many-coloured morocco for the best and softest piece for his ball-cover; and they do say that he stitched and stitched away all his odd minutes for many weeks upon the straps of Sidney's first pair of skates; and, in sooth, when they came forth from his hands, the new and strange devices wherewith they were decorated excited the admiration and envy of the whole villagery of boys.

Down in one corner of the Thornton property dwelt poor Adam Locke, in his little cottage. Adam Locke had grown up from a boy upon the estate, and while the hardy enterprising young men of the village were pushing their fortunes, he remained still upon the old place, without a dream of changing his condition, till he took to himself to wife a pretty little bustling housemaid in the Thornton family, and went to dwell with her where his father had lived before him; and, furbishing up the old hoes and spades, he took up regularly his father's duties in the great garden and the orchards and groves of Hawthornden. While Adam's locks were growing grey and thin, and in his sweaty, sunburned brow the simple story of laborious years was being written line by line, one year after another brought up around him a growing group of healthy daughters, as pretty, as bustling, and as industrious as their mother; but he had to wait long before a son was born to him; and when little Johnny came at last, the old man's simple heart was full, and he used to spend the long summer evenings dandling and hushing his infant boy; and when the little fellow learned to walk, and could call his father by name, the two would go forth together into the broad alleys of the garden, and while the old man hoed up the heaps of weeds, the little boy chatted away to him, and he would stop to answer him, as if he knew every word of his baby-talk; and he found a deal of comfort and great help in the company and childish prattle of his only little son.

When Johnny Locke grew up-a homely, sunburned boy, square, stout, and clumsy—it would puzzle you to know why the old man used to stop and lean on his spade and watch him so proudly; and why he would talk about 'My John' so much, as if no other John was ever half so good, or smart, or wise. But he was a brave, active lad, passionate and generous, and all the boys in the village liked John Locke, and the schoolmaster used to say

that he studied harder than any boy in his school.

Little Sidney Thornton would find his way to the garden-bed, or the hedge where John was working, and the two boys soon became fast friends; so that, whenever they could get a holiday, they were sure to be wandering together into the forest, or up among the hills, or along the river's banks, fishing, or nutting, or swimming; and Colonel Thornton, proud though he was, could not find it in his heart to interfere with the pleasure of his darling

son.

So the two were left to enjoy themselves in their own way, and grew in favour daily with the villagers.

One summer afternoon there was something flying about, and wafted on whispering breath from house to house of the village, and from knot to knot of anxious, inquiring men in the street; and as each one heard it, he held his breath, and gasped in horror, and hurried to his home. Foaming horses came clattering in, and each rider was stopped, and eager groups thronged about him, hanging on the reins, and clinging to the stirrups; and as the horseman galloped from group to group. dismay and terror spread through the town.

At each gateway were frightened mothers and clusters of weeping sisters; for a party of boys had gone to the lake to bathe, and two of them were drowned! Fathers heard it, and remembered the missing face at table; one pale face met another in the street, and quivering lips gasped out the fearful question, 'Is it mine?' Horses and carriages were flying through the town toward the lake, but before them all was grey-haired Colonel Thornton, spurring on his black steed, covered with foam and dust, reining up to inquire of each group of affrighted boys on their homeward way, and spurring on again. On foot and on horseback, the village poured out to the lake; and Colonel Thornton was galloping madly up and down before the throng on the bank, calling for ropes and drags; and the blacksmith was in his boat, and ropes were thrown in, and grappling-irons, and stalwart oarsmen took their places; and boat after boat was manned, and swept over each foot of water, up the swift current, and over the deep pools, and round the whirling eddies, down among the roots of trees, and amidst floating logs; the crowd so mute lining the shore, and Colonel Thornton, on his panting horse, shouting the word of command, and hold

ing up his heavy purse. One boat was drifting far down the stream into the river, its long lines sweeping the bottom; silent and swift it glided on, till the blacksmith shouted from the stern. A heavy body was entangled in the grapnels; and, as he hauled and hauled away, it came to the surface, just glancing in the red light of the setting sun, and something was lifted in, and away sped the skiff to the shore. The crowd rushed down to the beach; Colonel Thornton threw himself from his saddle, and broke his way through. One moment they pressed around, swaying and pushing for a sight, then they shrunk back in awe and terror, as the old man lifted up his grey head from the bodies, and turned his face toward them, and fell away silently on either side to let him pass.

Then such a wail arose! sobbing and sighing low upon the evening beeeze, and rising and swelling into fierce, loud lamentations, as one after another drew near and recognised the bodies; for there was John Locke, in his coarse garments, clasped firmly round the waist by the naked arms of Sidney Thornton, and dragged down to death by him!

Slowly they turned away, and slowly the straggling groups stole home at dusk; and the stout blacksmith, tenderly wrap-❘ ping up the poor bodies, drove softly, late at night, into the village.

The rusty hinges of the old family vault did not open for little Sidney Thornton. It was not for him to lie in his chill, damp niche until the resurrection-morn. They chose out a place where the sunlight fell bright and warm, where the dank, thick shade of the trees might not fall too cold upon him; and they dug there a grave for two. And one bright morning of July the whole village thronged together there as mourners. Nearest stood Colonel Thornton, his grey head uncovered, and the silvery locks blowing about in the summer breeze; and on the other side of the grave knelt Adam Locke, bending over the edge, and gazing down upon the coffin-lid that covered up the face of his only boy two old men so much unlike, and yet so near, stricken down by one blow, looking into one grave, burying together there their hope, and pride, and joy; helpless and feeble alike, and needy and desolate!

There is an old book in which many strange things are recorded; among others,

it unfolds how one man and one woman were the parents of us all. As I turned away from that wide, deep grave, I could not help thinking that the rich Colonel Thornton and poor Adam Locke were pretty near relations after all.

NATURE IN MOTION.
FISHES.

On the easiest routes, and in the most favourable element for locomotion, travel fishes, in incessant movement; even swift birds, in their rapid and unwearied flight, must yield the palm to them-the eagle to the shark, the swallow to the herring. Their form, also, is so particularly well adapted to swift and easy motion, that the unavoidable resistance of the fluid in which they travel never seems to impede their progress. While birds, when they undertake long flights, are often obliged to alight, and even try to rest on the yards of vessels, fishes never seem to be exhausted by fatigue, and to require respite or repose. Sharks are known to have kept pace with fast-sailing ships during whole long voyages, and to have sported around them as in mockery.

For known and for unknown purposes, in the tiny mountain brooks, and in the wide ocean, fishes are seen in unceasing motion, darting in all directions, travelling now single, and now in shoals. Their regular journeys are mostly undertaken for the purpose of spawning: the delicate mackerel moves southward when its time comes, and the beautiful sardine of the Mediterranean goes in spring westward, and returns in autumn to the east. The sturgeon of northern Europe is seen singly to ascend the great rivers of the Continent, and the ornul, or migratory salmon of the polar seas, travels, we know not how, through river and lake, up into the Baikal, and there swims in whimsical alternations, but always in immense crowds, first on the southern, and then on the northern bank. The travels of the salmon are probably best known, because the fish was a favourite already in the days of Pliny, and yet, strange enough, is found in every sea in the Arctic, near the equator, and off New Holland, only not in the Mediterranean. They press in large triangular masses up all the great northern_rivers of Europe, Asia, and America. They enter Bohemia with Shakspere by sea, sailing up the river Elbe; they approach Switzerland in the

green waters of the Rhine, and even the foot of the Cordilleras by a journey of 3000 miles up the Amazon! Their crowds are not unfrequently so dense, that they actually stem for awhile the current of mighty rivers; still these bands are formed with great regularity. The strongest and largest females lead-a fact which will rejoice the strong-minded women of our age-followed by others of the same sex, travelling two and two at regular intervals; after them come the males in like order. With a noise like the distant roaring of a storm, they rush up the stream, now sporting in casy, graceful motion, and now darting ahead with lightning speed that the eye cannot follow. Do they come to some rock or wall that impedes their way, they leap with incredible force, and repeat the effort until they have overcome the difficulty; it is even said, that, at the foot of cataracts, they will take their tail in their mouth, and then, suddenly letting it go, like an elastic spring, rise twelve or fifteen feet in the air. Thus they travel on, undismayed and untired, until they have found a suitable place for depositing their eggs, and with the same marvellous instinct return, year after year, to the distant

ocean.

It is in their connection with the wants of men, however, that these migrations of fishes become most important and interesting. It is well known that they furnish the sole food of some nations, and contribute in others a vast and cheap supply that covers the table of the poor man with plenty. Migrating fishes are thus one of the greatest and most invaluable gifts of the Creator, by which thousands support themselves and their families, and which, at certain times, form the exclusive food of whole races, as the sturgeon, upon which all Greek Christians subsist during their long and rigorous fasts. Hence, also, the importance of the herring, a small insignificant fish, which yet gives food to millions, and employment to not less than 3000 decked vessels, not to speak of all the open boats employed in the same fishery. Where there home is, man does not know; it is only certain that they are not met with beyond a certain degree of northern latitude, and that the genuine herring never enters the Mediterranean, and hence remained unknown to the ancients. In April and June, all of a sudden, innumerable masses appear in the northern |

seas, forming vast banks, often thirty miles long and ten miles wide. Their depth has never been satisfactorily ascertained, and their denseness may be judged by the fact, that lances and harpoons thrust in between them sink not, and move not, but remain standing upright! Divided into bands, herrings also move in a certain order. Long before their arrival, already their coming is noticed by the flocking of sea-birds, that watch them from on high, whilst sharks are seen to sport around them, and a thick oily or slimy substance is spread over their columns, colouring the sea in daytime, and shining with a mild, mysterious light in a dark, still night. The sea-ape, the monstrous chimera' of the learned, precedes them, and is hence, by fishermen, called the king of the herrings. Then are first seen single males, often three or four days in advance of the great army; next follow the strongest and largest, and after them enormous shoals, countless like the sand on the sea-shore and the stars in heaven. They seek places that abound in stones and marine plants, where to spawn, and like other animals, they frequent the localities to which they have become accustomed at a regular time, so that they may be expected as surely as the sun rises and sets.

Other fishes have strange peculiarities connected with their travels. Thus, we are told that the mackerels spend their winter in what would appear to others a most uncomfortable position. In the Arctic as well as in the Mediterranean, as soon as winter comes, they deliberately plunge their head and the anterior part of their body into deep mud, keeping their tails erected, standing straight up. This position they do not change until spring, when they emerge in incredible numbers from their hiding-places, and go southward, for the purpose of depositing their eggs in more genial waters. Still, they are so firmly wedded to this element, that they die the instant they are taken out of the water, and then shine with phosphorescent light.

The eel is the strangest of travelling fishes; he even performs journeys on land. In hot, dry summers, when ponds and pools are exhausted, he boldly leaves his home, and winding through thick grass, makes his way, by night, to the nearest water. He is a great gourmand, moreover, and loves young tender peas sc dearly, that he will leave the river itself,

and climb up steep banks, to satisfy his desire, and, alas! to fall into the snares of wicked men. Other fishes travel in large crowds all night long; and a perch in Tranquebar not only creeps on shore, but actually climbs up tall fan-palms, in pursuit of certain shell-fish, which form its favourite food. Covered with viscid slime, he glides smoothly over the rough bark; spines, which he may sheath and unfold at will, serve him like hands to hang by, and with the aid of side fins and a powerful tail, he pushes himself upward, thus completing the strange picture of fish and shell-fish dwelling high on lofty trees.

In remarkable contrast with this amazing mobility of fishes stands the comparative quiet of Amphibia, which, doubledealing creatures as they are, now claim the dry land as their home, and now the deep waters. The cunning lizard, the creeping snake, the venomous toad, or the voracious crocodile-in fine, all the disgusting animals of this class, whom man looks upon with awe or horror-are fortunately bound to the glebe on which they are born, and of them, as of reptiles, few, if any, love to travel. The violet crab of the West Indies and South America is almost the only one among them all that undertakes long journeys. They live on firm land only, far from the ocean, hid in dark caves or caverns of the mountains. But once in the year, in April or May, the heat of the sun penetrates the thick armour of these cold-blooded beings. All of sudden, they burst forth from cleft and crevice, and move in crowds of hundreds and thousands, so that the ground, the roads, and woods, are covered with their uncouth shapes. The vast army travels in strict battle array; first come strong males, then the females, in closely-packed columns, fifty to sixty yards wide, and often half-an-hour long. They prefer moving at night, and the loud rattling of their armour, which sounds like the falling of fierce hail, wakes old and young. During the day they rest at least twice, and hide from the hot sun; with the cool of the evening they set out once more. Instinct shows them the shortest way to the ocean; nothing arrests their march, and they never break their ranks. If rocks or walls impede their way, they scale them with untiring perseverance; if a house blocks up their road, they coolly enter at the open window, frighten for a

moment the astonished inmates, but move peaceably out at the other side, and pursue their march. If men try to arrest them, they rise with great indignation, stretch out their huge claw, and open and shut it with a loud noise. Only when they are violently frightened they show real alarm, and hurry, in wild, reckless flight, in all directions; they recover, however, very soon, form again at a short distance, and march bravely onward. The injury they do arises much less from what they eat, than from the destruction of fields and gardens, in which they trample down and break with their claws everything that is in their way. It is another strange provision of nature, that only few, the strongest, return to their mountain home; by far the larger number are so lean and weak, that they cannot perform the long journey back, and serve to feed the hungry on the sterile beach of the Antilles.

BIRDS.

As the liquid wave sustains the rapid fish, so the still lighter air bears the swift bird on broad wings. The number of birds which always remain in the same region is extremely small; by far the most avail themselves of their admirable means of locomotion to go to very great distances, in order to avoid the hardships of winter, and to exchange the snow-covered fields of the north for the sunny regions of lower latitudes. Some are perfect cosmopolites. The raven is met with not only throughout Europe, but croaks mournfully on the shores of the Black and the Caspian Seas; he wings his sombre, heavy flight to distant India, and haunts the wealthy houses of Calcutta. He forces his way with daring impudence over the guarded shores of Japan, dwells a free citizen in the United States, looks with equal gravity into Mount Etna and ice-covered Hecla, and braves the rigour of the Arctic regions as far as the Melville Island.

Generally, however, birds have a home, from which they only migrate at stated times, to find a supply of food and temperature well suited to reproduction. Their admirable powers of motion enable them to circulate, for these purposes, more widely and more freely all over the earth than any other class of animals. In this they are led by the same instincts from the Almighty, that direct alike the life-withering flight of the locust, and the

cheerful migrations of the swallow. They are never deceived in their time by any peculiarity of wind and weather; for truly the stork in the heavens knoweth her appointed time, and the turtle, and the crane, and the swallow, observe the time of their coming.' It even seems as if certain impulses were given to birds, independent of their early imitative propensities, which must proceed directly from the Almighty Power that governs the universe. How else could the instinct of migration be felt by birds kept in cages, whom neither cold nor want of food could influence. And yet birds who were raised from the egg, who never saw the flight of their brethren, never heard the voice of their companions, will, at the appointed time, become restless, show an insurmountable uneasiness, and when let loose, dart off, as if guided by the compass, to join their unknown friends on their journey. Little delicate beings, these feeble birds of passage, supported by the hand of Him before whom not one of the sparrows on the house-top is forgotten, bear up against storms of snow and rain, and make their way through such vast turbulence as would apparently embarrass and retard the most hardy and resolute of the winged nation. Yet they keep their appointed time and season, and in spite of frost and winds, return to their station on earth, to gladden and cheer the hearts of men. Besides these birds that visit the temperate zone during the more genial parts of the year, and add so greatly to the beauty and music of our groves in spring and summer, there are others, and those a numerous tribe, that wing their way to the same regions, when the reign of winter has commenced. When the Arctic seas, and lakes, and rivers, present an unbroken field of impenetrable ice, various waterfowl, swans, geese, and ducks, and an infinite number of others, seek a warmer climate to the south. In their travels, each variety of birds has not only its appointed time, but also its own peculiar way of arranging their vast armies. Some fly singly, and some in groups, others migrate in thousands. Most travel by day; a few only at night, so that they have been found dead in the lighthouses, having flown against the dazzling light. Wild geese fly in long lines, swans in the shape of a wedge, and swallows in broad ranks; starlings roll on in large crowds, constantly whirling around an axis in the centre of their body, and all

Ranged in figure, wedge their way, and set forth

Their airy caravan, high over seas
Flying, and over lands, with mutual wing
Easing their flight.'

Even feeble, ill-winged birds follow the all-powerful impulse, and traverse vast seas and continents as best they can. The Virginia patridge, when going north, is so heavy on the wing, that many fall into the rivers, and end their journey by swimming. But of all birds the quail proceeds, probably, in the most peculiar manner. When they wish to leave Europe for Africa, they wait patiently for a strong north-western wind; as soon as this sets in, they start, and flapping one wing, while they present the other to the gale, half-oar, half-sail, they graze the billows of the Mediterranean with their fat, heavy rumps, and bury themselves in the sands of Africa, that they may serve as food to the famished inhabitants of Sahara. On other journeys, when they have to pass over land, they make their way running and hopping, until they reach the shore. Tired and exhausted, the weary rest on the rigging of ships, or make regular resting-stations in the Mediterranean, on Malta, and the Lipari Islands; in the northern seas, on Heligoland and Norderney, so that the inhabitants of these places depend upon a large harvest of quails, like the Jews of old, as a condition of their existence. In Heligoland there. prevailed formerly the quaint usage, that the preacher in his pulpit, when he saw from his elevated station a flock of quails approach, immediately broke off his sermon with the words, 'Amen! my dear brethren, the quails are coming!"

Famous are also the flight of storks, who have their summer-houses high up in the north of Europe, on the roof of the poor peasants' huts, and live during winter, in stately pride, on pyramid and mosque. Cranes, likewise, and herons, travel in fall to the warmer south; when they take wing, their clang is heard from afar, and they rise so high up in the air, that the eye cannot reach them, and we only hear their rough voices, for they do not fly in silence, as most other birds, but utter constant cries, especially when travelling at night, to keep the scattering flock together.

Among the most remarkable migrations of birds are those of the North American pigeon, the very 'herrings of