[Illustration]

It may be thought that this bead contradicts what has been said about
there being a time when glass was unknown, and that time only a few
centuries ago. But it is a singular fact that a nation will perfectly
understand some art or manufacture that seems absolutely necessary to
men's comfort and convenience, and yet this art in time will be
completely lost, and things that were in common use will pass as
completely out of existence as if they had never been, until, in after
ages, some of them will be found among the ruins of cities and in old
tombs. In this way we have found out that ancient nations knew how to
make a great many things that enabled them to live as comfortably and
luxuriously as we do now. But these things seem to have perished with
the nations who used them, and for centuries people lived
comfortlessly without them, until, in comparatively modern times, they
have all been revived.

Glass-making is one of these arts. It was known in the early ages of
the world's history. There are pictures that were painted on tombs two
thousand years before Christ's birth which represent men blowing
glass, pretty much as it is done now, while others are taking pots of
it out of the furnaces in a melted state. But in those days it was
probably costly, and not in common use; but the rich had glass until
the first century after Christ, when it disappeared, and the art of
making it was lost.

[Illustration]

The city of Venice was founded in the fifth century, and here we find
that glass-making had been revived. You will see by this picture of a
Venetian bottle how well they succeeded in the manufacture of glass
articles.

Venice soon became celebrated for this manufacture, and was for a long
time the only place where glass was made. The manufacturers took great
pains to keep their art a secret from other nations, and so did the
government, because they were all growing rich from the money it
brought into the city.

In almost any part of the world to which you may chance to go you
will find Silica. You may not know it by that name, but it is that
shining, flinty substance you see in sand and rock-crystal. It is
found in a very great number of things besides these two, but these
are the most common.

Lime is also found everywhere--in earth, in stones, in vegetables and
bones, and hundreds of other substances.

Soda is a common article, and is very easily produced by artificial
means. Potash, which has the same properties as soda, exists in all
ashes.

Now silica, and lime, and soda, or potash, when melted together, form
glass. So you see that the materials for making this substance which
adds so much to our comfort and pleasure are freely given to all
countries. And after Venice had set the example, other nations turned
their attention to the study of glass-making, and soon found out this
fact, in spite of the secrecy of the Venetians. After a time the
Germans began to manufacture glass; and then the Bohemians. The latter
invented engraving on glass, which art had also been known to the
ancients, and then been lost. They also learned to color glass so
brilliantly that Bohemian glass became more fashionable than Venetian,
and has been highly thought of down to the present day.

On the next page we see an immense drinking-glass of German
manufacture, but this one was made many years after glass-making was
first started there.

This great goblet, which it takes several bottles of wine to fill, was
passed around at the end of a feast, and every guest was expected to
take a sip out of it. This was a very social way of drinking, but I
think on the whole it is just as well that it has gone out of fashion.

The old Egyptians made glass bottles, and so did the early Romans, and
used them just as we do for a very great variety of things. Their
wine-bottles were of glass, sealed and labelled like ours. We might
suppose that, having once had them, people would never be without
glass bottles. But history tells a different story. There evidently
came a time when glass bottles vanished from the face of the earth;
for we read of wooden bottles and those of goat-skin and leather, but
there is no mention of glass. And men were satisfied with these
clumsy contrivances, because in process of time it had been forgotten
that any other were ever made.

[Illustration]

Hundreds of years rolled away, and then, behold! glass bottles
appeared again. Now there is such a demand for them that one country
alone--France--makes sixty thousand tons of bottles every year. To
make bottle-glass, oxide of iron and alumina is added to the silica,
lime, and soda. It seems scarcely possible that these few common
substances melted over the fire and blown with the breath can be
formed into a material as thin and gossamer, almost, as a spider's
web, and made to assume such a graceful shape as this jug.

[Illustration]

This is how glass bottles, vases, etc., are made. When the substances
mentioned above are melted together properly, a man dips a long,
hollow iron tube into a pot filled with the boiling liquid glass, and
takes up a little on the end of it. This he passes quickly to another
man, who dips it once more, and, having twirled the tube around so as
to lengthen the glass ball at the end, gives it to a third man, who
places this glass ball in an earthen mould, and blows into the other
end of the tube, and soon the shapeless mass of glass becomes a
bottle. But it is not quite finished, for the bottom has to be
completed, and the neck to have the glass band put around it. The
bottom is finished by pressing it with a cone-shaped instrument as
soon as it comes out of the mould. A thick glass thread is wound
around the neck. And, if a name is to be put on, fresh glass is added
to the side, and stamped with a seal.

[Illustration]

This is also the process of making the beautiful jug just mentioned,
except that three workmen are engaged at the same time on the three
parts--one blows the vase itself, another the foot, and the third the
handle. They are then fastened together, and the top cut into the
desired shape with shears, for glass can be easily cut when in a soft
state.

You see how clearly and brightly, and yet with what softness, the
windows of the room are reflected in that exquisite jug It was made
only a few years ago.

I will now show you an old Venetian goblet, but you will have to
handle it very carefully, or you will certainly break off one of the
delicate leaves, or snap the stem of that curious flower.

Such glasses as these were certainly never intended for use. They were
probably put upon the table as ornaments. The bowl is a white glass
cup, with wavy lines of light blue. The spiral stem is red and white,
and has projecting from it five leaves of yellow glass, separated in
the middle by another leaf of a deep blue color. The large flower has
six pale-blue petals.

[Illustration]

And now we will look at some goblets intended for use. They are of
modern manufacture, and are plain and simple, but have a beauty of
their own. The right-hand one is of a very graceful shape, and the one
in the middle is odd-looking, and ingeniously made with rollers, and
all of them have a transparent clearness, and are almost as thin as
the fragile soap-bubbles that children blow out of pipe-bowls. They do
not look unlike these, and one can easily fancy that, like them, they
will melt into air at a touch.

[Illustration]

Because the ancients by some means discovered that the union of
silica, lime, and soda made a perfectly transparent and hard substance
it by no means follows that they knew how to make looking-glasses For
this requires something behind the glass to throw back the image. But
vanity is not of modern invention, and people having from the
beginning of time had a desire to look at themselves, they were not
slow in providing the means.

The first mirrors used were of polished metal, and for ages nobody
knew of anything better. But there came a time when the idea entered
the mind of man that "glass lined with a sheet of metal will give back
the image presented to it," for these are the exact words of a writer
who lived four centuries before Christ. And you may be sure that
glass-makers took advantage of this suggestion, if they had not
already found out the fact for themselves. So we know that the
ancients did make glass mirrors. It is matter of history that
looking-glasses were made in the first century of the Christian era,
but whether quicksilver was poured upon the back, as it is now, or
whether some other metal was used, we do not know.

But these mirrors disappeared with the bottles and other glass
articles; and metal mirrors again became the fashion. For fourteen
hundred years we hear nothing of looking-glasses, and then we find
them in Venice, at the time that city had the monopoly of the glass
trade. Metal mirrors were soon thrown aside, for the images in them
were very imperfect compared with the others.

These Venetian glasses were all small, because at that time sheet
glass was blown by the mouth of man, like bottles, vases, etc., and
therefore it was impossible to make them large. Two hundred years
afterward, a Frenchman discovered a method of making sheet glass by
machinery, which is called _founding_, and by this process it can be
made of any size.

But even after the comparatively cheap process of founding came into
use, looking-glasses were very expensive, and happy was the rich
family that possessed one. A French countess sold a farm to buy a
mirror! Queens had theirs ornamented in the most costly manner. Here
is a picture of one that belonged to a queen of France, the frame of
which is entirely composed of precious stones.

[Illustration]

I have told you how the Venetians kept glass-making a secret, and how,
at last, the Germans learned it, and then the French, and their work
came to be better liked than that of the Venetians. But these last
still managed to keep the process of making mirrors a profound secret,
and the French were determined to get at the mystery. Several young
glass-makers went from France to Venice, and applied to all the
looking-glass makers of Venice for situations as workmen, that they
might learn the art. But all positively refused to receive them, and
kept their doors and windows tightly closed while they were at work,
that no one might see what they did. The young Frenchmen took
advantage of this, and climbed up on the roofs, and cautiously made
holes through which they could look; and thus they learned the
carefully-kept secret, and went back to France and commenced the
manufacture of glass mirrors. Twenty years after, a Frenchman invented
founding glass, which gave France such a great advantage that the
trade of Venice in looking-glasses was ruined.

You would be very much interested in watching this process of founding
glass. This is the way it is done. As soon as the glass is melted to
the proper consistency, the furnaces are opened, and the pots are
lifted into the air by machinery, and passed along a beam to an
immense table of cast iron. A signal is given, and the brilliant,
transparent liquid glass falls out and spreads over the table. At a
second signal a roller is passed by machinery over the red-hot glass,
and twenty men stand ready with long shovels to push the sheet of
glass into an oven, not very hot, where it can slowly cool. When taken
out of the oven the glass is thick, and not perfectly smooth, and it
has to be rubbed with sand, imbedded in plaster of Paris, smoothed
with emery, and polished by rubbing it with a woollen cloth covered
with red oxide of iron, all of which is done by machinery.

We know that cut glass is expensive, and the reason is that cutting it
is a slow process. Four wheels have to be used in succession, iron,
sandstone, wood, and cork. Sand is thrown upon these wheels in such a
way that the glass is finely and delicately cut. But this is imitated
in pressed glass, which is blown in a mould inside of which the design
is cut. This is much cheaper than the cut glass.

[Illustration]

A higher art than cutting is engraving on glass, by which the figures
are brought out in relief. Distinguished artists are employed to draw
the designs, and then skilful engravers follow the lines with their
delicate tools. If you will examine carefully the engraving on this
Bohemian goblet, you will see what a wonderful piece of workmanship it
is.

It seems almost a pity that so much time and labor, skill and genius
should be given to a thing so easily broken. And yet we have seen that
a good many glass articles have been preserved for centuries. The
engraving on the Bohemian goblet is ingenious, and curious, and
faithful in detail, but the flowers on this modern French flagon are
really more graceful and beautiful.

[Illustration]

About four hundred years ago there was found in a marble coffin, in a
tomb near Rome, a glass vase which is now famous throughout the world.
There is good reason for supposing it to have been made one hundred
and thirty-eight years before Christ, consequently it is now about two
thousand years old. For many years this was in the Barberini palace in
Rome, and was called the Barberini Vase. Then it was bought by the
Duchess of Portland, of England, for nine thousand dollars, and since
then has been known as the Portland Vase.

She loaned it to the British Museum, and everybody who went to London
wanted to see this celebrated vase.

[Illustration]

One day a crazy man got into the Museum, and with a smart blow of his
cane laid in ruins the glass vase that had survived all the world's
great convulsions and changes for two thousand years! This misfortune
was supposed to be irreparable, but it has been repaired by an artist
so cleverly that it is impossible to tell where it is joined together.

[Illustration]

This vase is composed of two layers of glass, one over the other. The
lower is of a deep blue color, and the upper an opaque white, so that
the figures stand out in white on a deep blue background.

[Illustration]

The picture on it represents the marriage of Peleus and Thetis. The
woman seated, holding a serpent in her left hand, is Thetis, and the
man to whom she is giving her right hand is Peleus. The god in front
of Thetis is Neptune, and a Cupid hovers in the air above. On the
reverse side are Thetis and Peleus, and a goddess, all seated. At the
foot of the vase is a bust of Ganymede, and on each side of this in
the picture are copies of the masks on the handles.

Now I have shown you a few of the beautiful things that have been made
of glass, but there are very many other uses to which glass is applied
that have not even been alluded to. Steam engines, that work like real
ones, have been made of glass; palaces have been built of it; great
telescopes, by which the wonders of the heavens have been revealed,
owe their power to it; and, in fact, it would seem to us, to-day, as
if we could as well do without our iron as without our glass.




CARL.


In the middle of a dark and gloomy forest lived Carl and Greta. Their
father was a forester, who, when he was well, was accustomed to be
away all day with his gun and dogs, leaving the two children with no
one but old Nurse Heine; for their mother died when they were very
little. Now Carl was twelve years old, and Greta nine. Carl was a
fine-looking boy, but Nurse Heine said that he had a melancholy
countenance. Greta, however, was a pretty, bright-faced, merry little
girl. They were allowed to wander through a certain part of the
forest, where their father thought there was no especial danger to
fear.

In truth, Carl was not melancholy at all, but was just as happy in his
way as Greta was in hers. In the summer, while she was pulling the
wood flowers and weaving them into garlands, or playing with her dogs,
or chasing squirrels, Carl would be seated on some root or stone with
a large sheet of coarse card-board on his knee, on which he drew
pictures with a piece of sharpened charcoal. He had sketched, in his
rough way, every pretty mass of foliage, and every picturesque rock
and waterfall within his range. And in the winter, when the icicles
were hanging from the cliffs, and the snow wound white arms around the
dark green cypress boughs, Carl still found beautiful pictures
everywhere, and Greta plenty of play in building snow-houses and
statues. And, moreover, Carl had lately discovered in the brooks some
colored stones, which were soft enough to sharpen sufficiently to give
a blue tint to his skies, and green to his trees; and thus he made
pictures that Nurse Heine said were more wonderful than those in the
chapel of the little village of Evergode.

I have said that the forest was dark and gloomy, because it was
composed chiefly of pines and cypresses, but it never seemed so to
the children. They knew how to read, but had no books that told them
of any lands brighter and sunnier than their own. And then, too,
beyond the belt of pines in which was their home, there was a long
stretch of forest of oaks and beeches, and in this the birds liked to
build their nests and sing; and there were such splendid vines, and
lovely flowers! And, right through the pine forest, not more than half
a mile from their cottage, there was a broad road. It is true, it was
a very rough one, and but little used, but it represented the world to
Carl and Greta. For it did sometimes happen that loaded wagons would
jolt over it, or a rough soldier gallop along, and more rarely still,
a gay cavalier would prance by the wondering children.

For there was a war in the land. And when, after a time, the armies
came near enough to the forest for the children to hear occasionally
the roll of the heavy guns, a strange thing happened.

One evening when they arrived at home, they found in their humble
little cottage one of the gay-looking cavaliers they had sometimes
seen on the forest road, and with him was a very beautiful lady. Old
Nurse Heine was getting the spare room ready by beating up the great
feather bed, and laying down on the floor the few strips of carpet
they possessed. Their father was talking with the strangers, and he
told them that Carl and Greta were his children; but they took no
notice of them, for they were completely taken up with each other, for
the gentleman, it appeared, was going away, and to leave the lady
there. Carl greatly admired this cavalier, and had no doubt he was the
noblest-looking man in the world, and studied him so closely that he
would have known him among a thousand. Presently the forester led his
children out of the cottage, and soon after the cavalier came out, and
springing upon his horse, galloped away among the dark pines.

[Illustration]

The strange lady was at the cottage several weeks, and the children
soon learned to love her dearly. She was fond of rambling about with
them, and was seldom to be found within the house when the weather was
fair. She never went near the road, but preferred the oak wood, and
sometimes when the children were amusing themselves she would sit for
hours absorbed in deep thought or singing to herself in a sad and
dreamy way.

At other times she would interest herself in the children, and tell
them of things in the world outside the forest. She praised Carl's
pictures, and showed him how to work in his colors so as to more
effectively bring out the perspective, and tried to educate his taste,
as far as she could, by describing the pictures of the great masters.
She often said afterwards that she could never have lived through
those dark days but for the comfort she found in the children.

Carl saw that she was sorrowful, and he understood that her sadness
was not because of the plain fare and the way of living at the
forester's cottage, which he knew must seem rough indeed to her, but
because of some great grief. What this grief was he could not guess,
for the children had been told nothing about the beautiful lady,
except that her name was Lady Clarice. She never complained, but the
boy's wistful eyes would follow her as she moved among the trees, and
his heart would swell with pity; and how he would long to do something
to prove to her how he loved her!

The forester told Carl that the cavalier was with the army. But he did
not come to the cottage, and there was no way for the Lady Clarice to
hear from him, and she shuddered at the sound of the great guns. And
finally she fell sick. Nurse Heine did what she could for her, but the
lady grew worse. She felt that she should die, and it almost broke
Carl's heart to hear her moaning: "Oh! if I could but see him once
more!" He knew she meant the noble cavalier, but how should he get
word to him? The old forester was just then stiff with rheumatism, and
could scarcely move from his chair.

"I will go myself!" said Carl to himself one day, "or she will die
with grief!"

Without saying a word to anybody about the matter, for fear that he
would not be allowed to go, he stole out of the house in the gray of
the morning, while all were asleep, and, making his way to the open
road, he turned in the direction from whence, at times, had come the
sound of the cannon. As long as he was in the part of the road that he
knew, he kept up a stout heart, but when he left that he began to grow
frightened. The road was so lonely, and strange sounds seemed to come
out of the forest that stretched away, so black and thick, on each
side! He wondered if any fierce beasts were there, or if robbers were
lurking behind the rocks. But he thought of the beautiful lady, his
kind friend, sick and dying, and that thought was more powerful than
his fear. At noon he rested for awhile, and ate a few dry biscuits he
had put in his pockets.

It was near sunset when he saw that the trees stood less closely
together, the road looked more travel-worn, and there came with the
wind a confused and continuous noise. Then Carl was seized with
terror. "I am now near the camp," he thought. "Suppose a battle is
going on, and I am struck with a ball. I shall die, and father and
little Greta will not know what became of me, and the beautiful lady
will never know that I died in her service! Or if I meet a soldier,
and he don't believe my story, maybe he'll run a bayonet through me!"

It was not too late then to turn back and flee swiftly up the forest
road, and Carl paused.

But in a few moments he went on, animated by the noblest kind of
courage--that which feels there is danger, but is determined to face
it in the cause of duty, affection, and humanity.

At last he stepped out of the forest, and there, before him, was
spread out the vast encampment of the army! There was not time to
wonder at the sight before he was challenged by a sentinel. Carl had
made up his mind what to say, and that he would not mention the lady.
So he promptly replied that he wanted to see a noble lord who had a
sick friend at a cottage in the forest.

As the boy could not tell the name or rank of the noble lord, the
sentinel sent him to an officer, and to him Carl told the same story,
but he described the man of whom he was in search so accurately that
the officer sent him at once to the proper person. And Carl found that
he was a very great personage indeed, and held a high command in the
army. He did not recognize Carl, but as soon as the boy told his
errand he became very much agitated.

"I will go at once," he said; "but I cannot leave you here, my brave
boy! Can you ride?"

Now Carl knew how to sit on a horse, and how to hold the bridle, for
he had ridden the wood-cutters' horses sometimes, so he answered that
he thought he could ride. The Duke (for such was his title) ordered
some refreshments set before the boy, and then went out to make his
arrangements, choosing his gentlest horse for Carl.

In half an hour they were in the forest, speeding like the wind. Carl
felt as if he was flying. The horse chose his own gait, and tried to
keep up with the one that the Duke was riding; but finally, finding
this impossible, he slackened his pace, greatly to Carl's relief. But
the Duke was too anxious about his lady to accommodate himself to the
slower speed of the boy, and soon swept out of sight around a bend in
the road. His cloak and the long feathers of his hat streamed on the
night wind for a moment longer. Then they vanished, and Carl was
alone.

Carl was somewhat afraid of the horse, for he was not used to such a
high-mettled steed; but, on the whole, he was glad he was mounted on
it. For if the woods had seemed lonely in the daylight they were ten
times more so in the night. And the noises seemed more fearful than
before. And Carl thought if any furious beast or robber should dart
upon him, he could make the horse carry him swiftly away. As it was he
let the horse do as he pleased, and as Carl sat quietly and did not
worry him in any way, he pleased to go along very smoothly, and
rather slowly, so it was past midnight when they reached home.

[Illustration]

Carl found that the Duke had been there a long time; that the lady was
overjoyed to see him, and Nurse Heine said she began to grow better
from that moment.

The next morning the Duke went away; but before he left he thanked
Carl for the great service he had done him, and gave him a piece of
gold. But Carl was better pleased when the lady called him into her
room, and kissed him, and cried over him, and praised him for a kind,
brave boy, and said he had saved her life.

And when she got well Carl noticed that she was brighter and happier
than she had been before.

In a short time, however, she went away with the Duke, in a grand
coach, with servants and outriders. And Carl and Greta watched them as
they were whirled up the forest road, and then walked home through the
pines with sad hearts.

Then the forester told his children that the Duke had married this
lady secretly, against the king's command, and he had so many bitter
and cruel enemies that he was afraid they would do her some evil while
he was away in the war. She knew of the forester, because his wife had
been a maid of her mother's, so she came to this lonely place for
safety. But now the king was pleased, and it was all right.

The winter came and went. The war was over. And then Lady Clarice,
whom the children never expected to see again, sent for them, and the
forester, and Nurse Heine, to her castle. She provided for them all,
and Greta grew up into a pretty and well-bred young lady.

Lady Clarice had not forgotten the brave act of the boy, and also
remembered what he liked best in the world. So she had him taught to
draw and paint, and in process of time he became a great artist, and
all the world knew of his name and fame.




SCHOOL'S OUT!

[Illustration]


What a welcome and joyful sound! In the winter, when the days are
short, and the sun, near the end of the six school hours, sinks so low
that the light in the room grows dim and gray, with what impatience,
my dear child, do you wait for this signal! But it is in the long
summer days that you find school most tiresome. The air in the room is
hot and drowsy, and outside you can see there is a breeze blowing, for
the trees are gently tossing their green boughs as if to twit you with
having to work out sums in such glorious weather. And there come to
your ears the pleasant sounds of the buzzing of insects and twittering
of birds, and the brook splashing over the stones. Then the four walls
of the school-room look very dreary, and the maps glare at you, and
the black-boards frown darkly, and the benches seem very hard, and the
ink-bespattered desks appear more grimy than ever.

This was the time when the heart of the Dominie would be touched with
pity, and he would say in his bright way: "Now, children, I am going
to read you something!"

Instantly the half-closed eyes would open, the drooping heads would be
raised, the vacant faces would brighten, and the little cramped legs
would be stretched out with a sigh of relief. And then the Dominie
would read them something that was not only instructive, but very
entertaining. Sometimes, instead of reading to them, he would set them
to declaiming or reciting poetry, or they would choose sides and have
a spelling match. They would get so interested that they would forget
all about the birds and sunshine without. They did not even know that
they were learning all this time.

For the Dominie had all sorts of pleasant ways of teaching his
scholars. Not but what they had to work hard too, for nobody can
accomplish anything worth having without putting a good deal of hard
work in it.

You see the Dominie's portrait in the picture. The fringe of hair
around his bald head was as white as snow; his black eyes were bright
and merry; and he had a kindly face. His name was Morris Harvey, but
everybody called him Dominie, and he liked that name best. All the
village people respected and loved the old man; and every child in the
village school that he taught, from the largest boy, whose legs were
so long that he did not know what to do with them, down to Bessie
Gay, who could scarcely reach up to the top of a desk, were very fond
indeed of him.

But even under the Dominie's kindly rule, "School's out!" was always a
welcome sound. What a noise there would be in the school-room for a
minute; and then such a grand rush out into the open air! and such
merry shouts! The Dominie would look after them with a smile. He
wanted them to study, but he was glad that it was natural for them to
love to play.

If little Charlie Lane had known this he would not have had such a cry
the morning he went to school for the first time. He thought his
mother very cruel to make him go, and, I am sorry to say, not only
cried before he started, but all the way to the school-house. The
Dominie took no notice of this, and Charlie soon found that school was
not such a very dreadful place. And there was the nice playtime in the
middle of the day. And, when school was out, the Dominie took him on
his knee and gave him a big apple, and showed him a book full of
bright pictures, and told him a story about every one of them.

You can see the little fellow on the Dominie's lap, looking earnestly
at a picture in the book; and the old man is pleased that the child is
pleased. The Dominie is sitting in his big chair, and his dinner-bag
is hanging on the back of it. On the black-board over his head you see
little Charlie's lesson for that day. It is on the right, and consists
of the letters A, B, C, which the child has been staring at until he
knows them perfectly in any book that is given to him. On the left, is
a sum; and somebody has tried to draw an almanac sun on the lower part
of the board. Across the top the Dominie has written a copy. You can
read it plainly. It was a favorite saying of his; and a very good one
too.

Have we not, all of us, a great deal to make us happy? What pleasure
is it to you to go about with a cross or melancholy face? Try to think
of something pleasant, and call up a smile. Put the ill-natured
feelings out of your heart, and then the brightness will come to your
face without further trouble. If you have a hard task to do, being
cross won't help you along one bit. Go to work at it with a will, and
you will be surprised to find how soon it will be done. Then, with a
clear conscience and a glad heart, you can sit waiting for the welcome
sound, "School's out!"




NEST-BUILDERS.


"Birds in their little nests agree," but they do not at all agree in
their manner of building the said nests.

They have all sorts of ideas on this subject. Nearly every species of
bird has a nest peculiar to itself, and the variety is astonishing.
There are nests like cups, and nests like saucers; nests which are
firmly fixed among the solid rocks, and nests which wave about on the
ends of slender branches; nests which are perched on the very tops of
the tallest trees, and nests which are hidden in the ground. There are
great nests, which will hold a bushel or two of eggs, and little bits
of things, into which you could scarcely put half a dozen peas.

In mentioning some of these nests, it will be needless for us to say
much of those with which we are all familiar. In our rambles together
we must try and see as many novelties as possible, for we may not
always have the chance of wandering freely into any part of the world
to which our fancy may lead us. I remember a little girl who used to
come to our house when I was a boy, and who never cared for anything
at table that was not something of a novelty to her. When offered
potatoes, she would frankly say: "No, thank you; I can get them at
home."

So we will not meddle with hens' nests, robins' nests, and all the
nests, big and little, that we find about our homes, for they are the
"potatoes" of a subject like this, but will try and find some nests
that are a little out of the way, and curious.

But we must stop--just one moment--before we leave home, and look at a
wren's nest.

The Wren, although a very common little bird with us, does not build a
common nest. She makes it round, like a ball, or a woolly orange,
with a little hole at one side for a door. Inside, it is just as soft
and comfortable as anything can be. Being such a little bird herself,
she could not cover and protect her young ones from cold and danger so
well as the larger cat-birds and robins, and her nest is contrived so
that there will not be much covering to do.

[Illustration]

That beautiful bird, the Baltimore Oriole, which may be familiar to
some of you, makes its nest somewhat on the plan of the wren, the
similarity consisting in the fact that the structure is intended to
shelter both parent and young. The oriole, which is a great deal
larger than a wren, builds a much larger nest, forming it like a bag,
with a hole in one end, and hangs it on the branch of a tree.

[Illustration]

It is scarcely possible for any harm to come to the young orioles,
when they are lying snugly at the bottom of the deep nest and their
mother is sitting on a twig near by, ready to protect them at the
hazard of her life.

But, for all the apparent security of this nest, so deep, so warm, so
firmly secured to the twigs and branches, the little orioles are not
entirely safe. Their mother may protect them from rain and cold; from
winged enemies and creeping serpents, but she cannot defend them
against the attacks of boys and men. An oriole's nest is such a
curious structure, and the birds are known to be of such fine form and
gorgeous plumage, that many boys cannot resist the temptation of
climbing up after them and, if there are young ones within, of
carrying the whole affair away in order to try and "raise" the young
birds. Sometimes the nest is put in a cage, where the old bird can
come and feed its young, and in other cases the captor undertakes to
do the feeding himself. I have seen experiments of this kind tried,
but never knew the slightest success to follow them, and the attempt,
generally useless, is always cruel.

But we must positively get away from home and look at some nests to
which few or none of us are accustomed.

There, for instance, is the nest of the Burrowing-Owl, a native of
South America and the regions west of the Rocky Mountains. This little
bird, much smaller than our common owls, likes to live in the ground.
But not having been provided by nature with digging appendages, he
cannot make a hole or burrow for himself, and so he takes up his abode
in the underground holes made by the little prairie-dogs for their own
homes. It is not at all certain that these owls should be called
usurpers or thieves. They may, in some cases, get entire possession of
the holes, but very often they live very sociably with the
prairie-dogs, and may, for all we know, pay for their lodgings by
bringing in grain and seeds, along with the worms and insects which
they reserve for their own table. Any one who does not possess a
habitation of his own, must occasionally expect to be thrown among
strange companions, and this very often happens to the burrowing-owl.
Travellers tell us that not only do the prairie-dogs and owls live
together in these burrows, but that great rattlesnakes sometimes take
up their residence therein--all three families seeming to live
together in peace and unity. I think that it is probable, however,
that the little dogs and owls are not at all pleased with the company
of the snakes. A prairie-dog will not eat an owl, and without the dog
is very young indeed, an owl will not eat him; but a great snake would
just as soon swallow either of them as not, if he happened to be
hungry, which fortunately is not often the case, for a good meal lasts
a snake a long time. But the owls and the prairie-dogs have no way of
ridding themselves of their unwelcome roommates, and, like human
beings, they are obliged to patiently endure the ills they cannot
banish. Perhaps, like human beings again, they become so accustomed to
these ills that they forget how disagreeable they are.

[Illustration]

There is a bird--and it is a Flamingo--which builds a nest which looks
to me as if it must be very unpleasant to sit upon. And yet it suits
the bird very well. In fact, on any other kind of a nest, the
flamingo might not know what to do with its legs.

[Illustration]

It would appear as if there had been a waste of material in making
such a large high nest, when only two or three moderate-sized eggs are
placed in the slight depression at the top; but, when we consider that
the flamingo uses this tall affair as a seat, as well as a nest, we
can easily understand that flamingoes, like most other birds,
understand how to adapt their nests to their own convenience and
peculiarities. Sitting astraddle on one of these tall nests, which
look something like peach-baskets turned upside down, with her head
stuck as far under her wing as she can get it, the flamingo dozes
away, during the long sultry hours of day, as comfortably and happily
as if she was a little wren snugly curled up inside of its cosey nest.
It is not mere situation which makes us happy. Some people enjoy life
in cottages, others in palaces, and some birds sit in a pile of hard
sticks and think themselves quite as cosey as those which repose upon
the softest down.

It is almost impossible to comprehend the different fancies of birds
in regard to their nests. For instance, why should any bird want to
sail about in its nest? Yet there is one--called the Little
Grebe--which builds a water-tight nest, in which she lays her eggs,
and, while she is hatching them, she paddles herself around on the
water.

It seems to me that these birds must have a very pleasant time during
the setting season. To start out some fine morning, after it has had
its breakfast of bugs and things, to gently push its nest from shore;
to jump on board; to sit down comfortably on the eggs, and sticking
out its web-footed legs on each side, to paddle away among the
water-lilies and the beautiful green rushes, in company with other
little grebes, all uniting business and pleasure in the same way, must
be, indeed, quite charming to an appreciative duck.

[Illustration]

If it were to happen to storm, however, when the grebe was at a
distance from shore, her little craft might be upset and her cargo of
eggs go to the bottom. But I expect the grebes are very good sailors,
and know when to look for bad weather.

A nest full of young grebes just hatched, with the mother swimming
behind, pushing them along with her beak, or towing them by the loose
end of a twig, must be a very singular and interesting sight.

[Illustration]

An Ostrich has very different views in regard to a nest from a little
grebe. Instead of wishing to take its nest about with it, wherever it
goes, the ostrich does not care for a great deal of nest-work.

It is, however, a bird of more domestic habits than some writers would
have us believe; for although it does cover up its eggs in the sand,
and then let the sun help hatch them, it is not altogether inattentive
to its nest. The ostrich makes a large nest in the sand, where, it is
said, the eggs of several families are deposited. These eggs are very
carefully arranged in the great hole or basin that has been formed in
the soft sand, and, during the daytime, they are often covered up and
left to be gently heated by the rays of the sun. But the ostrich sits
upon her nest at night, and in many cases the male bird has been known
to sit upon the eggs all day. An ostrich nest is a sort of a wholesale
establishment. There are not only a great many eggs in the nest, but
dozens of them are often found lying about on the sand around it.

This apparent waste is explained by some naturalists by the statement
that these scattered eggs are intended for the food of the young ones
when they are hatched. This may be true; but in that case young
ostriches cannot be very particular about the flavor of the eggs they
eat. A few days in the hot sun of the desert would be very likely to
make eggs of any kind taste rather strongly. But ostrich eggs are so
large, and their shells are so thick, that they may keep better than
the eggs to which we are accustomed.

From nests which are built flat on the ground, let us now go to some
that are placed as high from the earth as their builders can get them.
The nests of the Storks are of this kind.

A pair of storks will select, as a site for their nest, a lofty place
among the rocks; the top of some old ruins; or, when domesticated, as
they often are, the top of a chimney. But when there are a number of
storks living together in a community, they very often settle in a
grove of tall trees and build their nests on the highest branches.

[Illustration: THE NEST OF A STORK.]

In these they lay their eggs, and hatch out their young ones. Soon
after the time when these young storks are able to fly, the whole
community generally starts off on its winter pilgrimage to warm
countries; but the old storks always return in the spring to the same
nest that they left, while the young ones, if they choose to join that
community at all, must make nests for themselves. Although these nests
are nothing but rude structures of sticks and twigs, made apparently
in the roughest manner, each pair of storks evidently thinks that
there is no home like its own.

The stork is a very kind parent, and is, in fact, more careful of the
welfare of its young than most birds; but it never goes to the length
of surrendering its homestead to its children.

The young storks will be carefully nurtured and reared by their
parents; when they grow old enough they will be taught to fly, and
encouraged in the most earnest way to strengthen and develop their
wings by exercise; and, in the annual expedition to the south, they
are not left to themselves, but are conducted to the happy lands where
all good storks spend their winters. But the young storks cannot have
everything. If they wish to live in the nest in which they were born,
they must wait until their parents are dead.

It may be that we have now seen enough of birds' nests, and so I will
not show you any more.

The next nest which we will examine--

"But I thought you were not going to show us any more birds' nests!"
you will say.

That is true. I did say so, and this next one is not a bird's nest but
a fish's nest.

It is probably that very few of you, if any, ever saw a fish's nest;
but there certainly are such things.

[Illustration]

The fish which builds them is called the Stickleback. It is a little
fish, but it knows how to make a good nest. The male stickleback is
the builder, and when he thinks of making a nest he commences by
burrowing a hole in the mud at the bottom of the stream where he
lives. When with his nose and body he has made this hole large enough,
he collects bits of grass, roots, and weeds, and builds his nest over
this hole, which seems to be dug for the purpose of giving security to
the structure. The grass and other materials are fastened to the mud
and earth by means of a sticky substance, which exudes from the body
of the fish, and every part of the nest is stuck together and
interlaced so that it will not be disturbed by the currents. There are
generally two openings to this nest, which is something like a lady's
muff, although, of course, it is by no means so smooth and regular.
The fish can generally stick its head out of one end, and its tail out
of the other.

When the eggs have been laid in the nest, and the young sticklebacks
have been born, the male fish is said to be very strict and particular
in the government of his children. For some time--while they are yet
very small--(and the father himself is a very little fellow) he makes
them stay in the nest, and if any of them come swimming out, he drives
them back again, and forces them to stay at home until they are of a
proper age to swim about by themselves.

We have now seen quite a variety of nests, and I think that we may
come to this conclusion about their builders:--The bird or other
creature which can carefully select the materials for the home of its
young, can decide what is most suitable for the rough outside and what
will be soft and nice for the inner lining, and can choose a position
for its nest where the peculiar wants and habits of its little ones
can be best provided for, must certainly be credited with a degree of
intelligence which is something more than what is generally suggested
by the term instinct.

[Illustration]




THE BOOMERANG.


Civilized folks are superior in so very many respects to their
barbarous brethren that it is well, when we discover anything which a
savage can do better than we can, to make a note of it, and give the
subject some attention.

And it is certain that there are savages who can surpass us in one
particular--they can make and throw boomerangs.

It is very possible that an American mechanic could imitate an
Australian boomerang, so that few persons could tell the difference;
but I do not believe that boomerang would work properly. Either in the
quality of the wood, or in the seasoning, or in some particular which
we would not be apt to notice, it would, in all probability, differ
very much from the weapon carved out by the savage. If the American
mechanic was to throw his boomerang away from him, I think it would
stay away. There is no reason to believe that it would ever come back.

And yet there is nothing at all wonderful in the appearance of the
real boomerang. It is simply a bent club, about two feet long, smooth
on one side and slightly hollowed out on the other. No one would
imagine, merely from looking at it, that it could behave in any way
differently from any other piece of stick of its size and weight.

But it does behave differently, at least when an Australian savage
throws it. I have never heard of an American or European who was able
to make the boomerang perform the tricks for which it has become
famous. Throwing this weapon is like piano-playing; you have to be
brought up to it in order to do it well.

In the hands of the natives of Australia, however, the boomerang
performs most wonderful feats. Sometimes the savage takes hold of it
by one end, and gives it a sort of careless jerk, so that it falls on
the ground at a short distance from him. As soon as it strikes the
earth it bounds up into the air, turns, twists, and pitches about in
every direction, knocking with great force against everything in its
way. It is said that when it bounds in this way into the midst of a
flock of birds, it kills and wounds great numbers of them. At other
times the boomerang-thrower will hurl his weapon at an object at a
great distance, and when it has struck the mark it will turn and fall
at the feet of its owner, turning and twisting on its swift and
crooked way. This little engraving shows how the boomerang will go
around a tree and return again to the thrower. The twisted line
indicates its course.

Most astonishing stories are told of the skill with which the
Australians use this weapon. They will aim at birds or small animals
that are hidden behind trees and rocks, and the boomerang will go
around the trees and rocks and kill the game. They are the only people
who can with any certainty shoot around a corner. Not only do they
throw the boomerang with unerring accuracy, but with tremendous force,
and when it hits a man on the head, giving him two or three terrible
raps as it twists about him, it is very apt to kill him. To ward off
these dangerous blows, the natives generally carry shields when they
go out to fight. Sometimes an Australian throws two boomerangs at
once, one with his right hand and one with his left, and then the
unfortunate man that he aims at has a hard time of it.

Many persons have endeavored to explain the peculiar turning and
twisting properties of the boomerang, but they have not been entirely
successful, for so much depends not only on the form of the weapon,
but on the skill of the thrower. But it is known that the form of the
boomerang, and the fact that one of its limbs is longer and heavier
than the other, gives its centre of gravity a very peculiar situation;
and when the weapon is thrown by one end, it has naturally a tendency
to rotate, and the manner of this rotation is determined by the
peculiar impetus given it by the hand of the man who throws it.

It is well that we are able to explain the boomerang a little, for
that is all we can do with it. The savage cannot explain it at all;
but he can use it.

But, after all, I do not know that a boomerang would be of much
service to us even if we could use it. There is only one thing that I
can now think of that it would be good for. It would be a splendid to
knock down chestnuts with!

Just think of a boomerang going twirling into a chestnut-tree,
twisting, turning, banging, and cracking on every side, knocking down
the chestnuts in a perfect shower, and then coming gently back into
your hand, all ready for another throw!

It would be well worth while to go out chestnuting, if we had a
boomerang to do the work for us.