learn with exactness its motions. From the last report of Prof. G. W. Hough, Director of the Dearborn Observatory, Chicago, we find that “the disk of Jupiter was observed on every favorable occasion, and micrometric measures made on the principal spots and markings, including the great red spot first remarked in 1878.” These observations were made principally with a view to obtaining the time of revolution of the planet on its axis; and the result of the observations from September 12, 1883, to June 11, 1884, a period during which the planet made 660 revolutions, was a mean of 9h. 55m. 38.5s., which differs from the mean of five years’ observation by 1.5s.; the former mean being that much greater than the latter.

SATURN

Will be evening star till the 18th; after which date, morning star till the end of the month. On the 1st, rises at 5:40 a. m., and sets at 8:24 p. m.; on the 16th, rises at 4:47 a. m., sets at 7:31 p. m.; on the 30th, rises at 4:00 a. m., sets at 6:44 p. m.; from which it will be seen that except during the first part of the month it will be invisible to the naked eye. Its diameter is 15.6″ and does not change to the amount of one tenth of a second during the month. On the 7th, at 5:00 p. m., 1° 32′ south of Venus; on the 13th, at 1:19 a. m., 4° 3′ north of the moon; on the 18th, at 6:00 p. m., is in conjunction with the sun; on the 23d, at 11:00 p. m., 1° 41′ south of Mercury. This planet has also been the subject of observation from the Dearborn Observatory, for the purpose of detecting markings on the rings; but “nothing indicating a division in the outer ring has ever been noticed.”

URANUS.

On the 1st, this planet rises at 1:10 p. m.; on the 2nd, it sets at 1:18 a. m.; on the 16th, rises at 12:12 p. m., and on the 17th, sets at 12:18 a. m.; on the 30th, rises at 11:18 a. m., and sets at 11:24 p. m. Decreases in diameter two tenths of a second; and has a direct motion of 14″ 30′. On the 5th, at 1.00 p. m., it appears stationary; on the 19th, at 10:15 a. m., is 55′ north of the moon; on same date, at 10:00 p. m., is 90° east of the sun.

NEPTUNE

Is a morning star throughout the month, and has a direct motion of 1° 0′ 16″. Diameter increases from 2.5″ to 2.6″. It rises as follows: On the 1st, at 3:47; on the 16th, at 2:49; and on the 30th, at 1:56 a. m. On the 5th, at 2:00 p. m., is 48′ north of Mercury; on the 10th, at 6:00 p. m., 1° 29′ south of Mars; on the 10th, at 7:49 p. m., 2° 21′ north of the moon. The 26-inch equatorial of the National Observatory at Washington, D. C., was during the past year chiefly employed in observations of the satellites of Neptune, Uranus, Saturn and Mars.

HOW TO WIN.

BY FRANCES E. WILLARD,

President National W. C. T. U.