When Aunt Ann saw the little girl lying on the door step she was so
astonished that she came very near dropping the bucket.

"Well, I never!" said she, "if it isn't little Bridget, and just as
clean as a new pin! I do declare I believe the sweet innocent has
jumped out of bed early, and gone and washed and combed herself, just
to save me the trouble!"

Aunt Ann's voice was nothing like so soft and gentle as a fairy's, and
it woke up little Bridget.

"You lovely dear!" cried her Aunt, "I hadn't the least idea in the
world that you were such a smart little thing, and there is no doubt
but that you are now old enough to wash and dress yourself, and after
this you may do it!"

So, after that, Bridget washed and dressed herself, and was just as
happy as the birds, the butterflies, and flowers.




SOME NOVEL FISHING.

[Illustration]


Fishing has one great peculiarity which makes it often vastly more
interesting than hunting, gunning, or many other sports of the kind,
and that is that you never know exactly what you are going to get.

If we fish in waters known to us, we may be pretty sure of what we
shall _not_ get, but even in our most familiar creeks and rivers, who
can say that the fish which is tugging at our line is certainly a
perch, a cat-fish, or an eel? We know that we shall not pull up a shad
or a salmon, but there is always a chance for some of those great
prizes which are to be found, by rare good luck, in every river and
good-sized stream; a rock-fish, or striped-bass perhaps, or a pike, or
enormous chub.

But there are some fish which would not only gratify but astonish
most of us, if we could be so fortunate as to pull them out of the
water. For instance, here are some fish with both their eyes on one
side of their heads.

[Illustration]

These are Turbots, and are accounted most excellent eating. They
resemble, in their conformation but not in their color, our flounders
or flat-fish, which some of you may have caught, and many of you have
eaten. These fish lie on one side, at the very bottom of the water in
which they live, and consequently one eye would be buried in the mud
and would be of no use, if they were formed like common fish. But as
their enemies and their food must come from above them, they need both
their eyes placed so that they can always look upwards. In the picture
at the head of this article, you will see some Soles lying together
at the bottom. These are formed in the same way. They are white on one
side, which is always down except when they are swimming about, and a
very dark green on the other, so that they can scarcely be
distinguished from the mud when they are lying at the bottom. The
Turbot, however, as you see, is very handsomely spotted.

But there are much stranger fish than these flat fellows, and we must
take a look at some of them. What would you say if you were to pull up
such a fish as this on your hook?

[Illustration]

This is a _Hippocampus_, or sea-horse. He is a little fellow, only a
few inches in length, but he is certainly a curiosity. With a head and
neck very much like those of a horse, he seems to take pleasure in
keeping himself in such a position as will enable him to imitate a
high mettled charger to the greatest advantage. He curves his neck and
holds up his head in a manner which few horses adopt, unless they are
reined up very tightly. I have seen these little fellows in aquariums,
and have always regarded them as the most interesting of fishes.

But although it is by no means probable that any of us will ever catch
a sea-horse, we might get even stranger fish upon our hooks. If we had
a very large hook, a long and strong line, and a tempting bait, it is
just possible, if we were to go to exactly the right spot, and had
extraordinary good fortune, that we might catch such a beauty as this.

[Illustration]

This fellow you will probably recognize as the Cuttle-fish. Some
persons call it the Devil-fish, but the name is misapplied. The
Devil-fish is a different kind of a sea monster. But the Cuttle-fish
is bad enough to have the very worst name that could be bestowed upon
him. Those great arms, which sometimes grow to a length of several
feet, he uses to wrap around his prey, and they are strong and tough.
He has two eyes and a little mouth, and is about as pugnacious a fish
as is to be found anywhere. If I should ever haul a Cuttle-fish into
my boat, I think I should feel very much like getting out, no matter
how deep the water might be.

There was once a sea captain, who was walking on a beach with some of
his men, when he spied one of these Cuttle-fish, travelling over the
sand towards the water. He thought it would be a fine thing to capture
such a strange fish, and he ran after it, and caught hold of one of
its legs. But he soon wished that it had got away from him, for the
horrid creature turned on him, and wrapped several of its long arms or
legs--whichever they may be--around him, and the poor captain soon
began to fear that he himself would not be able to escape.

Nothing that he could do would loosen the hold of the monster upon
him, and if it had not been for a sailor who ran up with a hatchet and
cut the limbs of the Cuttle-fish from its body, the poor captain might
have perished in the embrace of this most disagreeable of all fishes.
There are a great many stories told of this fish, and it is very
probable that all the worst ones are true. Canary birds are very fond
of pecking at the bones taken from small Cuttle-fish, and India-ink is
made from a black substance that it secretes, but I would rather do
without canary birds altogether, and never use India-ink, than to be
obliged to catch my own Cuttle-fish.

But while we are hauling strange things up from the deep, suppose we
take something that is not exactly a fish, but which is alive and
lives in the water. What do you think of a living thing like this?

This is a polypier, and its particular name is the _fungia_ being so
called because it resembles a vegetable fungus. The animal lives
inside of that circular shell, which is formed something like the
under side of a toad-stool. Between the thin plates, or leaves, the
polypier thrusts out its arms with little suckers at the ends. With
these it seizes its food and conveys it to its mouth, which is
situated at the centre of its body.

[Illustration]

But there are more strange fish in the sea than we can ever mention,
and the strange fish are by no means the most profitable. Still there
is a pleasure in fishing, no matter what we pull up.

The greatest fishers in the world are fish. The Whale will catch, in
the course of a day, enough herring to last a family for many years,
and in all the rivers and oceans and lakes, fishing is going on so
constantly and extensively that the efforts of man in that direction
seem ridiculous, by contrast.

[Illustration]

The Tunny, a large fish, measuring from two to five feet in ordinary
length, is a great fisher. He, like the Whale, is fond of herrings,
and he likes them fresh, not salt, smoked, or pickled. Often, when the
fishermen are busy in their boats, setting their nets for herring, a
troupe of Tunnies will come along, and chase the herring in every
direction, swallowing every unfortunate fellow that they can catch.

Some of the fishers that live in the sea are terrible fellows, and are
by no means content with such small game as herring. The Sword-fish,
for instance, always appears to prefer large victims, and he has such
strong tastes of that kind, that he has been known to attack ships,
driving his long sword clean through the bottom of the vessel. But he
generally comes off second best on such occasions, for his sword is
very often broken off and left sticking fast in the thick hull.

[Illustration]

The Sword-fish has a better chance when he attacks a Whale, and this
he has often been known to do. The Whale could probably kill the
Sword-fish, if he could get one good crack at him, but the smaller
fish is generally active enough to keep out of the way of harm, while
he drives his sword into the Whale again and again, until the great
creature often perishes from loss of blood.

The Shark, as you all know, is the most ferocious and dangerous of
all the fishers in the sea. He considers anything suitable for a meal
which will go into his mouth; he will eagerly snap at a man, a mouse,
or even a tin coffee-pot, or a band-box. So savage and relentless is
this "tiger of the sea" as he is sometimes called, that it is
gratifying to think that he occasionally goes out fishing and gets
caught himself. Many instances have been related of natives of the
Pacific Islands, who are accustomed to bathe so much in the ocean that
they swim almost like fishes themselves, who have successfully given
battle to Sharks which have pursued them. The Shark is unable, from
the peculiar formation of his mouth, to seize the man, unless he can
turn partially over. Therefore the man takes care to keep below the
Shark, and a few stabs with his long knife are generally sufficient to
finish the combat, and to slay the monster.

[Illustration]

Still, although it appears so easy to kill a Shark in this way, I
think it will generally be found preferable to try for some other kind
of fish.

Let others go seek the Shark, the Sword-fish, or the squirming
Cuttle-fish. Give us the humble Perch and the tender Trout. Don't you
say so?




EAGLES AND LITTLE GIRLS.

[Illustration: THE CHILD AND THE EAGLE.]


Many years ago, among the mountains of Switzerland, an Eagle pounced
down upon a little girl, and carried her away. Her parents were
harvesting in the field, and they did not notice the danger of their
little daughter, until the great bird had lifted her up in his talons,
and was flying away with her to his nest in the mountain crags.

I remember having read all the particulars of this remarkable affair,
but I forget whether the child was rescued alive or not. At any rate
let us hope that she was.

But this incident suggests the following question: Ought little girls
to be allowed to play out of doors in countries where there are
Eagles?

Many a child, after looking at such a picture as that upon the
opposite page, might reasonably stand in awe of the national bird of
our country; but I will state that it is my firm belief that a child
runs quite as much risk of being swallowed up by an earthquake as it
does of being carried away by an Eagle.

There have been a few instances where the bald-headed Eagle of this
country--(so called, not because its head is bald, but because it is
gray)--has attacked children, but these cases are very rare indeed.
The Eagle which carried off the little girl in Switzerland was of a
very different kind from the national emblem of America,--much more
powerful and fierce. But even in Switzerland, if the children all
lived until they were carried away by Eagles, the country would soon
become like one great school-house yard.

So, looking at the matter in all its various aspects, I think that we
may reasonably conclude that little girls, when they play out of
doors, are in more danger from horses, dogs, snakes, and bad company,
than of being attacked by Eagles, and the children may all look upon
the picture of the Eagle of the Alps and its baby prey without a
shudder on their own account.




CLIMBING MOUNTAINS.

[Illustration]


There is nothing which can give us grander ideas of Nature than to
stand on the top of a high Mountain. But it is very hard to get there.
And yet there are very few Mountains in the world which have not been
ascended by man.

For hundreds of years, Mont Blanc, that lofty peak of the Alps, was
considered absolutely inaccessible, but it is now frequently ascended.
Even ladies, and some of them Americans, have stood upon its summit.

But few persons, except those who have actually made the ascent of
high and precipitous Mountains, have any idea of the dangers and
difficulties of the undertaking. The adventurers are obliged to wear
shoes studded with strong iron spikes to prevent slipping; they carry
long poles with iron points by which they assist themselves up the
steep inclines; they are provided with ladders, and very often the
whole party fasten themselves together with a long rope, so that if
one slips the others may prevent him from falling.

Where there are steep and lofty precipices, crumbling rocks, and
overhanging cliffs, such as those which obstruct the path of the party
whose toilsome journey is illustrated in the accompanying engraving,
the feat of climbing a Mountain is hazardous and difficult enough; but
when heights are reached where the rocks are covered with ice, where
deep clefts are concealed by a treacherous covering of snow where
avalanches threaten the traveller at every step, and where the
mountain-side often seems as difficult to climb as a pane of glass,
the prospect seems as if it ought to appal the stoutest heart.

But some hearts are stouter than we think, and up those icy rocks,
along the edges of bewildering precipices, over, under, and around
great masses of rock, across steep glaciers where every footstep must
be made in a hole cut in the ice, brave men have climbed and crept and
gradually and painfully worked their way, until at last they stood
proudly on the summit, and gazed around at the vast expanse of
mountains, plains, valleys, and forests, spread far and wide beneath
them.

In Europe there are regular associations or clubs of
mountain-climbers, which at favorable periods endeavor to make the
ascent of lofty and difficult Mountains. Nearly every peak of the
Pyrenees and the Alps has felt the feet of these adventurers, who take
as much delight in their dangerous pursuits as is generally found by
the happiest of those who are content with the joys of ordinary
altitudes.

We have very many grand Mountains in our country, but we have not yet
reduced their ascent to such a system as that which these Alpine clubs
have adopted. But very many of our countrymen have climbed to the
loftiest peaks of the White Mountains, the Catskills, the Alleghenies,
and the Rocky Mountains.

Mountain-climbing is certainly dangerous, and it is about the hardest
labor of which man is capable, but the proud satisfaction of standing
upon a mountain-top repays the climber for all the labor, and makes
him forget all the dangers that he has passed through.




ANDREW'S PLAN.

[Illustration]


"Oh, Andy!" said little Jenny Murdock, "I'm so glad you came along
this way. I can't get over."

"Can't get over?" said Andrew; "why, what's the matter?"

"The bridge is gone," said Jenny. "When I came across after breakfast
it was there, and now it's over on the other side, and how can I get
back home?"

"Why so it is," said Andrew. "It was all right when I came over a
little while ago, but Old Donald pulls it on the other side every
morning after he has driven his cows across, and I don't think he has
any right to do it. I expect he thinks the bridge was made for him and
his cows."

"Now I must go down to the big bridge, Andy, and I want you to come
with me. I'm afraid to go through all those dark woods by myself,"
said Jenny.

"But I can't go, Jenny," said Andrew; "it's nearly school time now."

Andrew was a Scotch boy, and a fine fellow. He was next to the head of
his school, and he was as good at play as he was at his books. Jenny
Patterson, his most particular friend, was a little girl who lived
very near Andrew's home. She had no brothers or sisters, but Andrew
had always been as good as a brother to her, and therefore, when she
stood by the water's edge that morning, just ready to burst into
tears, she thought all her troubles over when she saw Andrew approach.
He had always helped her out of her difficulties before, and she saw
no reason why he should not do it now. She had crossed the creek in
search of wild flowers, and when she wished to return had found the
bridge removed, as Andrew supposed, by Old Donald McKenzie, who
pastured his cows on this side of the creek. This stream was not very
wide, nor very deep at its edges, but in the centre it was four or
five feet deep, and in the Spring there was quite a strong current, so
that wading across it, either by cattle or men, was quite a difficult
undertaking. As for Jenny, she could not get across at all without a
bridge, and there was none nearer than the wagon bridge, a mile and a
half below.

"You will go with me, Andy, won't you?" said the little girl.

"And be late to school?" said he. "I have never been late yet, you
know, Jenny."

"Perhaps Dominie Black will think you have been sick, or had to mind
the cows," said Jenny.

"He won't think so unless I tell him," said Andrew, "and you know I
won't do that."

"If we were to run all the way, would you be too late?" said Jenny.

"If we were to run all the way to the bridge and I was to run all the
way back, I would not get to school till after copy-time. I expect
every minute to hear the school-bell ring," said Andrew.

"But what can I do, then?" said poor little Jenny. "I can't wait here
till school's out, and I don't want to go up to the school-house, for
all the boys to laugh at me."

"No," said Andrew, reflecting very seriously, "I must take you home
some way or other. It won't do to leave you here, and no matter where
you might stay, your mother would be troubled to death about you."

"Yes," said Jenny, "she would think I was drowned."

Time pressed, and Jenny's countenance became more and more overcast,
but Andrew could think of no way in which he could take the little
girl home without being late and losing his standing in the school.

It was impossible to get her across the stream at any place nearer
than the "big bridge;" he would not take her that way and make up a
false story to account for his lateness at school, and he could not
leave her alone or take her with him.

What in the world was to be done?

While several absurd and impracticable projects were passing through
his brain the school-bell began to ring, and he must start immediately
to reach the school-house in time.

And now his anxiety and perplexity became more intense than ever, and
Jenny, looking up into his troubled countenance, began to cry.

Andrew, who never before had failed to be at the school door before
the first tap of the bell, began to despair.

Was there nothing to be done?

Yes! a happy thought passed through his mind. How strange that he
should not have thought of it before!

He would ask Dominie Black to let him take Jenny home.

What could be more sensible and straightforward than such a plan?

Of course the good old Schoolmaster gave Andrew the desired
permission, and everything ended happily. But the best thing about the
whole affair was the lesson that young Scotch boy learned that day.

And the lesson was this: when we are puzzling our brains with plans to
help ourselves out of our troubles, let us always stop a moment in our
planning, and try to think if there is not some simple way out of the
difficulty, which shall be in every respect _perfectly right_. If we
do that we shall probably find the way, and also find it much more
satisfactory as well as easier than any of our ingenious and elaborate
plans.




THE WILD ASS.

[Illustration: WILD ASSES.]


If there is any animal in the whole world that receives worse
treatment or is held in less esteem than the ordinary Jackass, I am
very sorry for it.

With the exception of a few warm countries, where this animal grows to
a large size, and is highly valued, the Jackass or Donkey is
everywhere considered a stupid beast, a lazy beast, an obstinate
beast, and very often a vicious beast. To liken any one to a Jackass
is to use very strong language.

In many cases, this character of the Donkey (with the exception of the
stupidity, for very few Donkeys are stupid, although they try to seem
so) is correct, but nevertheless it is doubtful if the animal is much
to blame for it. There is every reason to believe that the dullness
and laziness of the Donkey is owing entirely to his association with
man.

For proof of this assertion, we have but to consider the Ass in his
natural state.

There can be no reasonable doubt but that the domestic Ass is
descended from the Wild Ass of Asia and Africa, for the two animals
are so much alike that it would be impossible, by the eye alone, to
distinguish the one from the other.

But, except in appearance, they differ very much. The tame Ass is
gentle, and generally fond of the society of man; the wild Ass is one
of the shyest creatures in the world; even when caught it is almost
impossible to tame him. The tame Ass is slow, plodding, dull, and
lazy; the wild Ass is as swift as a race-horse and as wild as a Deer.
The best mounted horsemen can seldom approach him, and it is generally
necessary to send a rifle-ball after him, if he is wanted very much.
His flesh is considered a great delicacy, which is another difference
between him and the tame animal.

If any of you were by accident to get near enough to a wild Ass to
observe him closely, you would be very apt to suppose him to be one of
those long-eared fellows which must be beaten and stoned and punched
with sticks, if you want to get them into the least bit of a trot, and
which always want to stop by the roadside, if they see so much as a
cabbage-leaf or a tempting thistle.

But you would find yourself greatly mistaken and astonished when, as
soon as this wild creature discovered your presence, he went dashing
away, bounding over the gullies and brooks, clipping it over the
rocks, scudding over the plains, and disappearing in the distance like
a runaway cannon-ball.

And yet if some of these fleet and spirited animals should be
captured, and they and their descendants for several generations
should be exposed to all sorts of privations and hardships; worked
hard as soon as their spirits were broken, fed on mean food and very
little of it; beaten, kicked, and abused; exposed to cold climates, to
which their nature does not suit them, and treated in every way as our
Jackasses are generally treated, they would soon become as slow, poky,
and dull as any Donkey you ever saw.

If we have nothing else, it is very well to have a good ancestry, and
no nobleman in Europe is proportionately as well descended as the
Jackass.




ANCIENT RIDING.


There are a great many different methods by which we can take a ride.
When we are very young we are generally very well pleased with what
most boys and girls call "piggy-back" riding, and when we get older we
delight in horses and carriages, and some of us even take pleasure in
the motion of railroad cars.

Other methods are not so pleasant. Persons who have tried it say that
riding a Camel, a little Donkey, or a rail, is exceedingly
disagreeable until you are used to it, and there are various other
styles of progression which are not nearly so comfortable as walking.

[Illustration]

There were in ancient times contrivances for riding which are at
present entirely unknown, except among half-civilized nations, and
which must have been exceedingly pleasant.

When, for instance, an Egyptian Princess wished to take the air, she
seated herself in a Palanquin, which was nothing but a comfortable
chair, with poles at the sides, and her bearers, with the ends of the
poles upon their shoulders, bore her gently and easily along, while an
attendant with a threefold fan kept the sun from her face and gently
fanned her as she rode.

Such a method of riding must have been very agreeable, for the
shoulders of practised walkers impart to the rider a much more elastic
and agreeable motion than the best made springs, and, for a well fed,
lazy Princess nothing could have been more charming than to be borne
thus beneath the waving palm-trees, and by the banks of the streams
where the lotus blossomed at the water's edge, and the Ibis sniffed
the cooling breeze.

But when the father or brother of the Princess wished to ride,
especially if it happened to be a time of war, he frequently used a
very different vehicle from an easy-going Palanquin.

He sprang into his war-chariot, and his driver lashed the two fiery
horses into a gallop, while their master aimed his arrows or hurled
his javelin at the foe.

Riding in these chariots was not a very great luxury, especially to
those who were not accustomed to that kind of carriage exercise. There
were no seats, nor any springs. The riders were obliged to stand up,
and take all the bumps that stones and roots chose to give them, and
as they generally drove at full speed, these were doubtless many and
hard. There was in general no back to these Chariots, and a sudden
jerk of the horses would shoot the rider out behind, unless he knew
how to avoid such accidents.

We of the present day would be apt to turn up our noses at these
ancient conveyances, but there can be no doubt that the Egyptian
Princesses and warriors derived just as much pleasure from their
Palanquins and rough-going war-chariots as the ladies of to-day find
in an easy-rolling barouche, or the gentlemen in a light buggy and a
fast horse.




BEAUTIFUL BUGS.

[Illustration]


We are not apt--I am speaking now of mankind in general--to be very
fond of bugs. There is a certain prejudice against these little
creatures, which is, in very many cases, entirely unwarranted. The
fact is that most bugs are harmless, and a great many of them are
positively beautiful, if we will but take the trouble to look at them
properly, and consider their wonderful forms and colors. To be sure,
many insects to which we give the general name of bugs are quite
destructive in our orchards and gardens, but, for all that, they are
only eating their natural food, and although we may be very glad to
get rid of our garden bugs as a body, we can have nothing to say
against any particular bug. None of them are more to blame than the
robins and other birds, which eat our cherries and whatever else we
have that they like, and we never call a robin "horrid" because he
destroys our fruit. True, the insects exist in such great numbers that
it is absolutely necessary for us to kill as many of them as possible,
and it is very fortunate that the robins and black-birds are of so
much benefit to us that we are glad to let them live.

But all this should not make us despise the bugs any more than they
deserve, particularly as they are just as beautiful as the birds, if
we only look at them in the right way. A microscope will reveal
beauties in some of the commonest insects, which will positively
astonish those who have never before studied bugs as they ought to be
studied. The most brilliant colors, the most delicate tracery and
lace-work over the wings and bodies; often the most graceful forms and
beautifully-contrived limbs and bodies and wing-cases and antennæ, are
to be seen in many bugs when they are placed beneath the glasses of
the microscope.

[Illustration: TRANSFORMATIONS OF BEETLES.]

But there are insects which do not need the aid of magnifying glasses
to show us their beauties.

Some of the Beetles, especially the large ones, are so gorgeously
colored and so richly polished that they are imitated, as closely as
Art can imitate Nature, in precious stones and worn as ornaments.

There are few living things more beautiful than a great Beetle,
glittering in resplendent green and gold, and the girl (or woman
either) who will hold one of these in her hand or let it crawl upon
her arm while she examines its varied colors, shows a capacity for
perceiving and enjoying the beauties of nature that should be envied
by those who would dash the pretty creature upon the floor,
exclaiming, "That horrid bug!"

There are many insects with which we need not desire to be too
familiar, such as Mosquitoes, Fleas, Wasps, and Bees; but when a "bug"
is harmless as well as beautiful, there is no reason why we should not
treat it as a friend. Who is afraid of a Butterfly?

And yet a Butterfly is really just as much a bug as a Beetle is. The
fact is that the term "bug" is applied with a certain propriety to
many insects which are not at all pleasant (although the Lightning Bug
is an exception), and we should therefore be very careful about giving
what has grown to be a bad name to insects that do not deserve it, and
should avoid treating such as if they were as ugly and disagreeable as
the name would seem to imply.




A BATTLE ON STILTS

[Illustration: A BATTLE ON STILTS.]


In the year 1748 the great Marshal Saxe, who was travelling through
the Low Countries, came to the town of Namur in Belgium. There the
citizens did everything in their power to make his stay pleasant and
to do him honor, and among other things they got up a battle on
stilts. These inhabitants of Namur were well used to stilts, for their
town, which has a river on each side of it, lay very low, and was
subject to overflows, when the people were obliged to use stilts in
order to walk about the streets. In this way they became very expert
in the use of these slim, wooden legs, and to make their stilts
amusing as well as useful they used to have stilt-battles on all
holidays and great occasions.

The young men of the town, two or three hundred on each side, would
then form themselves into opposing armies, and with flags flying and
trumpets blowing they would advance to the attack.

And they fought hard and well. It was against the rule to use any club
or similar weapon, or to strike with the fists. Punching with their
elbows, to push each other down, and kicking with their stilts, to
knock their opponents' legs from under them, were the methods of
assault in this kind of warfare.

The battle often lasted for an hour or two, the armies fighting and
shouting, advancing and retreating; while their wives and sisters
stood around them, encouraging them by shouts and hand-clapping, and
when an unfortunate fellow was knocked down, these women would hasten
to his assistance, and help him up again as soon as he had recovered
from his fall.

This was pretty rough sport, for the combatants fought as if their
lives and fortunes depended upon the victory, and although they did
not often seriously injure one another, there must have been many a
sore head and bruised leg and arm after the battle was over.

Marshal Saxe knew all about fighting, and on this occasion he
declared, that if two real armies should engage with as much fury as
these young fellows on stilts, the battle would be a butchery.

At another time, when the Archduke Albert came to Namur, the citizens
had one of these stilt-battles, and it proved a very profitable one to
them. Before the fight began, the governor of the city promised the
Archduke to show him a battle between two bodies of men, who would be
neither on horseback nor on foot; and when the engagement was over,
Albert was so much pleased that he gave the town the privilege of
being forever exempt from the duties on beer.

As the good folks of Namur were nearly as good at drinking beer as
they were at walking on stilts, this was a most valuable present for
them.

Things are different in this country. It is said that in 1859 a man
walked across the rapids of the Niagara river on stilts, but I never
heard of any of his taxes being remitted on that account.




DRAWING THE LONG BOW.

[Illustration]


When a man has a bow and arrows as long as those used by some of the
natives of Brazil, so that he has to lie down on his back, and hold
the bow with his foot when he shoots, he may well be said to draw a
long bow, but it is not of these people that I now intend to speak.
Without describing any particular school of archery, I merely wish to
give a few instances where "the long bow" has been drawn in words,
about feats with the bow and arrows.

This expression, "drawing the long bow," does not always mean that a
falsehood has been told. It often refers to a very wonderful story,
which may be true enough, but which is so marvellous that it requires
a firm trust in the veracity of the narrator for us to believe it.

So now let us see what long bows have been drawn about bows and
arrows.

Such stories commenced long ago. The poet Virgil, in the "Г†neid,"
tells of four archers who were shooting for a prize, the mark being a
pigeon, tied by a cord to the mast of a ship. The first man struck the
mast with his arrow, the second cut the cord, and the third shot the
pigeon while it was flying away. There now being nothing for the
fourth archer to shoot at, he just drew his bow, and sent his arrow
flying towards the sky with such velocity that the friction of the air
set the feathers on fire, and it swept on, like a fiery meteor, until
it disappeared in the clouds.

It would be very hard, even in this progressive age, to beat that
story.

The Greeks could tell tall stories, too, of their archers. An
historian, named Zosimus, tells of a man who shot, at the same time,
three arrows from the same bow at three different targets, and hit
them all! It is to be hoped that his histories contained some things
easier to believe than this.

But as we approach the present age we still find wonderful narrations
about archers. Robin Hood, for instance, was a great fellow with the
bow. It is said that on one occasion he shot an arrow so that it fell
a mile from where he was standing! A long shot, and hard to be
equalled by the crack rifles of the present day.

Sir Walter Scott, in "Ivanhoe," introduces Robin Hood under the name
of Locksley, and in a shooting match, when his opponent had planted
his arrow right in the centre of the bull's-eye, and everybody, of
course, thought that nothing better than that could be done, Master
Robin just steps up and lets fly his arrow, driving it into the arrow
that was sticking in the target, splitting it from end to end!

And then there is that famous story about William Tell. Many persons
have their doubts about this performance, and either assert that there
never was such a person as Tell, or that no man could have confidence
enough in his own skill to shoot at an apple on his son's head. But I
prefer to believe this good old story, and, in fact, I see no good
reason to doubt it. There was a Dane, named Foke, of whom the same
story is told, and an Englishman, named William of Cloudesley, is said
to have shot an apple from his son's head merely to show his
expertness.

Most of the stories of bows and arrows relate to the accurate aim of
the archers, but here is one which shows the tremendous force by which
an arrow may be propelled, if the bow is strong and long enough. A
French gentleman named Blaise de VigenГЁre, says that he _saw_ a Turk,
named Barbarossa, an admiral of a ship called the Grand Solyman, send
an arrow from his bow, right through a cannon-ball! He did not state
whether the cannon-ball had a hole through it, or not.

But I think that the most wonderful, astounding, and altogether
amazing story about arrow-shooting is told of the Indians who used to
inhabit Florida. It is stated that these Indians were in the habit of
assembling, in parties of ten or a dozen, for the purpose of having
some amusement in archery. They would form themselves into a circle,
and one of them throwing an ear of maize or Indian corn into the air,
the rest would shoot at it and would shell it of every grain of corn
before it fell to the ground. Sometimes, the arrows would strike it so
hard and fast that it would remain suspended in the air for several
minutes, and the cob never fell until the very last grain had been
shot from it!

After such a specimen of the drawing of the long bow as this, it would
not be well to introduce any feebler illustrations, and so I will keep
the rest of my anecdotal arrows in my quiver.




AN ANCIENT THEATRE.

[Illustration]


I suppose you are all familiar with pictures of the Colosseum at Rome,
but unless you have carefully studied detailed descriptions of this
edifice it is impossible for you to properly comprehend the grand
style in which the ancients amused themselves.

This great theatre, the ruins of which are now standing in Rome, and
which will probably stand for hundreds of years longer, was built
nearly eighteen hundred years ago. It is a vast oval building, four
stories high, and capable of containing ninety thousand spectators!

Seats, one row above the other like steps, were placed around the
walls, from top to bottom. There was no roof to the building, and if
the sun was hot, or it rained, the people were obliged to shelter
themselves as well as they could, although it is probable that the
seats for the emperors and other great dignitaries were protected by
awnings. In the centre of the building, down at the foot of the seats,
was the great amphitheatre where the performances took place. And
wonderful performances they were. There were sometimes great fights
between lions, tigers, bulls, and bears; sometimes wild beasts were
slain by men, and sometimes men were slain by wild beasts. There were
gladiatorial combats, executions of criminals, and many other kinds of
cruel and barbarous amusements. When the Colosseum was inaugurated,
five thousand wild beasts were put to death, and afterwards, at the
celebration of a great victory, eleven thousand animals perished.
Under the ground, in two vast basement stories, the beasts were kept
in cages until they were brought up to destroy human life or to be
butchered themselves.

For six hundred years these barbarous games were celebrated in the
Colosseum, but it afterwards became a fortress, and it was used at one
time for a hospital. When it began to decay, many of the inhabitants
of Rome carried away portions of its materials to build houses for
themselves, but such depredations have long been forbidden and now the
Colosseum stands, useless and ruined, a silent memento of the
wickedness of man. People are bad enough in our age, but the day is
past, when ninety thousand men, women, and children could be gathered
together to see other men, women, and children torn and devoured by
lions and tigers. Let us hope, that by the time the Colosseum has
entirely crumbled away, men will no longer meet in thousands to kill
and mangle each other on the battle-field.




BIRD CHAT.

[Illustration: BIRD CHAT.]


In a far-off country, on a summer day, it chanced that two Cormorants
stood on a great rock, lazily dozing. This rock was by the side of a
little river that, only a few miles below, flowed into the sea; for
the Cormorant is a marine bird, and haunts the sea-coast. It was a
lovely place, although not very far from the habitations of men, and a
number of cows had laid themselves down in the grassy field that
surrounded an old ruined temple on the gentle slope of a hill above
the river. The day had been still and hot, but now a soft breeze was
stirring the long grasses, and bending the tassels of the reeds
gracefully over the water, and the scent of flowers came floating down
from the vines clambering over the old ruin, and the hum of insects
filled the air.

But I do not think the Cormorants noticed any of these things. Their
long necks were folded so that their heads nearly rested on their
backs, for, as I said before, they were dozing. The truth is, these
birds had eaten so much they had made themselves perfectly stupid,
which is a bad way the Cormorant has, as, no doubt, you know; for it
has probably happened to you some time in your life to have indulged
yourself so freely in eating something that you liked that you have
been scornfully called "a little Cormorant!"

But this state of insensibility was passing away, and they were now in
a gentle doze, and sleeping, thinking of the company they were to
entertain. For these Cormorants had come to this spot to meet their
cousin the Pelican to consult with him on some family matters. Upon
their first arrival at the place they had set to work to get together
a good supply of fish, for this is the only food of both the Cormorant
and the Pelican. In a short time they landed a great number, and
bestowed them in a safe place, and then they set to work catching
fish for themselves and eating them greedily.

You might suppose such a lazy-looking bird would find it impossible to
catch anything so active as fish. But you should see it when it is
fully awake and hungry. The bird darts through the water with a speed
greater than that of the fishes. Its wings can be closed so tightly
that they do not hinder its progress, and the tail serves for a
rudder, while the broadly-webbed feet act as paddles. Its long,
snake-like neck gives it the power of darting its beak with great
rapidity, and the hook at the end of the beak prevents the prey from
escaping. The bird is also a diver, and can stay a long time under
water.

[Illustration]

Our two Cormorants opened their eyes when they heard a slight
splashing in the water. Something was about to invade their retreat.
They had not long to wait. Slowly into the stream waded a Bittern.
Seeing the Cormorants there he stopped; and, drawing himself up into
as small a compass as possible, he sunk his head in his shoulders, and
nothing could be seen of his long neck, while his bill was thrust up
in the air as if he cared nothing for his neighbors or their affairs.
The Cormorants heartily wished he would go away, and they kept their
eyes open and watched him, for fear he would spy the fish they had
carefully hidden in the wet grass, for the Bittern also lives on fish.
So the Cormorants winked and blinked, and thought how different the
Bittern looked when on the alert for his prey, or calling his mate.

Many a time had they been roused out of their sleep by the terrible
night-cry of the Bittern--a fearful sound, something between the
neighing of a horse, the bellow of a bull, and a shriek of savage
laughter, and so loud and deep it seemed to shake the marshy ground.

[Illustration]

Soon there appeared hovering over them a snowy cloud. As it floated
nearer it proved to be a magnificent Pelican with its gigantic wings
outspread. It alighted near the Cormorants, at the foot of a little
grassy hill. It was an old male bird, very wise and very cunning. He
greeted his cousin Cormorants cordially, but, ruffling up the crest of
curled feathers on his head, and shaking his half-folded wings
angrily, he looked askance at the Bittern.

Now the Bittern is a very unsocial bird, and as he took not the least
notice of the new comer, the Pelican could not pick a quarrel with
him. Therefore he turned to his cousins, and said: "I have just come
from my pleasant home on a rocky island. The waters make music there
all day long, and the green moss gleams through the white foam, and
gay-colored fish sparkle in the sunlight; so that when men behold it
they exclaim: 'See! what a beautiful spot!' There are some birds that
like dingy pools, where only coarse rushes grow, where there is
nothing but blight and mildew, where even carrion crows will not fly,
and at which men shudder."

Now this exactly described the places the Bittern prefers to all
others; but, as he really considered them very captivating, and hated
the very sight of mankind, he did not feel abashed by the Pelican's
stinging rebuke, and perhaps took it for a compliment; and there is no
knowing how long he would have staid there, if a frisky little Hoopoe
had not chanced to alight on a tree that had fallen across a foaming
brook not very far from the group of birds.

Not liking so much company, the Bittern stalked away. The Hoopoe
nodded so often to the birds that its beautiful tall crest trembled as
if a breeze stirred it, and having preened its prettily-barred
feathers for awhile, it began to talk as fast as ever it could.

"I have came from a long distance, and only stopped twice on my way to
get a meal of insects, which I can dig out of decaying wood with my
long curved beak, very fast, I can tell you. And what do you think I
saw in that place I came from? You would never guess. Why, men had
some pet Cormorants that they had trained to catch fish for them! Oh!
it was fun! And I heard these men say that in the days of Charles I.
of England (I hope you know who he is, for I'm sure I don't),
Cormorants were kept by nobles and kings for the purpose of catching
fish, and that there was attached to the Court an officer called the
King's Master of the Cormorants. Did you ever hear the like of that?"

[Illustration]

Although this was strictly true, the Cormorants had never heard of it;
but, before they could answer, a loud, deep voice cried; "Heigho! What
is all that?"

The startled birds turned towards the spot from whence the voice
proceeded, and there, perched on a lonely rock, a good distance to the
left of them, was a great bird with very large bright eyes and
powerful curved beak.

Neither the Hoopoe nor Pelican had ever before seen him, but the
Cormorants knew him very well. He was the Peregrine Falcon. And they
knew him because, like them, he chose rocky ledges, high and
inaccessible, for his nest. And although his nests were usually on
loftier crags than theirs, they were quite neighborly, especially as
they did not chase the same prey, the Cormorants drawing theirs from
the sea, and the Falcons finding theirs in the air.

[Illustration]

"Those people you speak of," said he sternly to the frightened Hoopoe,
"_may_ have had Cormorants to catch their fish, but I never heard of
it before. Whereas all history is full of the exploits of my
ancestors, and monarchs and nobles spent immense fortunes in buying
and keeping Falcons that hunted birds grandly."

Now the Hoopoe knew very well that it was not this Falcon, but the
great Gerfalcon, his cousin, that was formerly held in such high
esteem; but he did not dare to say so, and, as he must be saying
something, he turned to the Pelican.

"I have long wanted to meet with you to ask you if is true that you
tear open your breast with your hooked bill, and feed your young with
your own blood?"

"Not a word of truth in it!" replied the Pelican scornfully, "I am
often obliged to gather food in places far from home. I do not dive
into the water like the Cormorant, but catch, with a sidelong snatch
of my bill, the fish that rise to the surface. This loose skin, that
is now so folded up under my beak that you can scarcely see it, I can
distend into an enormous pouch. This I fill with fish, and my wings
being wide and powerful, I can easily carry a great weight of fish
through the air. When I reach home I feed my young by pressing my beak
against my breast, and thus forcing out the enclosed fish. And on the
tip of my beak is a little curved hook as red as a drop of blood. And
now you know the whole story."

"Thank you," said the Hoopoe, "I must go and tell the storks all about
it." And away he darted like a streak of colored light. The Falcon,
too, lazily spread out his large wings, and soared majestically up
into the air, leaving the Pelican and Cormorants to discuss their
family affairs and their dinner in peace.




MUMMIES.

[Illustration]


A mummy is not a very pretty thing to look at; but, considered
properly, it is certainly interesting. That stiff form, wrapped up
tightly in ever so many dirty cloths, with a black shrivelled face
which looks as if it had been cut out of a piece of wood and then
smoked, was once, no doubt, a very pleasant person to know. If it was
a woman, it played with the children; sewed a little, perhaps;
complained of the heat, and went to parties. If it was a man, it
probably whistled a little, and sang; settled up its accounts, was
fond of horses, and took an interest in the vegetable garden.

Most of the mummies that have been brought from Egypt to this country
were originally kings, princes, princesses, noblemen, and priests, for
few but those high-born folks could afford to be so well preserved as
to last all this time; but it is very certain that none of them ever
imagined that, thousands of years after their death, they would be
carried away to countries never heard of in their day, and be gazed at
by people who wore chignons and high-top hats, and who were not born
until they had been dead three thousand years.

When we consider the care and skill with which the dead Egyptians used
to be embalmed and encased in their sarcophagi, it is not surprising
that their poor bodies have been so well preserved. At the head of
this article you see a mummy as it appears when it has been embalmed
and wrapped in its bandages. Here is the stand on which it is then
placed.

[Illustration]

Very often, when the body had been a king or some great personage, its
face was covered with a mask of thin gold, and its bandages were
ornamented with pictures and inscriptions.

[Illustration]

When this work of decoration was completed, it was placed in a coffin
which was made large enough to hold the stand.

This coffin was very handsomely ornamented, and then, in order to
make everything very secure indeed, it was enclosed in another or
exterior coffin, which was also decorated in the highest style known
to Egyptian artists.

[Illustration]

One would now suppose that this great king or priest was safe enough,
looking at the matter in an ordinary light. But the Egyptians did not
look at these matters in ordinary lights. Quite otherwise. They
intended the useless bodies of their grandees to be packed away so
that they should not be disturbed as long as the world lasted, little
dreaming of the Americans and Europeans who would come along, in a few
thousand years, and buy them for their museums.

So they put the mummy, with its stand and its two coffins, into a
great stone box called a sarcophagus, and this was fastened and
plastered up so as to seem like one solid rock.

Then, if the inmate had ever done anything wonderful (or sometimes, no
doubt, if he had not been famous for anything in particular), the
history of his great achievements, real or fancied, was sculptured on
the stone. These hieroglyphics have been deciphered in several
instances, and we have learned from them a great deal of Egyptian
history.

[Illustration]