PET CROWS.

T was my lot once upon a time to be down with fever in an antiquated building in a rather lonely part of the suburbs of a town. It had three windows, close to which grew a large banyan-tree, beneath the shade of whose branches the crew of & line-of-battle ship might have hung their hammocks with comfort. The tree was inhabited by a colony of crows; we stood-the crows and I-in the relation of overthe-way to each other.

Now, of all birds that fly, the Indian crow must bear the palm for audacity. Living by his wits, he is ever on the best of terms with himself, and his impudence leads him to dare anything. Whenever, by any chance, Pandoo, my attendant, left the room, these black gentry paid me a visit. Hopping in by the score, and regarding me no more than the bed-post, they commenced a minute inspection of everything in the room, trying to destroy everything that could not be eaten or carried away. They rent the towels, drilled holes in my uniform, stole the buttons from my coat, and smashed my bottles. One used to sit on a screen close by my bed every day, and scan my face with his evil eye, saying as plainly as could be, "You're getting thinner and beautifully less; in a day or two you won't be able to lift a hand; then I'll have the pleasure of picking out your two eyes."

Amid such doings my servant would generally come to my relief, perhaps to find such a scene as this-two or three pair of hostile crows, with their feathers standing up around their necks, engaged in deadly combat on the floor over a silver spoon or a tooth-brush; half-a-dozen perched upon every available chair; an unfortunate lizard with a crow at each end of it, getting whirled wildly around the room, each crow thinking he had the best right to it; crows everywhere, hopping about on the table and drinking from the bath; crows perched on the window-sill, and more crows about to come, and each crow doing all in his power to make the greatest possible noise. The faithful Pandoo will take all this in at a glance; then would ensue a helter-skelter retreat, and the windows darkened by the black wings of the flying crows; then silence for a moment, only broken by some apologetic remark from Pandoo.

When at length happy days of convalescence came round, and I was able to get up and eat my meals at table, I found my friends the crows a little more civil and respectful. The thought occured to me to make friends with them; I consequently began a regular system of feeding them after every meal-time. One old crow I caught, and chained to a chair with a fiddle-string. He was a funny old fellow, with one club-foot. He never refused his food from the very day of his captivity, and I soon taught him a few tricks. One was to lie on his back, when so placed, for any length of time, till set on his legs again. This was called turning the turtle.

But one day this bird of freedom hopped away, fiddlestring and all, and a whole fortnight elapsed before I saw him again. I was just beginning to put faith in a belief common in India-namely, that a crow, or any other bird that has been for any time living with human beings is put to instant death the moment he returns to the bosom of his family-when one day, while engaged in breakfasting some forty crows, my club-footed pet reappeared, and actually picked the bit from my hand; and ever after, until I left, he came regularly thrice a day to be fed.

The other crows came with surprising exactness at mealtimes; first one would alight on the shutter outside the window, and peep in, as if to ascertain how nearly done I happened to be, then fly away for five or ten minutes, when he would return, and have another peep. As soon, however, as I approached the window and raised my arm, I was saluted with a chorus of cawing from the banyan-tree; then down they swooped in dozens; and it was no very easy task to fill so many mouths, although the loaves were government

ones.

These pets had a deadly enemy in a brown raven-the bramla kite; swifter than an arrow from a bow he descended, describing the arc of a great circle, and carrying off in his flight the largest lump of bread he could spy. He for one never stopped to bless the hand of the giver; but the crows, I know, were not ungrateful. Club-foot used to perch

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beside me on a chair and pick his morsels from the floor, always premising that two windows at least must be open. As to the others, their persecutions ended, they never appeared except when called upon. The last act of their aggression was to devour a very fine specimen of praying mantis I had confined in a quinine bottle. The first day escaped by keeping close at the bottom; next day the cover was again broken and the bottle itself capsized; and the poor mantis had prayed in vain for once. Club-foot, I think, must have stopped all day in the banyan-tree, for I never went to the window to call him without his appearing at once with a joyful caw; this feat I used often to exhibit to my shipmates, who came to visit me during my illness. -Titusville Herald.

THE NATURALIST'S SUMMER EVENING

WALK.

HEN day declining sheds a milder gleam,

What time the May-fly haunts the pool or stream; When the still owl skims round the grassy mead,

What time the timorous hare limps forth to feed;

Then be the time to steal adown the vale,

And listen to the vagrant cuckoo's tale;

To hear the clamorous curlew call his mate,

Or the soft quail his tender tale relate;

To see the swallow skim the dark'ning plain,

Belated, to support her infant train;

To mark the swift in rapid, giddy ring,

Dart round the steeple, unsubdued of wing:

Amusive birds! say where your

When the frost rages, and the tempests beat?

Whence your return, by such nice

When spring, soft season, lifts her bloomy head?

Such baffled searches mock man's
prying pride-

The God of Nature is your secret guide!
While deep'ning shades obscure the face of day,
To yonder bench, leaf-shelter'd, let us stray,
Till blended objects fail the swimming sight,
And all the fading landscape sinks in night;
To hear the drowsy dor come brushing by,
With buzzing wing, or the shrill cricket cry;
To see the feeding bat glance through the wood,
To catch the distant falling of the flood;
While o'er the cliff th' awaken'd churn-owl hung
Through the still gloom protracts his chattering song;
While high in air, and poised upon his wings,
Unseen, the soft, enamour'd wood-lark sings;
These, Nature's works, the curious mind employ,
Inspire a soothing melancholy joy;

As fancy warms, a pleasing kind of pain
Steals o'er the cheek, and thrills the creeping vein.
Each rural sight, each sound, each smell combine,
The tinkling sheep-bell, or the breath of kine;
The new-mown hay, that scents the swelling breeze,
Or cottage chimney smoking through the trees.

-White, of Selborne.

Some two years ago we were much struck by a deed of heroism that we read of in the daily press, which occupied but a few lines, and which was allowed to pass, so far as we know, without note or comment. We thought it worthy of fuller notice, and we had an engraving prepared of the scene, but the exigencies of serial tales and of other articles that were promised our readers crowded out this one. Still, a good deed never grows old, and the influence of a noble self-denying effort is never out of place. The brave men whose conduct we were anxious to record need not be asked to excuse the delay, for those who are capable of such self-denial find their reward in the consciousness of having done their duty, and in the pleasure of having saved life. But the delay enables us to add a pleasant paragraph that could not have been written if we had carried out our purpose as soon as we desired.

At about the time we have named there was a French barque, the Melanie laden with petroleum lying in the river Adour, off Bayonne. By some means unexplained, perhaps unknown, the petroleum took fire, and as may be imagined, the flames rapidly spread, so quickly indeed that they cut off all means of escape of the ill-fated crew. There was no vessel at hand, and a terrible death stared them in the face. But their peril was seen at least from one vessel, the Arabella Clark, and the flames of the burning ship told the tale of danger and death. Whether the ship's company on board consisted of more at the time, is not stated, but the Captain, Sharp, and the ship's carpenter, John M'Intosh, saw the flames and hastened at once to the rescue. They put off in a boat and rowed as fast as possible to the doomed vessel, which, however, it was a perilous matter even to approach. The sea, near the ship, was strewn with barrels of the combustible oil in a state of ignition, and the wind blew the flames from these in the faces of the men; but as they approached the vessel itself their position was one of much pain and peril, for the flames had possession of the vessel, and they were blown from her in dense and scalding masses. Indeed, it was hotter for those who approached than for the men on board; but through the seething volumes of smoke and flame the brave men pressed on, although at times they were well-nigh driven back. At last they reached the vessel's side, near enough for the crew to jump in. This was a hazardous task all round; the sides of the ship were so hot they could not be touched, and the flames shot forth so as to threaten, not only the lives of the rescuers, but the boat itself,

avail themselves of the first opportunity of leaving the ship. Indeed, some of them were in such haste as to be ready to throw themselves into the sea; but this would have only hindered their rescue and would have imperilled the lives of all by keeping the boat longer in the neighbourhood of the petroleum flames. At length the brave men saw their chance, and approached the ship near enough for the crew to disembark in the boat. All were got in; not a man was left alive or dead, for they had managed to keep out of the devouring flames. They were all safely landed, without any serious injury. But what of the brave rescuers? It did not fare so well with them. Both Captain Sharp and carpenter McIntosh were burnt. The former, however, soon recovered, but the latter was taken home invalided, and long continued unable to earn his living. It is to be hoped that private friends were ready to help him in his enforced idleness, and doubtless the crew, and probably the owners, of the burnt vessel would desire to show their sense of the carpenter's behaviour, and of their sympathy with him in his retirement. The heroic act came to the knowledge of Dr. Smiles, who recorded it in his recent work on "Duty," where it found many an admiring reader. Nor was admiration the only response it elicited from at least one of those who read Dr. Smiles' work. Lord Brabazon has recently forwarded twenty pounds to the brave carpenter, in the hope that others may be disposed to follow his example, and thus secure a tangible testimonial in recognition of M'Intosh's brave deed, and to recompense him for the loss he sustained thereby.

A BUNCH OF NARCISSUS.

BY LOUISA EMILY DOBRÉE

ON

Na slope of one of the Jura mountains is a tiny Swiss châlet, all angles and quaint devices, just like the little toy châlets you so often see. On the little balcony that ran round the upper windows there sat, one sweet spring evening, old Mère Angélique, knitting away contentedly, and with her eyes fixed on the lovely view before her.

Just beneath the balcony was a little vineyard, the fresh green vines twining up short sticks, and the whole bound in by a hedge, behind which were lilacs and seringas all in full blossom. A rose-tree climbed up the châlet and hung in festoons of sweet-smelling blossoms, framing in the view of the Lake of Geneva in the distance, the snow-clad Alps, and the tiny village close at hand. It was all very still and calm, and then the silence was broken by little Virginie's voice, as she came along the fields at the back of

and her voice rose clear and fresh in the evening air.

Soon she turned the corner of the vineyard, and stopped to call out to her grandmother, who smiled as she nodded in answer.

Virginie was a little flaxen-haired girl of twelve, with a flat Swiss hat shading her sunburnt face, and on her back she had one of those queer long baskets, rather like the half of a lily in shape, made of straw.

"Look, grandmère !" cried Virginie, holding up a bunch of narcissus, "are not these lovely?"

Mère Angélique smiled, but it was a sad smile. Virginie did not notice that, however, but ran gaily in, and put the things out for supper ere she came up to her grandmother.

"Grandmère, what is the matter ?" she asked, when she came up to the balcony, and sat on a stool at her grandmother's feet. Now she noticed that Mère Angéliques eyes were full of tears-tears that she wiped away soon, but which, however, would come. again.

"Look at these flowers, are they not sweet?" said Virginie; and Mère Angélique took the bunch in her hand. It was a large bouquet of the pure white narcissus which grows wild in Switzerland in the spring and covers the fields with the snow-white blossoms.

"Yes, dear child, but-"

"What is it, dear grandmère. I can't bear to see you so sad" said Virginie.

"The flower of the narcissus always reminds me of something that happened to me when I was a little girl, just about your age, Virginie.'

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Something that happened to you when you were a little girl! Oh, grandmère, would you tell me?" said Virginie, her face lighting up; for, in spite of her sympathy in her grandmother's sad recollections, whatever they might be, she could not help liking to hear a 66 story."

"Yes, I will tell you. I often have thought that I would," said Mère Angélique.

Virginie nestled down, leaning her head on her grandmother's knee; and through the openings of the balcony she could see the distant Alps, taking under the sunset that lovely rose-coloured hue which once seen, lighting their snow-clad summits, can never be forgotten.

Mère Angélique put down her knitting and leant with one arm on the balcony, resting her head on her hand, while the other hand was laid on Virginie's hair, which hung in long plaits down her back. They were all alone in the world, these two. All Madame Le Grand's relatives were dead; only the little orphan Virginie remained, and they were very dear to each other, living their quiet life, tending their vines, minding the cows, in that lonely little spot up in the mountains.

"Years and years ago it was, Virginie, when I was just your age. I lived in a pretty little châlet something like this one, only it was not far from Montreux. It was quite up in the mountains; and my father, who had lost my dear mother but a year when what I am going to tell you happened, was a vigneron (one who minds the vineyards). We were very happy there; he and I and my sweet little mother made the sunshine of our home up till then. I had lost some brothers and sisters, who had died when they were babies, and then came little André."

"A brother of yours! You never told me of him!" said Virginie, as her grandmother paused. "Yes; I had a little brother once," said Mère Angélique, speaking slowly as was her wont, the French language sounding strangely sweet, even with its strong Vaudois accent. "Yes, little André came to us one lovely busy day, when all the lilacs were in blossom and the fields were every colour imaginable, embroidered with the wild flowers. Little André was born, and the next day my dear mother died. Her last words were to me, placing the little babe in my charge. I can never forget that evening, Virginie, though it is more than sixty years since. I seem to see it all again, and to hear the little mother's voice saying, 'Take care of him, Angélique, and be a good girl to your father."

"Poor grandmère ! it must have been a sad day for you," whispered Virginie, as she felt a tear drop on her hand.

"Ah, yes! but after my mother died my hands were full, minding my little brother, who was a delicate, sickly baby, but, oh, such a pet! We loved him-my father and I-and how we used to watch him and study his little face, seeking to find in it resemblance to the dead mother. Day by day he grew sweeter and more engaging, and day by day we noticed how like our dear one he was. Just the same coloured eyes, like the gentians, the same soft curly brown hair, and teint, something like the delicate pink of the cyclamen. We carried him every Sunday to the churchyard, when we took bunches of flowers to her grave. The fields near us were white, some of them, with narcissus, and we took bunches of those often. So the year wore away; and my father said I was a comfort to him, and he said I was growing up like her who we trusted was now with the Saviour she loved so well and served so truly when on earth. Our mother had taught me early about the Lord Jesus, and won me to give my heart to Him. Father was a very religious man, but he could not talk of things as mother used to do. There had been one fault in my character which more than all the others had grieved my mother, and—”

"Faults, grandmère. Why, were you ever naughty?" asked Virginie, opening wide her eyes. For her grandmother was so good and saintly that little Virginie could never fancy that she ever did wrong.

"Yes, dear, I was often. I am now but a sinful old woman sorely needing pardon," said Mère Angélique; "and as a child I was very disobedient. My mother used to speak to me seriously about it, and I tried to be better. After her death I tried very hard to overcome my fault, because I knew how displeasing it was to God, and because, too, I was trying to act up to all the dear little mother had taught me. But as the days went on I was less watchful, and I grew careless of my father's orders, and frequently disobeyed him. My father used to look grieved when I disobeyed him; but he was so indulgent to me that he never said anything severe, and he was always inclined to think the disobedience caused by carelessness more than anything else."

"And was it not, grandmère?" said Virginie, whose conscience had been rather pricking her as her grandmother spoke. She was apt to be disobedient herself very often, generally from in

attention and carelessness, and she never seemed really touched by her grandmother's exhortations on the subject.

if

"Not always. I was self-willed and trusted too much to my own judgment rather than to that of those more capable of guiding me. Well, I must hasten with my story. See, Virginie, the sun has quite set now, and it will be soon dark. One Sunday my father and I walked down to the churchyard, carrying André with us. He was very pale that day, and had not been well lately, but not enough to make one anxious. We went and sat down on the soft newly-mown grass near mother's grave, and my father watched me arrange the flowers I had brought with me on it. Very soon I had made the little mound look very lovely, for I had placed quantities of roses round it and filled in the centre with white narcissus. As I was doing it, an old woman, a friend of my father's, passed and stopped to look. She admired what I had done, and then remarked, 'Pretty flowers, those narcissus, truly.' "They are my favourite flowers,' I answered, and they are very plentiful this year.' 'Ah, yes!' said old Madame Nage; pretty flowers, truly, but better put on the graves of the dead than kept in the rooms of the living.' 'Why?' I asked, surprised; and my father caught up André, and said, 'Yes, I have heard that the odour of those flowers is not wholesome.' 'Not wholesome!' said Madame Nage, 'why, you had a good many of them in a room, and let no air in, you might be asphyxié.' 'I don't know what asphyxier means,' I said sullenly, for I was fond of having flowers in my little room, and frequently had narcissus. I rather disliked Madame Nage, and often thought her interfering, and I was cross at her saying anything against my pet flowers. 'It means that you would be suffocated,' said Madame Nage. Well,' I remarked pertly, 'I often have them in my room, and I have never been suffocated.' 'Ah! you are young, and do not like to gain wisdom from your elders,' said Madame Nage. Just like all young people;' and she walked off. My father was a very silent man, and we walked home quietly, not speaking, a little time after Madame Nage left. Presently my father spoke. 'Angélique, don't bring any narcissus into the house. Do you understand?" Yes, père.' 'You quite understand; because, you know- He was going to say I was disobedient, but he was afraid of hurting my feelings. I know, père. I will be careful.' Several days passed, and I went out sometimes and gathered narcissus, but did not bring them in. One day I remembered that the next was the fête day of a little friend of mine in Montreux, who was lame and unable to go out and gather flowers, and I picked a huge bunch of narcissus in the afternoon. I was very happy all that afternoon, picking the narcissus, and feeling quite happy about André, as he was in the charge of a friend from the village who came now and It was a holiday and I had plenty of time, and soon I had gathered the narcissus. I was going to send them by a man who was coming the next day to see us, and who lived at Montreux. I wanted to keep the narcissus fresh and cool, so I brought them in, comforting myself as I felt I was disobeying my father-by the thought that it was only for that one night. When I came in I found

then to see us.

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For

poor old Nanette in a great state of misery; she had fallen and sprained her ankle. In my hurry I ran hastily into my little room, where she had left André asleep on my bed, and I threw the narcissus down, ran out, and closed the door after me. a long time I was busy with Nanette, doing all I could for her, and at ease about André, as we knew that through the thin walls we should hear the slightest cry. No cry came, and I just peeped in once, and saw he was fast asleep. The heavy perfume of the flowers did not strike me as strange, as I had been bending over them all the afternoon. Then my father came in, and he went in to see André, as he always did the first thing on entering. Presently I heard him call me, and something in his voice made my heart sink; it sounded so strange. Angélique!' I ran up in answer, and there I found my father bending over little André, whose blue eyes were fast closed, and whose little pale face was whiter than ever. I bent_over him, my pulse beating high as I did so, and I listened for the little breathing sound I knew so well. There was no answer to my listeningno sound save my father's sigh as he took up the bunch of narcissus and flung them out of the window, which had been fast closed. Little André was dead! The doctor came to us from the village, and tried to give us some consolation by saying that little André would never have lived that he had but a souffle de vie; but I could not be comforted. I asked him the truth, and he had to admit that my disobedience had hastened André's death. In that tiny room, with door and window fast shut, the heavy perfume of the flowers lying quite close to him had been too much for the tiny lungs. For a long time I was very ill-haunted by the dreadful thoughts of all the consequences of my disobedience. But in time comfort came, and I rose up to my daily work, and tried to be good to my father." "Poor grandmère!" said Virginie, "how you must have suffered!"

"I did," said Madame Le Grand quietly, "and the pain seems to linger still. My child, it has been painful to tell you. You know why I have done it." "I know, grandmère," said Virginie, " and I will try and profit by it."

"Do, my child. Ask God's help, and He will help you. You know, too, now, why many sad memories spring to life at the sight of those flowers."

Virginie took them away, but her grandmother made her put them in a jug on the balcony. As each spring comes round, and under the clear blue sky of Switzerland the fields are white with the flowers, little Virginie thinks more specially than ever of her grandmother's story of "The Bunch of Narcissus."

READY WIT.

HE Russia was remarkable for his ingenuity in extricating himself and others from trouble. A cousin of his, on one occasion, had fallen under the Czar's displeasure, and was about to be executed. The jester presented himself at court to petition for a reprieve. On seeing him enter the chamber of state, and divining his errand, the monarch shouted to him: "It's of no use coming here; I swear that I will not grant what you are going to ask." Quick as thought the fool dropped on his knees, and exclaimed: "I beseech your Imperial Highness to put that scamp of a cousin of mine to death." Peter, thus caught in his own trap, had no choice but to laugh, and send a pardon to the offender.

jester attached to the court of Peter the Great of