partridge. Elated at the prize so suddenly within his reach, the fox turned with a dash and caught at least, no, he didn't quite catch the bird; she flopped by chance just a foot out of reach. He followed with another jump and would have seized her this time surely, but somehow a sapling came just between, and the partridge dragged herself awkwardly away and under a log; but the great brute snapped his jaws and bounded over the log, while she, seeming a trifle less lame, made another clumsy forward spring and tumbled down a bank, and Reynard, keenly following, almost caught her tail, but, oddly enough, fast as he went and leaped, she still seemed just a trifle faster. It was most extraordinary. A winged partridge and he, Reynard, the Swift-foot, had not caught her in five minutes' racing. It was really shameful. But the partridge seemed to gain strength as the fox put forth his, and after a quarter of a mile race, racing that was somehow all away from Taylor's Hill, the bird got unaccountably quite well, and, rising with a derisive whirr flew off through the woods, leaving the fox utterly dumfounded to realize that he had been made a fool of; and, worst of all, he now remembered that this was not the first time he had been served this very trick, though he never knew the reason for it.

Meanwhile Mother Partridge skimmed in a great circle and came by a roundabout way back to the little fuzzballs she had left hidden in the woods.

With a wild bird's keen memory for places, she went to

the very grass blade she last trod on, and stood for a moment fondly to admire the perfect stillness of her children. Even at her step not one stirred, and the little fellow on the chip, not so very badly concealed after all, had not budged, nor did he now; he only closed his eyes a tiny little bit harder, till the mother said:

"K-reet!" (Come, children), and instantly, like a fairy story, every hole gave up its little baby partridge, and the wee fellow on the chip, the biggest of them all really, opened his big little eyes and ran to the shelter of her broad tail, with a sweet little " peep, peep" which an enemy could not have heard three feet away, but which his mother could not have missed thrice as far, and all the other thimblefuls of down joined in, and no doubt thought themselves dreadfully noisy, and were proportionately happy.

ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.

THE PINEAPPLES AND THE BEE

THE pineapples, in triple row,

Were basking hot, and all in blow.
A bee of most deserving taste
Perceived their fragrance as he pass'd;

On eager wing the spoiler came,

And searched for crannies in the frame,

Urged his attempt on every side,
To every pane his trunk applied;
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light:
Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimmed his flight another way.
Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind.
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
The maid who views with pensive air

The show glass fraught with glittering ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets;
Like thine, her appetite is keen,
But ah, the cruel glass between!

Our dear delights are often such,
Exposed to view, but not to touch;
The sight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pineapples in frames;
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers;
One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers;
But they whom Truth and Wisdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.

TO A SKYLARK

Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong;

Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing,

With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary, And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a Fairy,

Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;

Lift me, guide me high and high
To thy banqueting place in the sky.
Joyous as morning

Thou art laughing and scorning;

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou wouldst be loath
To be such a traveler as I.
Happy, happy Liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,

As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE BATTLE OF THE ANTS

THERE have been mighty battles on this terrestrial ball, but not the conflicts of Tamerlane's tribes with the hosts of western Asia, nor the wars of the legions of Caius Julius Cæsar with their enemies of the north, ever involved so many combatants or resulted in so many fatalities as did a recent battle in Larkspur Cañon, under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais, near San Francisco Bay. It was war, grim war, waged all day long and unto the even, and on its conclusion the field was strewn not with thousands merely, but with millions of the slain.

A burning brush heap was in uncomfortable proximity to an ant city, and, fleeing from their Pompeii in a frantic horde, the sleek black inhabitants, with their great whitewinged queen and several smaller winged princes of the royal blood, made microscopic tracks along the cow path. A few of the millions of wingless neuters carried pupa and brought up the rear. After a hurried march of ten miles,