The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 23, 1895, Page 14

/14 THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, JUNE 23, 1895. e Lo -7 The Little Town Maid. v that 1s blue, Never a hint of Only between those trees; make skies ever, nursey, dear, r than these?” ra rush down a grassy slope Fragrant and sweet; “Do flowers ever grow just for nothing, Right at our teet?” Never a gay tumble in haymow, To find new eggs: | “Do hens grow hanging at the butcher man's Down by their legs?” |, The children wept and the soldiers con- Never a sweet new bowl of milk s sit by the nursery table “Shail T alw Eating alone? Never a chippering, rollicking note Of bird or bee: “The canary 1s drefful stupid, an' he Won'tsing to me!” Never s aleep so dewy and fresh 1n cool green shade: “)Must I always and ever get into this bed You've just made?” 0, little town maid, why reason em ont? herefores” of life are passing strange Beyond adoabt. And why sweet childhood's dawning hours Snould prisoned be Away from haunt of bird and flower, Is deepest mystery, DNEY, in Wide-Awake. Reading for Children. Everybody is very sure thatitisa great deal of matter just what sort of books grown | people have to read. They must possess just the right literary quality, they must be true to life, amusing, inspiring. But how many people remembers how vastly more important it is that books for the children be well selected, be well written. In the older days children were, appar- ently, never thoughtof. Chaucer would as soon havethought of writing poems for fools. Even Shakespeare shuns the sub- ject save when he scornfully admits that man is, in the first stage, “‘the infant, mewling and puking in his mother’s arms.” Thackeray’s acquaintances among chil- dren were but pocket editions of their elders, and Tiny Tim and Little Nell were scarcely the rollicking flesh-and-blood young people of whom and to whom the great literati of to-day are writing. It is good news for the children that Robert Louis Stevenson has left them a complete manuscript volume of ‘“Letters to a Twelve-Year-Old Boy,”” and that Kif— ling’s stories of the charmingly impossible wolf-boy are to go on and on. Just now, for the children’s vacation reading, it is* worth while to take a thought. It will be found that the most pleasure and instruction can be gained by using a little system. Choose an epoch, or a nation in which the child is interested, or which he ought to learn about, and that the keynote of the summer's reading. It is not necessary to follow one theme to weariness, but it is doubtless easier for the young reader, since he must build and live'in an imaginary world suggested by his books. to provide reasonable material within certain limits. For instance, if the child is to n about France, let him have French stories to read as well as French history to study. He will be sure to take up his temporary abode in France, to think of it in his idle moments, tojques- tion his elders about it, and so o assimilate a great deal of knowledge almost uncon- sciously. The hi as tory of Scotland will go down easily as a sugar-coated pill if the child’s interest is stimulated by an | accompaniment of the delightful literature of that country and by little bits of anec- dote and information which show what the real life of 2 peovle is—the sort of thing which seems to be excluded from all the books of history that ever were “‘studied.’ Let the children’s summer reading b well considered and generously provided, regardless of whether or not the grown people get hold of all the “erotic, neurotic and tommy-rotic”’ novels of the day. The Child Spy. They called him Stenne, little Stenne. He was a child of Paris, thin and pale, who looked 10 years old and was 12. His mother was dead. His father was an old soldier of -marines and a guard of a square in the Temple quarter. The babies, the nurses, all the frequenters of the park, knew old Stenne and adored him. They knew that under that fierce mustache, terror to dogs and tramps, lurked a smile tender, almost maternal, and to see that smile it was only necessary to say, “‘How is your little boy getting along?’’ Oid Stenne loved that boy. He was so happy after school hours when the child | the two walked | came for him and through all the paths together, pausing at each bench to respond to the pleasant salutation of the occupants. ith the siege everything was unhappily changed. The square was closed and used for storing explosives, Poor old Stenne, forced to an igilance. lived in the midst of dis- order and destruction, alone, without his {»ipe, and seeing his boy only at home and ate at night. Besides he had to look down at his mustache when he spoke of the Prussians. Little Stenne saw nothing amiss with the new state of affairs. A siege! It was so amusing for boys. No more school. Vacation all the time and plenty of excitement. The child followed the battalions when they went out to the ramparts, choosing those which had the best music. rest he watched the drills and sometimes joined the crowds that gathered each morning for the public distribution of food. Most amusing of all was the famous game of galoche, which the soldiers made fashionable during the siege. When little Stenne was not at the ramparts nor the baker’s he was sure to be watching the game. Of course he did not play. He never had money enough for that, and it was joy enough to see the othersat it. One player in partigular excited the child’s ad- miration, becalise he played nothing less than five-franc pieces. One day when little Stenne returned to him a piece of money which had rolled un- der his feet this big boy said to him in a low voice: ‘‘That makes you envious, doesn’t it? Well, if you like, I will show you where to find them.” _And when the game was over he took little Stenne aside, and proposed that they g0 and carry papers to the Prussians. At first Stenne refused indignantly. He stayed awn'g from the place for three days. Three terrible days, when he neither ate nor slept. The last night he dreamed of silver dol- lars, and the temptation was too much. The fourth day he sought ont the big boy and allowed himself to be led away. They started out in the frosty morning, bags over their shoulders, nndvths news- pavers hiaden under their blouses. When they came to the gate the older For the | Iboy took little Stenne by the hand and went up to the sentinel. He began in a | pleading voice, ‘“Let us pass, please. Our mother is sick—papa is dead. We wang to | get some potatoes out in the field.” e wept. Stenne hung his head ashamed. The | soldier glanced out at the snowy and de- | | serted road and said, “Hurry up!” They ran on and the big boy laughed. He knew the roads and how to avoid the soldiers. | Officers looked at them from afar through | their fieldglasses, and once they came upon | an outpost of guards unexpectedly. { fronted them, ‘‘Never mind, children,” | they said, “you can get plenty of v, SEL) wyect D RS { ¥ yo! get plenty of potatoes, | to death now, are fighting at Bourget,” said the d man, who knew all the forts. & Little Stenne went pale and lay down on his bed. The cannon thundered con- stantly. They spoke of the attacks from the outposts upon the Prussians, whom they hoped to surprise, but who had an ambuscade for them. > The boy thought “of the sergeant who had smiled at him; he saw him bleeding in the snow down there, and how many with him! The price of all this blood was under his fpillow. and it was he, son of old Stenne, of a soldier —. Tears choked him. He heard his father open the window, drums were beating to arms, & battalion of mobiles was going out. Decidedly it wasa true battle. The unhappy boy could not repress a groan. ““What is the matter?” asked his father. The child got up and_threw himself at the soldier’s feet. In rising he pushed the money out upon the floor. “‘What is it? Are you a thief?'’ cried the father, trembling. And the ljttle told his story. The father listened with a terrible face.” When it was finished he hid his face in his hands and wept. % ‘‘Father, father!” the boy implored. The father did not answer and he gath- ered up the money. “Is this all?” he asked. Little Stenne made a sign that it was all. The old marine took down his gun, his cartridge-box, and put the money in his pocket. “I am going to return it,” he said. And without another word, without so much as turning his head, he went out into the night. And he never came back again.—From the French of Alphonse Daudet. Dorothy and Dolly. You ought to be very much ’bliged to | Johnny, dolly dear, "cause if he didn’t get you out of the water you'd be all drownded )an’ we couldn’t have no = 7 Tl % /57 = 2 . < “M “\;(\ , g § Fn Pacie - AR A i T L g i Fgfl/@“m’ll Il ON GUARD. [From a photograph.] and first you mustcome and get warm. The little fellow seems to be freezing.” Alas! It was fear and shame, instead of | cold, that made little Stenne tremble. | They were given coffee and bread and | then they went on again. At last, beyond the bare -fields they saw a long wall, pierced with loopholes. They | went on toward it, pausing often to seem | 10 be picking up potatoes. ! “Let us go back, let us go back.” begged | little Stenne. The other shrugged his shoulders and hurried on. Suddenly they | heard the click of a gun. “Lie down,” said the boy, and threw | himself upon the ground. Then he Whistled. X?nother whistle answered him. At a breach in the wall appeared two yellow mustaches under a greasy woolen cap. The big boy went up to the Prussian and said, “This is my brother.”” 3 Stenne looked so little that the Prussian { laughed and picked him up in his arms to | lift him over the wall. On the other side were trenches, fallen | trees and black holes in the snow. and in each hole the same greasy cap, the same vellow mustaches, which grinned atsight f the children. In a corner a gardener’s | |lodge was protected by trunks of |trees. Inside were soldfers, play- ling cards and cooking at a big | bright fire. The food had a savory smell. | | How different from the camps beyond!| i Here were the officers. You could hear them laying the piano, drinking champagne. i G\"nen the Parisians came in they shouted. | | They took the papers. All the officers had | | & fierce and wicked air, but the big boy l | amused them with hischat. They laughed, | repeating the words after him, and rolling under their tongues the bits of news from | Paris. Little Stenne wished to talk, too, | to show that he was not stupid, but some- | | thing stopped him. Before him sat alone | a Prussian older and graver than the others, who only pretended to read watch- ing the boy. His eyes bore a look of ten- derness and of reproach, as if that man had left at home a fv of the same age as little Stenne. Finally he said: “I had rather be killed than to see my sondoa dishonorable thing.” At this moment Stenne had a feeling as if a hand had clutched hisheart. Toquiet the pain he took a d#ink. Soon everything whirled about him; he heard vaguely in the midst of great laughter his comrade mimicking the National Guard at their drill, the sentimels guarding the ramparts at night. The wretch even went so far as to give warning of the attack from the outposts. At that little Stenne sprang up, furious. “Not that!” he burst forth. 1 won't have it!” Hut the other only laughed and went on. When he had fin- ished all the officers rose, and one opened th_eddoor for the children. “Begone!” he said. They went; the big boy proud as a duke, jingling his money. Stenne followed, anging his head: and when he passed the Prussian who had looked at him before he heard a sad voice saying, “Dirty work this, dirty work!” And the tears ran down the little boy’s cheeks. Out on the plain again the children began to run. Their bags were full of potatves, which the Prussians had given them, so they passed the outposts without trouble. The old sergeant of the morning remem- bered them and smiled kindly. Oh, how that smile hurt little Stenne. For a moment he wanted to cry out, “Do not make the attack down there, we have be- trayed you!” But his companion whis- pered to him, “If you speak we shall be shot,” and fear kept him silent. They divided the money 1n a aeserted house, und little Stenne crept home. The hand 2t his heart seemed stronger than ever, and Paris seemed not the same as be- fore. The word spy he heard in the sounds of the streets, in the beating of the boats upon the canal. He hurried to his room to hide the money. Soon the father came, happy as a king. The affairs of the country were, better; they were going to acquire new provinces. All thetime that he was eating the old soldier looked at his gun hanging ainst the wall, and he said to his son, with a great laugh: “Hurrah, boy! How you would fight those Prussians if you were big enough!” Toward 8 o’clock they heard firing. more fun with you, never; ’cept only a fun’ral. Fun'ral ie a nice game, though, an’ we're goin’ to play ohe if we can just only ever find anything what's really truly dead. Johnny went to one over to a| church, an’ he said the minister came out | befront of all the people with just only | his nightgown onto him. An’he was so shamed,an’ so shamed that most every min- ute he turned and kneeled downan’hnided his face wif his hands. Johnny was ever so sorry for him, but he watched him good, an’ when we play fun’ral he is going to be |it an’ do every single thing that min- | ist;r‘;!i(L : - §Teddy was goin’ to help us play, an’ he N bury him all up in our sand Rile an’ plant flowers an’ stones betop of him. But Johnny said we’d hafto wait till we could get somebody would tell ’em 'bout how good an’.dear they is before they gets so dgnrl they can’t know it, don't you, dolly dear? I’'m just only goin’ to love you an’kiss you an’ sing pretty songs to you when o is a really live dolly; an’ when you is a deader I will spank you an’ pound you an' scold you ver: mucK. 1 can have justas much fun doing it as if you was alive, an’ it won’t make you nor nobody be hurted. Oh, dear, I don't know what to say! I tried to learn to be a boy, an’ I don’t be- lieve I can ever learn to doit velf' good. I took off my shoes, an’ then I couldn’t Tun nor hardly walk the leastest bit, 'cause there was so much “things to hurt my feet. I got into a boat an’ Johnny rocked it, and only just laughed when T was scared Toskly 0 death. I don’t want to be dead, I can’t learn to be a boy, 1 is too big for to be a baby; an’if I can't have a bicycle for my very own an’ ride a flyin’, most like a bird, 1 ain’t goin’ to try to do nuthin’ never no more. Animals I Have Met. Among the rocks of the Sierras a hunter found a curious egg and broughtit to the barnyard of a mountain ranch. The egg, which was about the size of a turkey’s, was creamy white and not mottled. It was put under a sitting hen and in due time, a bit before the chicks began to peep, a most remarkable creature came forth. Tt resembled mnothin; that any of us had ever seen, an it was so awkward and uncouth as to seem a survival from the dead past. Un- able to classify the bird, we callea it loxolophodon, thereby detracting nothing from “the absurdity of the freakish thing. It had an enormous head and breast, and was so badly constructed, so illy proportioned, that it | was imdpossible for it to bend its head to | eat or drink without falling forward in a | decidedly comical fashion. ’fhe poor thing | had wonderful patience and perseverance, and it became guite dextrous in the art of balancing, :\nél recovering from its many ana ‘absurd accidents. If not a thing of beauty it was at least a joy foreveron the lonely ranch. Its performances were so variously and perpetually funny that the contemplation of them” would provoke mirth in any beholder. The bird’s fame went abroad, and he was held in high es- teem for the absurdity of his behavior. Towzer amused himself with the crea- ture, as everybody else did. He would follow the bird about until it became slightly nervous and excited, then he would sit back upon his haunches and watch the comical creature’s falls, som- mersaults and recoveries with evident pleasure. Butin an evil moment the dog entered too much into the spirit of the sport, and killed the loxolophodon with his teeth. Everybody was indignant, and the bird was tied about the dog’s neck, in the hoge of curing him of a taste for murder. The poor beast compelled everybody upon the ranch to share his punishment and his remorse, for he retreated under the house and howled there dis- melly for three daysand nifl.lls, refusing all requests to come out until he had freed himself from the hateful loxolophodon. Philosophy of Babyland. Teacher—If you had a suit of clothes, and somebody should give you another, how many would you have? Tommy—One. Teacher—How do you make that out? Tommy—My little brother would have the other. Visitor (benignly)—Well, my boy, are you going to be a lawyer like your father when you grow up? Little Johnny—No, I am going to try to be a good man when I get big. “Teddy, do you know the dollar sign?” ““Yeth, thir; it ith eths, with a railroad running over it.”” “The baby has your father’s eyes.” Bessie—Oh, no, ma’'am; papa has his eyes yet. These are a brand-new pair. “‘Give me some omelette.” Mamma—If what, dear? The dear—If there’s any left. “What comes after six, Elsa?” Elsa—Dinner. Neddie—Papa, dear, what for do you go downtown so much? 1 go to make bread and better. —Then why don’t you ever have grease on your clothes when you come home?—Harper’s Young People. Ethel woke up in the morning very sick and the doctor soon announced that it was a case of measles, “Mamma,” said the little girl, wonder- ingll\;. “I thought papa said they eouldn’t catch measles asleep ?’—Exchange. “Dear child,” I said, ‘the humblest LITTLE MISS CHATFIELD TAYLOR, [From a photograph by Morse.] good,*’cause bafl folks don't never die. He said he always goes to every single fun’ral for to see, an’ even if it'sa hoodlum boy what used to be awfly awfly bad when he knowed him, they ail tell ’bout how lovely he was before he got drownded. Johnny Sulfil he don’t never dare to be very awfully good,’cause it ain’t hardly any fun, an’ it most always makes you get dead. An’ Johnny says he don’t want to get dead, an’ he don't care if anybody loves him or not. I like to have folks love me an'say 1 am sucha good little girl, an’ such a pretty little girl. an’ oh, such a darlint! ©Our washing lady’s little girl used to have a g deal of freckels unto her an’ her mother said she was the badest girl that ever was borned. She used to not let her come into the front door an’ she used to act just like Maggie wasn't so good as a dog. An’ then when Maggie was all dead an’ couldn’t make no more_trouble, nor have no more fun, she let her stay into the parlor with all the flowers out of the garden, what Maggie couldn’t never pick when she wasn't dead. It's pretty lovel; for to have such a lot of flowers, but don’t bélieve you can see ’em very much when your eyesisshut. An’I just only “It is the guns of "Aubervilliers—they wish that everybody’s mammas an’ folks place isbest. I never read in history or rhyme of queen, save one, that had a happy reign, and ' she—she reigned but for | a single day.” —T. B. Aldrich. Extract from a schoolboy’s essay: " “The Roman Emperors were all more or less assassinated.” Ecno. Wanted Him to Blow Away. A ymmg hd{ organist in a church was captivated by the young pastor of a church in the next street, and was delighted to hear one week that by exchange he was to reach the next Sun a! in her own church. he organ was pum by anobstreperous old sexton who wmfig often stop when he thought the organ voluntary had lasted long enough. éhm day the organist was anxious that all should go well, and as the service was about to 5. in, she wrote a note interded only for the sexton's eye. He took it, and in spite of her agonized beckonings, carried it straight to the preacher. What was, that gentleman’s astonishment when he' read: “Oblige me this morning by blowing away till ive i;m the signal to stop. Miss Allen,”"— ontreal Star. ——— . Paris has a number of female bootblacks and they are liberally patronized. [ovis or THE [FIiELD. BY A NATURALIST AT LARGE. Crouched here in the shelter of a thick growth of scrub oak, I have been watching the actions of a pair ofeyellow birds, who, I know, have a nest close at hand. The pair are manifestly unhappy. I am sure they have not seen me here under the bush, but they are clearly on the offensive. The little hen has left her pearly gray eggs and, with outstretched wings and shrill, angry cries, she and her mate are hovering over a particular spot 1n the underbrush, occasionally making warlike feints at it. Although within a yard of the place that claims their attention, peering anxiously into the tangle of branches, I can discover-| no reason for the demonstration of the birds. The sunlight can scarcely penetrate that compact growth of green leafage. Only here and there the stray beam darts through, causing the gray branches to glisten. Ah! why should a scrub-oak branch glisten in the sunlight? I look ugsin, bringing my fieldglass to bear upon the spot. There is something horse, the taper and the rhinoceros wan- dered in the primeval bog, a common an- cestor of the human and the simian races lived an arboreal life, learm%l:_md hating the great snakes that were his deadliest foes. The memory is long since dead, but the instinctive fear and disgust yet re- main. 3 Y It is good that we have this feeline against tiose snakes that it is legitimate to kill. I once knew a delicate, invalid girl who was almost afraid of her own shadow to kill, single-handed, three huge rattlesnakes that she encountered in a meadow. She was sick with terror after her exploit. : “How dared you do it?” some oneyasked her. “You might have been bitten.’ Her answer was sublime. The school children came home through that meadow and she was afraid some of them might be bitten. 7 Such courage as that is heroic, but the mere impulse of terror that slays any and all snakes is only of interest as an_indica- tion of our descent from a prehistoric, snake-fearing ancestry. . It is an easy matter, and a very im HEREDITARY FOES. there that at first glance looks like a mon- ster slug, but presently I make out a small pointed head with glistening bead-like eyes that regard me intently. Next my glance follows the outline of a slender gray and | white body pressed closely against the branch to which it clings, and 1 make out | & snake lying along the branch studying every move of mine. By some subtle pro- | cess of hisown he 1ecognizes the instant | that he is discovered, and with a noiseless, liding, graceful motion he slips slowly | into the underbrush to the great relief of | the goldfinches. I do not like snakes, and while I at once | identify this creature as a perfectly harm- ' less and very useful variety of his kind, I | Lave a strong impulse to follow and slay | him. | There is no reason in the world why I | should do this, and yet, I presume, ninety- | nine out of a hundred men and women | would share my impulse. There is some- | thing about the sight of a snake that | arouses human rage and fear. We shudder | at them in horror as they cross our path, | and we even speak with pride of our hatred | of the crawling things—as though it werea sort of virtue in us—as though we, our- | selves, never crawl. ‘What is this strange, subtle enmity that exists between mankind ana the serpent? Why do we always consider that we have done something peculiarly commendable | when we have ki‘led a snake? I came across an eminent scholar, a genial, gentle man, some time ago, Le]abonng with stones and sticks some object that I could not clearly see. His face was flushed, hi: hat lay on the ground and he was terribly excited. What monstrous enemy of man- | kind was he attacking with such valor? | 1 looked and beheld the writhing remains | of a harmiess little whipsnake. rermon- strated with the slayer. “The creature was perfectly harmless,” I said. “I know it,” was his reply, ‘‘but I have such a hor- ror of snakes that I always feel impelled to kill one when I seeit.” | And he reullg' seemed not to realize how entirely absurd was his position. Directed toward any other creature he would have felt such an impulse to be brutal and un- manly, but because the object of his hatred was a snake he even spoke of his feeling with a certain degree of pride. Theolo- gians attribute the antipathy of man for the snake to the creature’s bad behavior in the Garden of Eden, but evolutionists know there is more to it than that. Some- thing more tban js related in the book of Genesis has caused the feud of man against the serpent. The human hatred is shared by an order of beings to which scientists tell us man is very closely allied. - A horse, a cow, a dog, will regard a non- poisonous snake with the greatest equa- nimity. It is not because the snake crawls or is unlovely, nor because some of them are poisonous, that the birds fear the creature, but because it has the habit of eating their nestlings. But let a monkey see the smallest, most innocent representative of the serpent order and he is thrown into the same frenzy of fear and rage that characterizes his human cousin-german it the same sight. The hissing of a snake will throw a caged gorilla into a pauic of terror. ‘Why is it? Doessome strange connect- ing link of memory carry him back to the far-away past, when the first climbing an- thropoid in the primeval forest lived in constant be%vor of the terrible reptiles that haunted thése tropic glades? 1f s0, then man’s hatred of the creature is instinctive, It certainly is not wholly reasonable. The same inherited instinct prompts his slaughter of the snake that prompts the domestic cow’s attacks upon the canine descendant of her ancient foe, the wolf; that makes the dog, himself, turn around three times before he lies down to sleep because thus his prowling pmto‘t’yne made his bed in ages long me by. Such confirming evidence are these tritles, light as air, that science sees in man’s fear and hatred of snakes not an in- dication that man is descended from the monkey. We do not often nowadays hear that proposition among intelligent people, but tgac in the ages beyond our lmowleé’ge: even before the common ancestor of the portant one, to learn to discriminate be tween poisonous and non-poisonous snakes and lizards, Generally speaking a good rule to go by is that the hurtiul snakes have rather large and flattened he: varieties with small heads, but they have small mouths as well, instead of the dely gaping jaws that usually character- ize the ophis and_are incapable of doing much harm. The small pointed head is the head of a harmless snake. Most of these are very useful members of society, serving to keép down a number of hurtfal pests. The gopher-snake, for in- stance, should never be Kkilled unless he is found in a chicken-roost, It is com- paratively an easy thing to judge from a s general appearance pretty accu- rately as to his habits. ’Ill;e ground- snakes, with slender, round, exceedingly flexible bodies and graceful propor- tions, while the majority are not poison- ous are yet the class in ~which the greater number of poisonous ones are found (excepting the sea snakes, most of which are both poisonous and vicious). Of the ground snakes there are only two which are to be feared here in California. hese are the corrul snake, a handsome, lithe, black and yellow fellow, with glisten- ing scales, a flat head and round black eyes; | and the dreaded, dreadful, always unmis. takable rattler, of which variety we have a large assortment. The ground snakes are nearly all useful in ridding our fields of go,{'hers, moles, mice and squirrels. [he burrowing snakes are all harmless. These live chiefly on insects and inverte- | brates. They have round, shining, scaly | bodies, much less flexible fhan the ground snakes, with pointed, small heads and short, strong tails. Their .cyes are quite small and they do not see very well. The tree snakes have somewhat compressed, slender bodies, rarely rounded, and when round terminating in a long, prehensile tail. They are usually brilliantly, often protectively colored, and have large, bright eyes. A good many of the tree snakes are of the constrictor variety—notabl black snake, and crush their food Ke swallowing it. The fresh-water snakes have short, flat the fore There are one or two poisonous | heads, but none of these are venemous, Their bodies are cylindrical, rather Jong, and they have smalleyes. Mostof them are retty creatures and very rapid swimmers, hey live in Or Dear running streams, and are to be seen slipping sleekly through the water in search of frogs and tishes. Snakes are cold-blooded creat and love the sunshine. It isevident to the naturalist that the creatures once had | but the front ones have long since disap. peared entirely, while the lind ones are merely rudimentary and within the Lody. Apparently no two creatures could be more | thoroughly differentiated than a sna a bird.” Yet the evidences of their fossi mains point conclusively to a commc | cestor for these two widely separated c | ders of being. Just what family quarrel separated the two back in the flur‘l{ ages, we shall ney, | know. Something happened in the cot | of evolution that sent the bird skyw and gave him a coat of feathers, stro; | wings and warm blood, while his | relative goes upon his belly, loves to ba on a rock in the sunshine in summer lies torpid during the winter. The separated as widely as the ea: west to all appearances, and d is from the yet so much | thicker than water, after all, is blood, eyen when that of one individual is hot 2 of the other is cold, that certain anato peculiarities that snakes and birds to-day, speak conclusively of their common ancestry. How does a snake travel? Our artists have a very tal portraying the creature as proure a series of undulating curves, arci depressing alternate sections of his a graceful illustration of Hogarth beauty. But the snake does not Any- thing of the sort. He catches the forya part of nis body against some project Toughness of the ground, and sidewise, by alternate contractions right and left ribs, he drags himself ward. His actual organs of locc are his ribs, and he can travel with incredible rapidity. He does not it, however, or for longat a tim cannot progress at all over a smoot face. Just now, when so many of our cit are camping, it may be useful to know charaecteristics by which poisonous s are to be identified. The corral s have noticed. Theotheroneto bed the rattler, has a broad, flat head very slender neck-like constructior it joins the body. The rattler’s heac !l rattle, is unmistakable. He is killed. He can only strike when coiled, and by making him strike at a long stick or cane a well-directed blow will dispatch him before he can coil again. He can do this, however, with almost lightning rapid- ity. SObelifliCkA He can also be crushed with a rock when coiled, and he strike the distance of his own length. cannot, no snake can, throw his body for- ward to any perceptible degree. The rattles are dried remains of the in- tegument that once covered the tail. The snake sometimes sheds his skin several times a year, but the skin of the tail, in- stead of being shed with the rest, i re- tained by the posterior swelling of the end of the tail and forms a jointor rattle. The number of rattles, therefore, does not indi- cate the age of the s number of times he termination of the rattler, however, and he is rapidly disappearing before the on- slaughts of man. The flesh of forest rats is esteemed a culinary delicacy in parts of Cuba. Their | main article of diet is Brazil nuts, which impart a good flaver to them NEW TO-DAY. YOUNG GIRLS. INTERESTING CONCLUSIGNS, Mothers Agree on One Vital Subject. [SPECTAL TO OUE LADY EEADERS.) Young girls, to the thinking mind, are ever subjects of the deepest interest. Some lead lives of luxury, while others toil for mere exist- ence. Separate, how- ever, as their paths in life may lie, Na- ¢ ture demands of Y them the same obe- Al are subject to the same phy- gicallaws, and suffer in pro- portion to their viola- tion. Young girls are reticent through modesty, and often withhold what ought to be told. Yet they are not to blame, for infor- mation on such subjects has been with- held from them, owing to the false inter- pretation of 2 mother’s duty. In such cases they should do as thou- sands of young ladies are doing every day: write to Mrs. Pinkham, at Lynn, Mass., giving as nearly as possible their symptoms, and receive her freely given 2dvice and timely aid. Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Com- ound is the young girl's most trusty riend. It can be obtained of any drug- gist, and speedily relieves and cures irreg- ularities, suspension, retention, and all derangements of the womb and ovaries. It banishes promptly all pains, head- ache, backache, faintness, nervousness, sleeplessness, melancholia, ete. Young girls must know that sej-preservation is the first law of nature. . - T Yo, @ , LATEST = Hats, Laces, Millinery Spring and Summer Im- ; | § | | Flowers, FEATHERS, RIBBONS, Etc., Ete. THE LARGEST STOCK EVER DISPLAYED IN THE CITY. »