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SUNDAY MORNING. ; THE INITIATION : OF FLORENCE. ! BY ROSE WILLIS JOHNSON. yr KEEN wind blew from the 7 /A north, with dreary moaning • through lea lions branches. The yellow sunset had given place to steely tints. Twilight wns at hand, and Dotnley and his hoys turned their log-teams homeward into the new-cut road wttli satisfaction. “I’m hungry enough to ent n mule,” Tom remarked, avoiding a deep rnt. **l’H be glad when the logs are In. Wonder if dad gets tired? He never lets on.” Ben. slower .of speech and movement, scarcely glanced'from his horse’* neck. "Yes, he gels tired," he answered, pres e!i-ie. ! iron." *1 wii.ii iji i cared less for society and more f-ir us hoys!" Tom grumbled. "Dinner■ woe übominalilc! I guess she don’t know bow Imcon and cold boiled p.'tatoes taste—-from a dinner pail. Sjflß’B selfish dear through. like all girls. She thluks she's all right; may be she is; but home Isn't. IPs not V’hat it was when ma was hero." His voice reached farther than l.e knew. Domley, on the lender, tumed awd gave a bnfckward, somber look. Sudden silence fell, broken only by the creaking a>f chains and rattle of wheels. W lien they spoke again it was about the morrow's work. Domley did not encourage idle conversation. Tom's grievance was, to him, n real one. The religion of old days had been tin religion of comfort. Th passing of ifts meek disciple wro‘t_'ht inevitable changes. There was mere lamplight In the parlor now. n.ri* calling, more meeting of benevolent societies. Those things were nil right, but Tom resented t*'e bacon ami cold potatoes. Where the road touched the lane a tlyiug figure evaded the lead team, c the boys, ivlnm.'iv tot lev their horses’ feet. It was thirtcen-y* ir-ohl Florence, the baby she < vied, breathlessly, ‘‘do id mo rbte, won’t you? Tcssle Birch, P’wßa'Mmw house. They're In the parlor. !!.*’*• in* Faster mafic. They are sweet or lilies, ihe songs arc, I’m go ing to the services Rum!ay, aren't you? Can’t 1 ride. Hen?” lien strung her easily.to a place be-’ hind hffti on the horse, and she clasßt-cl him about tite waist, snuggling her <-pW nose against his back, tr til. v ' ■ ..’l'd wear .something on "It's a Tfavc they got rjrlhi.;vg,ebdw'eat at homo?” ■ *'j>fackctWr disdainfully. “nice, po ■ ' biscuit ami coffee. Bread scorched. Better hurry everything’s -.acowstiin." " . f ingiujtfl’ Tom kmirlwt "i say, lien, you’re your own man after to-morrow. I'd light out. I'd hunt up Uncle Bart. 1 don't intend to work on "here when my time's up. A fellow gets neither money nor thunks." ••‘‘Ten ifpsh up!” Florence’ flashed. \ *'Ben isn't going to I; :■! out; he'x go ing to stay with me! 1 guess things nreu't burnt," anxiously. “Is It your birthday to-morrow, lion?” “I guess It Is." lie withdrew from her embrace and slid hastily to the ground. closing the big gale behind his wagon. “Hun along to the hoiise now, Babe. I have to feed the horsesT It's too mortal cold for you to he out.” “I’ll go with you,” she volunteered, stoutly. “Let me—l’ll help. You nron’t going to light out, Ben, are you ?” “Bother!” Ben roughly brushed her Aside. “You’re the nwfullost kid when you get a notion! Hun on to the house; I mean what I say.” When Hen used that tone Florence ceased Importunities. She turned dls- ConteutMxtpwnnl the lighted square of the kitchen window, sin- wanted to be With Ben. lie was h.w ;.mi nn the taeUnrn, In Infancy it was his Shoulder she " vod best. In dnj s of mrastoa “4bi croup he was her savior. .Mow, us. then, lie was the one heinc altogether lovely, without spot or idem !**** bin' )ii houses comfortable, xfsnt to the home, which locked luvii >•£ allot the biting outer air. a blase on the hearth, and the tabic was daintily spread. Ha an d Florence took jios* S.SeK'Sb'n’ of his liuce. /*.’ going to have pre-terved , yjMMi'e.*’ she whispered, encouragingly. ’Tit eat a lot if I were yoni" ' At the table her irrcprcsslbllty broke ut afresh. ' “Do you know to morrow Is Ben's birtlmay?” she demanded. Mr. Domley paused a moment, fork in hand. Rene smiled across at her brother. *’Twenty-one: ’ she exclaimed. “Ben a voter! I’ll give a dinner in honor of the event. Consider yourselves invit ed. all of you!" As Domley left the room that oren , ing he turned gruffly to his elder son. “We won’t work to morrow,” he said. u Vai going to mill. You can knock V-is k f..r '• <f a grtf-loin- ohe. Baa fell .i-e com liHßeft. “All right,” lie Raid. lu ah ' most his father’s wuy, tfLa -Pot t sorry.” ' Tom was not so reticent. The prom ise of a day’s rest and an old-tiuie din ner wanned his blood. ■ “Help lit lie clean, tin,” he whispered to Florence, ns he lighted his stub of .- candle at the log. "I'm going to ask g somo- fellows hfl*n< to dinner. Have decent to eat.” With the first light Florence shivered into her clothes. It was Saturday and Ben's birthday. There was much to do which must be dune well. So well was It clone that by 9 o’clock the house reflected a wonderful luster. Rene was at the mirror when Flor ence came sidling lu. “Flo," the elder sister called pleas antly, “if you’ll do something for roe I’ll give you a dime! There’s plenty of bread and butter, milk and cheese, and there are three pumpkin pies. Father’ll be out late, and no telling when the boys will get in. When they come, set out their dinner, and you shall have the dime.” Blow dismay usurped 1 the hustling eheerfnines of the child’s face. “Where are you going?” she demanded. "To the church. Tcssle and I ” “But Ben?” Florence interrupted? breathlessly.- “It’s Ben’s - birthday! And you said——” “O hush!” Rene gave her hair a vicious twist, and jabbed In a hairpin. “Ben won’t be la before night. I'll get him a good diuuyr to-morrow; perhaps I’ll invite the minister over. I have to go to-day; I’m on the flower committee. You'll do all right. If you are lone soma have Ida Barton come over.” “I don't want Ida Barton, and you're 100 mean to live!” Florence choked. “You are! I’m not going to your old church again—sen If I do! You told Ben— I’Now, that will do!" Rene inserted Cos last pin, and took a critical survey ot herself. “I'm not Ben's slave, nor yours. You’H do what I soy. With Royer here, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” “I’m afraid of nothing but mean ness!’’ Florence stormed. But words failed. She turned and fled, banging tlte door in a way to make the toilet ut’fP'K 9 jump In astonishment. "Spitfire!” Ren commented, pinning ou her hat. “She's dreadful! I ilou't know what" Is to become of her! I must hurry. I wonder if Mr. Margie will be there to help ns?” When the storm was over Florence came back to the deserted kitchen. It was nearly ten by the fat Dutch epid; In the corner. The kettle s!m very Invitingly, and an expect ,%t air pttvvudod Die place. Florence’s face tritlfe Sfelook of determination. '’Bi n is going to have Ids birthday dinner, ’’ she announced to the clock. “You needn’t lodic blank and Cross your hand*. I‘nr going to cook It my self!” It was very cold. There was nothing to save tile Raster promise from the sword of the frost. Florence’s pets, the barn-yard fowls, huddled together in sunny .corners, looking frowsy and wind blown. She went out among ■them, pan In hand, her ears tingling. She was a Judas; she meant to betray. They know no fear of her. She picked up a young cochin, who merely reached round In an effort to secure the corn In her hand. “Oh, you poor thing,” she whimpered, feeding him. “I have to have you—for Ben. It won’t hurt but a minute. I know the nxe Is sharp—oh!" She leaned against the fence, white and sick, and the chicken flopped. When all was still, she ventured to peep. The deed was done. Shudder ing violently, she snatched up her victim and fled, leaving his heartless brethren fighting over the pau. One unconsciously Imbibes informa tion, How to remove the feathers did not trouble her now that she had solved the problem of his head. She rose with the strength of conviction— she knew she could cook! How nice it must bo to be Rene— to have passed beyond dish-washlug! It occurred to c hej? to be llene, and she donned a discarded wrapper and uped her sister’s ways. Her enthusiasm grejir. Phe prepared Vegetables and watched the pot, from which rich odors began to rise. Then she'turned her attention to the fruit-wßar. IfPg lteue was very particular about her fruit. It was there “for show" Tom asserted, in spoonful moments. There were vandal hands upon It now. Two of the choicest jars and a mold of jelly went to do honor to Ben’s majority. Ben, meanwhile, was walking soberly homeward. His heart was heavy with the discouragement which falls easily upon the young. llow many times had he plowed these fields? How many times gathered the harvests—for oth ers? , . Tom had given voice to n thought long dormant in his mind. Why linger In the rut, why go on as father and grandfather had done before him? There was vouth’s natural longing for change, coupled with silent, soar ing ambition’. Who knew to what heights he might not climb? There were none to care for him here, none save little Florence. “O mother!" he whispered with a sudden sob. “Mother!** Behind him a merry "Hallo!” from lusty lungs made him turn quickly. Tom trod three of his young friends were coining up from town. One of theru was the young minister upon whom—Tom assorted.—Bene was cast ing gentle glances. _ “Walt, Ben!” Tour edSVd. “Going homo? So are'we. The boys ami Mr. Margie are here to do justice to Iteuo’s cooking. .FJy up, and let’s hear you craw!’’ Ben colored under the tan of past summers ns he awkwardly greeted his frieuds. A sinking of the heart told him how little reliance he placed upon upon his sister's promise. What if un tidy hearth and empty cupboard awaited them? • He was sullenly angry at Tom’s rashness. The moment gave him a flash of self-revelation. He was sensi tive to the opinion of others; he was proud. “If home is as Rene usually keeps it,” he thought, “I’ll leave It forever!” Outwardly lie was shy and quiet. “I’m glad to see you, boys,” he said. “I’m not ready to crow yet—not till after dinner. Cold Easter, Mr. Morgie. Do you think this snap has killed the fruit?” Florence had Just completed the preparations for her banquet and was proudly surveying results when there came a great stamping and laughing in tire hall. The boys—and tlio preacher! She peeped and retreated, a demure, maidenly figure with dancing eyes. Tom stored. “Where’s Rene?” he demanded. “Not gone, has she? Well! What have you for dinner, Bate?” Somewhat disconcerted, lie led his guests into the parlor. Ben stood where he had paused. He was looking at the table, invitingly draped In snowy white, graced by his mother's pretty, old-fashioned china and silver. Some thing nnsteadied the hand lie extended. “Did you fix it for me, Babe?” he asked, and Florence nodded confused ly,- hanging her head. “I did the best I could,” she faltered. “1 didn't think about company, but ju , of you.” “Thapk you. Babe. Bet’s think of each other from now on; shall we? I’ll do my part by you and father; I’ll stand by you. Come, give me a kiss for my birthday!” The new cook looked up Into her brother’s face. She saw there some thing which made her shiver raptur ously. Ben was pleased with her; Ben was happy! With a glad-little gurgle she went to liiiPeinbracc, pressing rosy lips to his. “One for mother,” she whispered. “Oh, how proud she’d be if she could see you, a really, truly man, old enough to vote!” Ben's birthday dinner was a great success. Young people are merry over little things, and after her first con fusion Florence entered Into the hilar ity of the occasion, not, however, for getting her dignity ns mistress of the boul’d- There were toasts proposed an.', answered, jests and friendly re partee. In the midst of It all the door opened suddenly, and Rene stood upon the threshold. Enjoyment sparkled In Tom’s eyes. "O Rene!” he called. “Come in, Rene! Better late than never! You asked us—or some of us—to Ben’s birthday dinner, you know, and here wo are! So glad you've come! Will you have a bone—there Isn't anything else left?” The girl made a gesture of dissent, turning away her crimsoned face. With an unintelligible murmur of greeting and apology she withdrew, carrying with her u confused impres sion of happy young faces on each of which was a look which mode her tingle sensitively. She had a bad half-hour alone with herself, the sounds of mirth coming up from below. Every sound was n stnb, making her wince and writhe. For she was not, ns she declared herself to be, a monument of selfishness. She was but a thoughtless, pleasure-loving girl, who had not yet arrived at her moth er’s moral stature. The promise of the day before, which had been given so lightly, lmd been brushed aside for n task more pleasura ble. Now it came to her that a prom ise, though made lu Jest, is sacred. Ben had trusted her, acted upon her word. She did not know how results had been accomplished, how be had been spared from humiliation, but she had failed him. Then she thought of his quiet, un youthful ways, and her heart burned. What a good brother ho was, toiling manfully at his father’s side, year in, year out, to provide home comforts! She put her face down on her arms and wept a little, then turned to a bet ter penitence, the sorrow for wrong which, expresses Itself in deeds. It required some moral courage to go down to her brothers’ guests, and by her cheerful, girlish presence brighten their social hour; but this she did, and Ben was forgiving. Tom, for once, magnanimous. Nothing was done to remind her site had failed in the home - the place where failures arc hanft’st to bear. ’ •.' \ 5 ' Aud bo it said, from that day, al though Florence’s initiation was suc cessful, she was not forced to accept life's lessons nil af once, hut took re maining degrees at'her leisure. For with Rene as tge home angel, the old life of love amUcomfort was reestab lished.—Youth's Companion. An KxpeuuSve Sheep. Many people make, It" a rule to retain any stray dog or stray animal that may ’Como to them. In France this is a dangerous thing to do. Some time ago a fanner Itvlag at Lozore. near Paris, took In a sheep that had strayed on to his land, and in due course branded the sheep with his initials. Eater on the real owner of the stray sheep-turned up and demand ed the animal back. The farmer who had adopted the sheep as his own stoutly refused to comply with this re quest. Then trouble ensued. The owner r f the lost sheep was a tena cious and persevering man, and he went to law over the matter. He fought the matter out In tjjfec. differ ent jaw -ourts and eventually won hlS* ease. ‘He.got. lijs sheep back and the other farmer hit# ffPpay a Jffll of costs amounting to s3soo.—The Tatler. Ancient To ml:* in Rome. Several months ago In the work of exploration which has been goiDg on In the Roman Forum two ancient tombs of the prehistoric period were unearthed. Lately two more of prob ably the same epoch were found, the epoch being the eighth century before the founding of the city. One of these tombs contained what was probably the remains of a child. In both of them were urns which contained ashes, showing that at that period both in humation and cremation were prao. Used. These four tombs are among the most interesting finds that havu been made In Rome. - . THE BRUNSWICK DAILY NEWS. Luxury Does Not Bring Achievement By O. S. Marden. OIIE history of our country Is a record of the successes of poor boys who seemed to be hopelessly shut oil from books, culfure and education, except that of the most meagre kind—from al most every opportunity for mental development. The youth ful Lincolns, Franklins, Ilamiltons,- Garfields, Grants and Clays—those who became Presidents, lawyers, statesmen, soldiers, orators, merchants, educators, journalists, inventors— giants lu every department of life—how they stand out from the pages of history, those poor boys, an inspiration for all lime to those who are born to fight their way up to their own loaf! The youth who Is reared in a luxurious home, who, from the moment of his birth, Is waited on by an army of servants, pampered and indulged by over fond parents, and deprived of every Incentive to develop physlcally. although commonly regarded as one to be envied,ls morelo DeTfltled than the poorest, most humbly bom boy or girl In the land. Unless he is gifted with an unusual mind, he Is lu danger of becoming a degenerate, a parasite, a creature who lives on the labor of others, whose powers ultimately atrophy from disuse.—Success. 9 9 9*999 Dependent and Independent* By A. M. Purdy. O class of men, as a rule, are more independent than farmers. They can stand strikes without any great loss. They raise _ J "TTT'I enough to depend on for their living, and can exchange one M % I jki with the other. Neighbor Thompson had a lot ef hay out, help If A wj was short, a storm was brewing. A neighbor stepped In with gA. 0* le salutation; “Well, neighbor, I though 1 would step in and -jL see if I and the boys couldn’t help you get that hay in before the rain conies on. We can put off the cultivating of our potatoes a day or two, and, besides, we may get caught as you ore, and a like favor from you will come good.” "Well, now, if that Isn’t kind in’you. You couldn’t have offered me help at n more acceptable time. I will certainly pay you back, and, by the way, neigh bor, I see one of your road horses is lame. There is my roan in the pasture doing nothing. Send one of the children over when you wish to use him.” “Thank you! My wife was saying this morning she wanted to get to town to-day.” So it went on all through the season, each helping the other, and so It should be between fanners. The Joint work, the sociability, the kindly feeling make life more enjoyable. Where is there a business man more Independent? Ills barns and cellars are full to overflowing of all necessaries for man aud beast. If there Is a strike and coal goes up, he can cut his own wood for fuel and supply bis neighbor. If railroad strikes occur he can remain at home with plenty to keep him, aud his kind uclghbors to visit back and forth. 9999 9 9 9 Domestic Science For Girls. By Mary E. Williams, Professor of Domestic Science, Columbia University. OUST twcuty-ftvo years ago whatever training girls received In domestic science was inculcated by their mothers in their own homes. To-day the demands of the school upon the girls’ time make even’ this absolutely Impossible. The State takes the child almost from the mother’s arms Into the kindergarten, and her training is institutional until she is graduated from high school or college, ready for business. But it is worthy of not© that she is fitted for almost any business except that most Important of all businesses to women, the business of home-making. I think the increase of “bachelor apartments” and of “bachelor maids’ apartments,” the lament of empty churches, the cry of public corruption, and the complaint of competition of labor between the sexes are strong evidences that the number of marriages are constantly derailing. The consequences to the State of such a condition are fraught with danger. As the home is, so the State is. The women of to-day who think they can purify the world at the polls are making a great .mistake. Nor can they do it by entering Into competition with men in the commercial werld. Their work is to trnin the coming generation of men for the affairs of the world. And this work must be commenced in the nursery and be coetlnucd uijtil habits and character are formed. And if we are to do away with the evils of to-day we must prepare the future wives aud mothers for Just Oils work. Until this fact Is recognized by our school boards, the training of a girl, un like that of her brother, will be incomplete. For Ills training alms to fit him for his normal position F Ufe, for his struggle with tho world. The trailing of a girl, as it is now, M efljs to have the same aim for her; while her normal lifewurk—the care of the home—is practically Ignored. What is the remedy? Nothing less than to make domestic science a part of the regular course for girls; necessary for promotion from elementary schools to high schools and from high schools to colleges. If this can be accomplished we shall have gone a long way toward solving the problem of the training of our girls. Wo can hope then to turn out n gen eration of future mothers who will be equipped for that llfewovk so aptly de scribed by Frances Willard when she declared that “the mission of the ideal woman Is to make the whole world home-like.” 9999 9 9 9 Self>Assertiveness The Twin of Courtesy By George C. Lorimer, D. D. FEW months ago while traveling in England, the members of |K TF 7 our party found themselves in a smoking compartment of a | railway carriage with a stranger, and a stranger who smoked. .B yP When about halfway between stations, he calmly pulled out I Lis tobacco, and, lighting up, puffed away, seemingly to Ids I own enjoyment quite as much as to the discomfort of the Indies 1 ■ under my charge. Seeing the annoyance bis smoking was causing, I asked him if he would be good enough to desist until we came to the next staßr-u, when we would change our seats to another carriage; and I was not a little astonished at his reply; “I am distinctly within my rights, sir, and must decline.” Brutal as tho retort sounded, It was nevertheless a statement of the truth —he was “within his rights”—and, true Britisher that he was, he proposed to have them. While recognizing his privileges, I could but feel that we in America would be willing to waive our rights in little things, preferring to keep our entire energy for the holding on to those lu the greater events of life. The Incident set me to thinking. The Englishman never forgets nor ceases to demand and to obtain bis due, no matter how trifling the obligation may be, and permits no one and nothing to interfere with the happy and peaceful possession of it. We Americans are the most amiable of individuals. We live in a country where we arc obliged to give and take, and we should be considered anoma lous and archaic as soon as we became arbitrary. We regard as trivial the minor amenities, and indeed submit to many things that may grow Into positive wrongs because we are so complacently assured that we have constitutional rights of so magnificent proportions that we can afford to regard with indifference these lesser infractions of what contributes to peace and comfort. But can we? ’ Is it right to allow ourselves to wbapUfdsabout by every one who comes In our path? Can we afford to have*our toes trodden upon by every,stranger that crosses in front of us? Would we be better off by being more self assertive aud less complacent? More mindful of our own “rights,” and less ■trilling to have them trampled upon, even as we trample upon those of others? Do we not grow careless in our dealings with others from the very fact of our own indifference? And can we not learn a lesson from our more exacting brother across the sea? We are known tis the strenuous race. We work harder, longer and usually with greater material-results than other peoples. We have what Prince Boris praises as “the goaheadativeness and feverish activity” of a young nation; but In our haste, our hurry, we are equally forgetful of ourselves and of otke;s In little things, while making much ado about the great things for which we have always striven. It is the little things that count, after all; and we eau be in no better bus! ness than to take to heart this lesson of self-assertiveness, for in learning it we shall come to be less careless in our dealings with others. By demanding more rights for ourselves we shall necessarily show greater care for those of our neighbor. We shall learn that self assertiveness is in reality the tV'iu of cour ,4?Sy. —i - ■‘■■ri'i CHILDREN'S ElWe Willie ud Whipping*. Sometimes w’en I’m middlin’ bad. Same es boys ’ll lie, Then my ma she gits a stick Jus’ to punish me. Make you laugh to see that stick— Like a wisp o’ hay— But the minute that it lan’s, - Then I talk this way: “Wow! Ouch! Oh! 1 say!” (Thinks I’m cryin’ then) “Ouch! Oh, dear! I will obey; I’ll be good again!’’ Seems to ease my ma, you see, An’, o’ course, it don’t hurt me. Tint it’s differen’ with my pa; W’en he gits a stick It is longer ’an his arm An’ erbout es thick. AV’iie he’s gittin’ it 1 wait, Thinkin’, thinkin’ bard. An' the firs’ blow ’at lie tail’s This is frum me jarred: “Wow! Ouch!”—Qtteeres’ thing! Case erpears to be I can’t ’member w’at I say W’en lie’s whippin’ me. Whippin’s on’y fun frum ma— But it's differen’ with my pa. THE BEAN~ POLE . AND THE POTATO. Once there was a bean pole placed In a garden near a potato patch. The cabbage immediately exclaimed: "Dear me, what a stiff, poky thing that la! What use is It standing there, no benefit to anyone?” Sjon the scarlet bean came running about, searching for something to cling to, and found the bean pole. “All right.” said the happy little bean, “you are just what I was look ing for; now I can begin my summer work.” “To be sure,” cried young cabbage. Everything lias some use. Who would ever have thought of it?” The scarlet beau was very spry, ran ■ap the polo very easy. Being very Jlvtily, she began to make fun of th potato plant. MISSING MUSSULMANS’ PUZZLE. Find two more Mussulmans in this Constantinople scene. “llow slow yon ore,” said the bean. ■"Why don’t you look brighter and more blooming?” The potato plant only showed a few pale blossoms, although she thought she was doing her best. “You do not call those flowers,” said the lively bean. “Just look at my love ly scarlet blossoms,” and she held up a spray of bright blossoms. The summer passed, the bean filled her pods aud felt quite proud.of it. "Only see what I have done,” said the bean to the potato plant. “There is summer work for you,” and she filled U,e pole up and down with her pods. The cabbage cried out: “Why don't you do something? Can’t you come to a head?” The potato plant still was silent. f~-x& fc But when the time came to dig np the potatoes and the hill was opened, and the pile of long white potatoes ap peared they all could hardly believe their senses. “You were doing something all the time,” declared the cabbage, but how 'could I know?” Then that bean hung her pods so everyone could see them. “Well, after this I will say of the plant thag makes the least show, ’Wait, potatoes iu •ide.’ There are a great many scarlet beans among people, and some potatoes also, aud maybe a few cabbage heads.—Chi cago Record-Herald. “A Pleasant Time TV4B IT ad. ls"3i \ ", I IP I “Did you have lots of nice things tc eat at. the party?” “Rather! Why, I had to take four kinds of medicine after it.”—Ally Sloper. Clever Bird*. The brilliantly plumed- birds of the tropical forests are exposed to many dangers, and if they were not gifted with queer yet useful instincts they would certainly fail ready victims to their enemies. Chattering monkeys and big snakes steal and oat their eggs, while their fledglings are preyed upon by foes ou every side. But it takes a sly monkey or snake to get ahead of the mother tailor bird. She hides her nest so skillfully that her enemies cannot find it, no matter how hard they try. This she does by using her ions, slender bill as a needle. ’ With the tough fibre of a. parasite plant abundant In the tropics as,a thread, she sews a dead leaf taken from the ground to a living one near the end of a slender and hanging branch, and between these leaves she bttilds her nest, where neither monkey nor snake can approach, because the branch will not bear their weight. , The Indian sparrow Is equally in genious. She makes her nest of grass, which she weaves like cloth, and in the shape of a bottle. Then she covers the outside with fireflies to scare away the bats that prey upon her young ones. Habit, of Sparrow, in England. A writer in ti e London Spectator says that the site of sparrows’ nests is chosen with great care, and always with a view to avoid danger from eats. They shun any proximity ~3 or dinary roofs of houses where t*St;. are likely to disturb them, butthe f of a corrugated iron roof neighborhood will attract kejs-s oil from their old nests, as tlii 4ivS|)*t# underneath furnish *.;n dreds of them, where safe, can ''m . ari.aJP' i4pc ' jfl % : if houses, nr. r 'iK? *■ r, ' v ' '•*• ".W M .1 -truvl 1'..:,-’ £ ! ;i ■ ’ tot:.-!,. ,1. .u.d tic- 1 : 'pffifgSyj&y • - 'v- r,- else. It was n■ 1 attaf*'> was just :•> likely WAX Ip.-M; Tin' r< .il l The •-**•*? - nail K| 'in, ■ v-jAtCS the . * y riat.ts ■ DECEMBER 28