When robins have been thus tamed for years the families they rear are like pet birds; they are fed by their parents close to the windows, and then come indoors, as if they knew they would be welcome everywhere.
There is one feature in the robin's character that, as far as I know, is shared by no other bird; I mean his adopting a certain spot as his district and always keeping to it, just as the stickle-backs portion out a pond and jealously defend the territory they have chosen. Here, there is a special robin to be found at each of the lodges; one haunts the Mission Hall and will often sing vigorously from the reading-stand while classes are going on. A very tame one lives in the coachman's house, running about the floor like a little brown mouse, and sitting inside the fender on cold days to warm himself. He must have met with trouble in his early youth, for when first seen he was very lame, and had lost the sight of one eye. Through kind care he has become well and strong, but he is much at the mercy of his enemies, who often attack him on his blind side. The conservatory, dining-room, and drawing-rooms have each their little redbreast visitor; the latter is so tame he will take meal-worms from my hand, and sits on my inkstand singing a sweet, low song whilst I write. As long as each bird keeps to his domain there is peace, but woe to any intruder! The conflicts are desperate, and I have often to mediate, and separate two little furies rolling over and over on the ground. I suppose it is in this way that the idea has arisen about the young robins killing the old ones; I cannot ascertain that it has any foundation—in fact, every robin fights his neighbour all the year through, except when paired and busy with domestic duties. As dead redbreasts are not found specially in autumn, I do not think there can be any truth in the superstition.
FEEDING BIRDS IN SUMMER AND WINTER.
On wintry mornings, when leaf and twig are decked with hoar-frost and the ground is hard and dry, affording no food for the birds, it is a piteous sight to see them cowering under the evergreens with ruffled feathers, evidently starving and miserable, quietly waiting for the death that must overtake many of them unless we come to their rescue.
It is one of my delights to feed the small "feathered fowls" through all the winter months, and I only wish all my readers could enjoy with me the lovely scenes of happy bird life to be witnessed through the French window opposite my writing-table. These gatherings of birds are the result of many years of persistent kindness and thought for the welfare of my bird pets. Their tameness cannot be attained all at once; it takes time to establish confidence; it needs thought about the kinds of food required by various species of birds, regularity in feeding, and quiet gentleness of manner to avoid frightening any new and timid visitors. Doubtless there are very many lovers of birds who share this pleasure with me, but for those who may not happen to know how to attract the feathered tribes I will go a little into detail.
This being a large garden near game preserves, and surrounded by a wide, furze-covered common, I have been able to attract and tame the ordinary wild pheasants by putting out Indian corn, buckwheat, and raisins, till now they come to the doorstep and look up with their brilliant, red-ringed eyes, and feed calmly whilst I watch them. It is a really beautiful sight to see three or four cock birds, with their golden-bronze plumage glistening like polished metal as the morning sun rests upon them, and as many of their more sober-coloured mates feasting on the dainties they find prepared for them; as a rule, they are very amicable and feed together like barndoor fowls. When satisfied, the brown hens run swiftly away to cover, while the cocks, with greater confidence, walk quietly away in stately fashion, or remain under the trees.
Wood-pigeons are usually very shy and wary birds, yet these also come, six and eight at a time, and feed at my window, Indian corn and peas being their specialities. I have large quantities of beech-nuts and acorns collected every autumn, and thus I can scatter this food also for pigeons and squirrels all through the winter. Jays, jackdaws, rooks, and magpies also approve of acorns and beech-nuts, so it is doing a real kindness to tribes of birds to reserve this food for them until their other stores are exhausted, and we can thus bring them within our view and study their interesting ways, their modes of feeding, and, I fear I must add, their squabbles also, for hungry birds are very pugnacious.
Blackbirds and thrushes are very fond of Sultana raisins; they also like split groats and brown bread crumbs, as also do starlings and, I believe, most of the smaller birds. Fat in any shape or form will attract the various species of titmice to the window. I always keep a small Normandy basket full of suet and ham-fat hanging on a nail at the window. It is a great rendezvous for these charming little pets, and it is also supplied with Barcelona nuts for nuthatches, who fully appreciate them and carry them off to the nearest tree with rugged bark into which they fix the nuts, and then hammer at the shell till they can extract the contents.
In very hard frosts I used always to put out a pan of water, as I feared the birds suffered from thirst and needed this help. One day, however, I was comforted to see some starlings, after a good meal of groats, run off to the grass plot and eagerly peck at the hoar-frost, which, while it exists, thus supplies the lack of water.
Bewick says linnets are so named from their fondness for linseed, and I think most of the finches like it. The greenfinch is soon attracted by hemp seed, and all the smaller birds by canary seed. I hope this paper may induce many kind hands to minister to the needs of our feathered friends during the winter months. It is sad to think of their dying for lack of the food we can so easily afford them, and they will be sure to repay us by their sweet songs and confiding tameness when summer days return.
One is apt to think that winter is the only time when birds need our help and bounty, but there is almost as much real distress after a long drought in summer, especially amongst the insect-eating birds.
I was led to think of this by the pathetic way in which a hen blackbird came to the French window of my room early in June last and stood patiently waiting and clicking time after time in trouble of some kind I knew, and, supposing it might be food, I threw out a plentiful supply of soaked brown bread. At once the poor bird went to it, devouring ravenously for her own needs, and then, filling her beak as full as it would hold, she flew off with a supply for her young brood. Then came thrushes, robins, sparrows, a whole bevy of feathered folk all doing the same thing—carrying the provisions in every direction for unseen families at starvation point, and I began to realize that the month of continued sunshine in which we had rejoiced had brought great distress upon the birds by drying up the lawns so that no worms could be found, and, as it was early in the year, but few insects were to be had, so that just when each pair of birds had a clamorous brood to provide for the food supply had fallen short. Now I understood the pathos of the hen blackbird's appeal; her dark eyes and note of distress were trying to say to me, "I know you care for us; you seemed so kind last winter; when we were without food you fed us and saved our lives; but now I am in far deeper distress—my children are crying for food, the grass is dried up, and the ground so hard that I cannot find a single worm, I am thin and worn with hunger myself; do help me and my little ones, and we will sing you sweet songs in return to cheer you when wintry days come back again. Does she understand? I've said all this several times before, but I thought I would make one last appeal before my children die. Yes; she has left the room! I will wait. Ah! here it is, just the soft food that will suit my little ones: how they will rejoice and all want to be fed at once. I hope my friend can understand that I am thanking her with all my heart." Love has a universal language and can interpret through varied signs, and thus I quite believe the mother bird's heart wished to express itself.
Ever since that day I have been careful in nesting time to supply suitable and varied food for the families of young birds in times of drought, for it seems mournful to think of their dying from want, in the season of flowers and green leaves, when nature is to us so attractive, and rendered all the more so by their sweet songs.
This familiar name recalls the delightful story of "Rab and his Friends" in "Horae Subsicivae," with its naive description of a very original "tyke" of a doggie—a biography which had so lived in my recollection that when a queer little fluffy dumpling of a puppy was given me I could not help giving it the old familiar name, little knowing how aptly true the name would prove to be in after years.
Is there anything more comical than a young Scotch terrier puppy, with its preternatural gravity, its queer, ungainly attempts at play, its tumbles, and blue-eyed simplicity, and, best of all, its sage look, with head on one side, trying to consider the merits of some doggie idea which is puzzling his infant brain? Rab went through all the stages of puppyhood, showing the usual amount of mischief and fun; he might be met carrying about some unfortunate slipper frayed to pieces by his busy teeth, or burying a favourite bone under a wool mat in the drawing-room, or, worse still, it is recorded in domestic chronicles that he buried a hymn-book in the garden, whereupon the cook remarked that she believed he had more religion in him than half the Christians; but that reasoning was not apparent to any one but herself.
Rab's most notable adventures took place after he had emerged from puppyhood. He had a most indomitable spirit of disobedience; he would hunt rabbits or anything else he could find in the woods, and one day he reached home with a snare tightly drawn round his neck, and panting distressingly for breath; the wire was cut only just in time to save his life.
Another time he was poisoned by something he had eaten, and had a long suffering illness.
His fights with other dogs were fierce and frequent, and whilst engaged in a scrimmage with a hated rival, Rab was run over by a passing cart, and limped home in a very dejected state; no bones were broken, but he was an invalid for some months in consequence.
At last it was thought needful to tie him up, and he had his appointed house and a long chain, and with frequent exercise he became quite content. One morning our brave little friend was found nearly dead, with two terrible wounds in his neck, which must have been made by a sharp knife, driven twice through his throat, but, strangely enough, had each time just missed severing the wind-pipe. He had nearly died from loss of blood, and was scarcely able to breathe; still, our kind servants did not give him up; warm milk and beef tea were given him constantly through the day; and by night he had revived a little, and was evidently going to live. We could never trace the origin of this outrage, and could only suppose that burglars had purposed breaking into our house, and, enraged at Rab's barking, had at last got hold of, and, as they thought, killed him, and flung the body into an adjoining field. Poor little doggie! he suffered grievously for his brave defence, and for months the wounds were a great distress to him and to us; but all that loving care could do was done, and once more his wonderful constitution enabled him to regain health and strength. We kept at that time several very large mastiffs, and the next adventure occurred early one morning, when we were aroused by a terrific noise in the stable-yard, and the message brought to us was to the effect that Rab was quite dead. He had been worried by one of the mastiffs which had got loose in the night. I rose quickly and went to see the poor little victim's body, and looking at it, I saw a little quiver in the eyelid that led to a gleam of hope. I had him carried indoors, and again teaspoons of milk, &c., were given, and actually he began to revive, and a feeble wag of his tail, seemed to say, "I'm very bad, but not dead yet." The sad part was that the shaking and worrying he had received had reopened the previous wounds, and though after a time he was able to get about, he was quite a wreck; one ear was gone, and the other, strange to say, was but a fragment, like his namesake in "Rab and his Friends." Still, he lived to be nearly fifteen, and then rheumatism and loss of teeth made his life a distress to him, and he was peacefully dismissed to the rest he had bravely earned by his life of courageous devotion to what he thought the path of duty.
A VISIT TO JAMRACH.
There is an old and true saying—"Everything comes to him who waits." I thought of this saying while on my way to visit the well-known place near the London Docks where Mr. Jamrach is supposed to keep almost every rare animal, bird, and reptile, ready to supply the wants of all customers at a moment's notice. For many long years I had wished to pay him a visit, but ill-health and other causes had proved a hindrance and I could hardly believe my wish was going to be realized when I found myself on the way to his menagerie. After driving through a labyrinth of narrow, dirty streets, we were at last obliged to get out and walk till we came to the shop, and then we did indeed find ourselves in the midst of "animated nature." We had landed amongst the cockatoos, macaws, and parrots, and they greeted our arrival with such a chorus of shrieks, screams, and hideous cries that my first desire was to rush away anywhere out of the reach of such ear-piercing sounds. One had to bear it, however, if the curious creatures in the various cages were to be examined, and after a time the uproar grew less, and I could hear a word or two from Mr. Jamrach, who called my attention to some armadillos, huge armour-plated animals, very curious, but somehow not attractive as pets; one could not fondle a thing composed of metal plates, shaped like a pig, with a tendency to roll itself up into a ball on the slightest provocation, and even Mr. Jamrach's argument that if I got tired of it as a pet I could have it cooked, as they were excellent eating, failed to lead me to a purchase. There was a fine, healthy toucan, with his marvellous bill, looking sadly out of place in a small cage in such a dingy place. Did he ever think of his tropical forest home, I wondered, and wish himself in happier surroundings? A long wooden box with wire front contained rows and rows of Grass Parrakeets: many hundreds must have been on those perches, one behind the other, poor little patient birdies, sitting in solemn silence, never moving an inch, for they were wedged in as closely as they could sit and how they could eat and live seemed a mystery. As I was in quest of some small rodents I was asked to follow Mr. Jamrach to another place where the animals were kept. We came to a back yard with dens and cages containing all kinds of tenants, from fierce hyenas and wolves to tame deer, monkeys, cats, and dogs. A chorus of yelps and barks and growls sounded a little uninviting, and a caution from Jamrach, to mind the camel did not seize my young friend's hat, made us aware of a stately form gazing down upon us from a recess we had not before noticed. Every nook and corner seemed occupied, and in order to see a kangaroo rat I was invited up a rickety ladder into a loft where a Japanese cat, a large monkey, and sundry other creatures lived. I did not take to the kangaroo rat, he was too large and formidable to be pleasant, and was by no means tame, but to be pulled out of the cage by his long tail was, I confess, enough to scare the mildest quadruped. At length I was shown some Peruvian guinea-pigs. Wonderful little creatures! With hair three or four inches long, white, yellow and black, set on anyhow, sticking out in odd tufts, one side of their heads white and the other black, their eyes just like boot buttons, they were captivating; and a pair had to be chosen forthwith, and packed in a basket with a tortoise and a huge Egyptian lizard, and with these spoils I was not sorry to leave this place of varied noises and smells. The lizard was about fourteen inches long, a really grand creature. He came from the ruins of ancient Egypt, and looked in his calm stateliness as though he might have gazed upon the Pharaohs themselves. When placed in the sun for a time he would sometimes deign to move a few inches, his massive, grey, scaly body looking very like a young crocodile. I was greatly teased about my fondness for "Rameses," as I called this new and majestic pet; there was a great fascination about him, and as I really wished to know more of his ways and habits, I carried the basket in which he lived everywhere with me indoors and out, and studied all possible ways of feeding him; but alas! nothing would induce him to eat. After gazing for five minutes at the most tempting mealworm, he would at last raise up his mighty head and appear to be revolving great ideas to which mealworms and all sublunary things must give place. Jamrach told me that the lizard would drink milk, so a saucerful was placed before him, and once he did drink a few drops, but generally he walked into and over the saucer as if it did not exist.
I believe the poor creature had been without food so long that it had lost the power of taking nourishment, and to my great regret I found it grew weaker and thinner, and at last it died, and all I could do was to send the remains to a naturalist to be preserved somewhat after the fashion of its great namesake.
The odd little guinea-pigs were named Fluff and Jamrach, and were a source of much amusement. As they could not agree, and as the fights grew serious, Jamrach was banished to the stable and Fluff occupied a cage in the dining-room. When let out it was curious to see how he would always keep close to the sides of the room—never would he venture into the middle, the protection of the skirting board seemed indispensable, and when let out under the tulip-tree he ran round the trunk in the same way, only occasionally making an excursion to the edge of the branches which rested on the ground, the space beyond was a terra incognita which could not be explored by the timid little beastie.
There the two little guinea-pigs enjoyed a happy life on fine days and grew to be friends at last, grunting little confidences one to the other and going to sleep side by side. They had to be watched and their liberty a good deal curtailed when we found a weasel began to appear upon the scene, and as it is proverbially difficult to catch a weasel either awake or asleep, he has not at present been captured. I much fear if he ever attacked the little Peruvians they would stand a poor chance of their lives, for they have no idea of self-defence and would fall an easy prey to such a fierce, relentless persecutor. Perhaps the gardener may devise some way of trapping the wary little creature, so that my little friends may dwell in peace under the shady tree.
As the winter came on the cold prevented Fluff going out-of-doors, and he led a most inactive life. I don't think he ever had more than two ideas in his little brain—he just lived to eat and sleep, and was about as interesting as a stuffed animal would have been. He is the only instance of any animal I have ever known who seemed to be literally without a single habit, apparently without affection, without a temper good or bad, with no wishes or desires except to be let alone to doze away his aimless life.
HOW TO OBSERVE NATURE
There is all the difference between taking a walk simply for exercise, for some special errand, or to enjoy conversation with one's friends, and the sort of quiet observant stroll I am going to ask my kind readers to take with me to-day.
This beautiful world is full of wonders of every kind, full of evidences of the Great Creator's wisdom and skill in adapting each created thing to its special purpose. The whole realm of nature is meant, I believe, to speak to us, to teach us lessons in parables—to lead our hearts upward to God who made us and fitted us also for our special place in creation.
In the nineteenth Psalm David speaks of the two great books God has given us for our instruction. In the first six verses he speaks of the teachings of the book of nature and the rest of the Psalm deals with the written Word of God.
We acknowledge and read the Scriptures as the book which reveals the will of God and His wondrous works for the welfare of mankind, but how many fail to give any time or thought to reading the book of nature! Thousands may travel and admire beautiful scenery, and derive a certain amount of pleasure from nature, just glancing at each object, but really observing nothing, and thus failing to learn any of the lessons this world's beauty is intended to teach, they might almost as well have stayed at home save for the benefit of fresh air and change of scene. The habit of minute and careful observation is seldom taught in childhood, and is not very likely to be gained in later life when the mind is filled with other things. Yet if natural objects are presented attractively to the young, how quickly they are interested! Question after question is asked, and unconsciously a vast amount of information may be conveyed to an intelligent child's mind by a simple, happy little chat about some bird or insect. This is admirably shown in a chapter on Education in the Life of Mrs. Sewell. I would strongly urge every mother to read and follow the advice there given.
We will now start for our garden walk. We have not taken many steps before we are led to pause and inquire why there should be little patches of grey-looking mud in the small angles of the brickwork of the house. Opening one of the patches with a penknife we find a hollow cell, and in it some green caterpillars just alive but not able to crawl. Now I see that the cell is the work of one of the solitary mason wasps; she brings the material, forms the cell, and when nearly finished lays her egg at the bottom and provides these half-killed caterpillars as food for the young grub when it is hatched, and by the time they are eaten the grub becomes a pupa and then hatches into a young wasp to begin life on its own account. One day I saw a bee go into a hole in the brickwork of the house, and getting my net I waited to capture it; after about five minutes the bee came out and flew into the net. It proved to be a solitary mason bee, and was doubtless forming a place to lay its egg, only, unlike the wasp, she would give the young grub pollen from the stamens of flowers to feed upon instead of green caterpillars. I remember seeing a mass of clay which had been formed into a wasp's nest by one of the solitary species, under the flap of a pembroke table in an unused room. A maid in dusting lifted up the flap, and down fell a quantity of fine, dry mud with young grubs in it which would soon have hatched into wasps, and revealed their rather strange nesting-place. I have in my collection a very interesting hornet's nest, which was being constructed in the hollow of an old tree. I happened to notice a hornet fly into the opening, and, looking in, there was a small beginning of a nest. It hung from a kind of stalk and consisted of only eight cells, each having an egg at the bottom. I captured the two hornets, and though I watched for a long time no others ever came, so I imagine they were the founders of what would have been a colony in due time.
But we have been kept a long time engaged with these mason wasps. Let us start for our walk. As we take our way through the garden we cannot help noticing the happy songs of the different birds, all in full activity preparing their nests, carolling to their mates or seeking food for the little ones. There is a loud tapping noise as we pass an old fir-tree, but no bird is to be seen, so we go round to the other side and trace the noise to a small hole near which a quantity of congealed turpentine shows that the bark has been pierced by a woodpecker and the sap is oozing out. I rap outside the hole and in a minute the grey head of a nuthatch appears. He is evidently chiselling out a "highly desirable residence" for his summer quarters in this cosy nook, and the hole being so small he will not need to get clay to reduce the size of the opening and plaster in his mate, which is said to be the curious habit of this bird. Do you see that hole about forty feet up the stem of the beech opposite? A nuthatch built there six years ago; I often watched him going in and out, and heard his peculiar cry as he brought food for his mate and her young ones. Next year that lodging was taken by a starling, who reared a brood there. The year after the nuthatch had it, and then a jackdaw built there; and each year I always feel interested to see who the lodgers are going to be.
When I was rearing the wild ducks already described, a weasel used often to be prowling near the coop, and when frightened retreated in this direction. It happened one day I was walking softly on the grass and saw the weasel playing and frisking at the root of that young tree; one seldom has such an opportunity of seeing it, for it is very shy and has wonderfully quick hearing. It was seeking about in the grass, leaping here and there, snuffing the wind, with its snake-like, wicked-looking head raised to see over the grass stems, and thus at last it caught sight of me, and in a second it darted into the hole you see there, and I thus learnt where he lived, but I have not been able to trace his history any further at present.
Did you see that snake? We have many of them on the common, and they often cross my path in the garden. Happily there are not many of the venomous kind: they are smaller than this one, and have a V-shaped mark on the head. One day in August I was sitting by the open French window in the drawing-room when one of these harmless snakes came close to me, looked up at me, putting its quivering little tongue in and out. I suppose it decided that I could be trusted, for it glided in and coiled itself round upon my dress skirt and seemed to go to sleep. I let it stay a good while, but fearing some one might be frightened at seeing it there, I reached my parasol and with the hooked handle softly took up the snake and laid it on the grass-plat outside thinking it would go away—but no, it only turned round and came back and coiled itself up in the same place. I found it did not mind being touched, so I stroked it and made it creep all its length through my hand—not a very pleasant sensation, but a curious experience rarely to be met with. When the cold, clammy creature had passed out of my hand it threw out a most disgusting odour, of which I had often read. I imagine it was offended at my touching it and did this in self-defence. I had at last to carry it a long distance to ensure it should not return to the room again.
Some years ago I was witness to the mode in which a snake pursues its victim. A large frog leaped upon the gravel walk before the windows, crying piteously like a child and taking rapid leaps; a moment after a large snake appeared swiftly pursuing the frog. At last it reached it, and gave it a bite which broke its back, and then, being alarmed, it darted away amongst some rock-work, leaving the frog in a dying state.
This bank we are passing is a favourite winter retreat for female humble bees. Early in the autumn they begin to scoop out a little tunnel in this grassy slope, and when it is deep enough to protect them from the frost they retire into it, and pushing up the earth behind them close up the entrance of the hole, and there lie dormant until the warmth of spring tempts them to come out. Then they may be found in great numbers on the early sallow, and other tree-blossoms, recruiting their strength, while they seek a place in some hedge-bank wherein to found a new colony.
The Carder bee forms its nest on the ground and makes a roof of interwoven moss, from which it takes its name. I once gathered the moss from such a nest by chance and saw the little mass of cells with honey in them. I went away, meaning to examine it more closely on my return, but a crow in the apple-tree overhead chanced to spy the nest and made off with it in his beak before I could rescue the honey store of the poor little bees I had so unwittingly injured.
That old tree-stump is being gradually carried away by wasps. The wood is just sufficiently decayed to afford the material of which they make their nests. You see there are several wasps busily rasping pieces of the rotten wood into convenient-sized morsels, which they can carry to the nest, there to be masticated into the papery layers of which the outer walls of the nest are formed. This walk used to have a row of grand old silver firs of great height, but each winter some of them have been blown down till only a few are left.
Some years since I noticed at the root of one of them a pile of fine sawdust more than a foot high, and found that some wood wasps were busily engaged in excavating the interior of the tree and forming tunnels in which to lay their eggs. I watched them for half an hour and found that every half-minute a wasp went in at the aperture carrying a blue-bottle or some kind of fly in its mandibles. Next day I took a friend to see the wasps, and while watching them the wind caused the immense tree-stem to sway to and fro from its base as if in the act of falling, and on examination we found it was only held in its place by a small portion of root, and though the branches were green, it must have been hollow and dead inside, which appears to be the way in which silver firs decay, and the wasps had found it out and made a delightful home in the rotten wood. With some difficulty the great tree was safely taken down, and then it was a most curious sight to see the endless chambers and galleries made in the stem, all tenanted by young wasp-grubs and half-dead flies; and all the summer they were being hatched in countless numbers. The view over our common is lovely from this point; it is golden with rich yellow gorse, giving cover to innumerable rabbits, which find their way into our garden in spite of wire fences and all that the gardener can do to keep them out. One clever little mother rabbit made her burrow deep down in a heap of sawdust close to the stable. My coachman put his arm down to the bottom of the hole and brought out a little grey furred creature, kicking and screaming with wonderful vigour in spite of its tender years. The nest was allowed to remain, and in a few days the mother removed her brood to a hole at the root of a bushy stone-pine, where the little ones frisked in and out and looked so pretty that I was won over to allow them to stay, and, by netting round the tree, we formed a miniature warren for the young family; but I fear that in course of time we may bitterly repent this step, and the numbers may increase to such an extent that pinks and lobelia may become things of the past and the rabbit warren may have to be abolished.
A fox is sometimes seen and hunted in these parts. One surprised me by leaping upon the window-sill and looking into the drawing-room. At first I could not think what it was. It had been dug out of its hole; its fur was muddy and torn, its eyes piteous in their expression, and when it ran slowly on I saw it was very lame. I ran to the window to let it in, but though it leaped up to each window in succession, they all happened to be shut, and I was quite grieved to think the poor, weary creature could find no shelter. I am no admirer of field-sports. I think they give rise to the utmost cruelty to the creatures hunted and shot, to the horses and dogs employed; and to witness torture inflicted on unoffending animals cannot but have a debasing effect on the human mind. When once any one has seen the anguish of a deer, a fox, or hare, at the end of the race, there can be no question about the cruelty of the proceeding, and to one who loves every created thing as I do, it gives the keenest pain to know how much suffering of this kind goes on during the hunting season.
[Footnote 3: I cannot resist quoting and strongly endorsing the following lament by Mr. H. Stacy Marks, R.A., as to the way in which birds are too frequently treated by the public at large: "Many people regarding birds in but three aspects—as things to be either eaten, shot, or worn.... No natural history of a bird is complete without recording where the last specimen was shot; and should a rare bird visit our shores, the hospitality which we accord to the foreign refugee is denied, and it is bound to be the victim of powder and shot. The fashion of wearing birds or their plumage as part of ladies' attire, threatens to exterminate many beautiful species, such as the humming-birds of South America, the glossy starlings of Africa, and the glorious Impeyan pheasant of the Himalayas, with many other species."]
There goes a cuckoo, with quite a flight of small birds pursuing him wherever he goes.
Small birds seem to have an intense hatred of jays and cuckoos, and will often fly at them in the nesting season, giving them no peace till they drive them out of the garden, knowing full well that their own broods are often devoured by the jay, and that the cuckoo has designs upon the nests.
Although we are some distance from home, I can show you one of my own bees on this furze blossom. I have a hive of Swiss, or Ligurian bees, which are said to be in some respects superior to the English species. The honey is of excellent flavour, and the first year I had far more honey from the Ligurian hive. I do not think any other hives of Ligurians are kept within five miles, and, as you see, they have a band of bright yellow on the abdomen. I can always tell my own bees when I meet with them in my walks on the common or in the lanes. I had a rather trying adventure with these bees last May. One Sunday evening we were just starting for church, about half-past six, when my little niece ran in exclaiming that there was a great bunch of bees hanging on a branch near the hives. I knew what had happened—my very irreverent bees had swarmed on this quiet Sunday evening, and they must be hived if possible.
My bonnet was soon off and the bee-dress put on, and in five minutes the bees were secured and settled into a hive. We went to church and were not even late, but—during the first prayer I heard ominous sounds of a furious bee under my dress; it was, fortunately, a partly transparent material, and glancing furtively about I saw my little friend under the skirt going up and down with an angry biz-z-z. Only the pocket-hole could release him, so I held that safely in my hand all through the service, lest the congregation might suffer the wrath of a furious bee, which in truth is no light matter, for in blind fury it will rush at the first person it meets and leave its sting in the face or hand. Happily I succeeded in bringing the bee home again, and resolved to avoid hiving swarms before church-time in future.
You see under the drooping boughs of the fir-tree yonder an old stone basin, well known to all the birds in the neighbourhood, for there they always find a supply of fresh water and food of various kinds to suit all tastes. As it is opposite the dining-room window, it is very interesting to see a tame jay and sundry squirrels enjoying the acorns which were collected for them last autumn and stored up so as to keep the basin well supplied all through the winter and spring, until other food should be plentiful. Finches, robins, and sparrows find wheat and crumbs to their taste, and take their daily bath not without some squabbling as to who shall have it first—a difficulty which is sometimes settled by a portly blackbird appearing on the scene and scattering the smaller folk, whilst he takes his early tubbing and sends up showers of spray in the process. Very pretty are the scenes on that same stone basin when in early summer a mother bird brings her little tribe of downy, chirping babes, and feeds each little gaping mouth with some suitable morsels from the store she finds there.
A sheaf of corn in winter is also a great boon to the starved-out birdies, when snow has long deprived them of their natural food, and the water supply has to be often renewed on freezing days, for many a bird dies in winter from lack of water, all its usual supplies being frozen. The tameness of birds in severe weather is a touching sign of their distress, and a mute appeal to us to help them.
"The fowls of heaven Tam'd by the cruel season, crowd around The winnowing store, and claim the little boon Which Providence assigns them."
It is pleasant to think that they seldom appeal in vain. "Crumbs for the birds" are scattered by kindly little hands everywhere in winter, and in many a house a pet sonsie little robin is a cherished visitor, always welcome to his small share of the good things of this life.
Our ramble might be indefinitely prolonged and still be full of interest and instruction, but in these simple remarks enough has been shown, I trust, to lead many to think and observe closely every, even the minutest, thing that catches their attention whilst out for a ramble in lanes and fields, even a microscopic moss upon an old wall has been suggestive of many lovely thoughts, with which I will conclude our ramble and this chapter.
"It was not all a tale of eld, That fairies, who their revels held By moonlight, in the greenwood shade Their beakers of the moss-cups made. The wondrous light which science burns Reveals those lovely jewelled urns! Fair lace-work spreads from roughest stems And shows each tuft a mine of gems. Voices from the silent sod, Speaking of the Perfect God.
Fringeless, or fringed, and fringed again, No single leaflet formed in vain; What wealth of heavenly wisdom lies Within one moss-cup's mysteries! And few may know what silvery net, Down in its mimic depths is set To catch the rarest dews that fall Upon the dry and barren wall. Voices from the silent sod, Speaking of the Perfect God."
L. N. R.
BOOKS FOR RECREATION AND STUDY
PUBLISHED BY T. FISHER UNWIN, 11, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, LONDON, E.C. ....
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EFFIE HETHERINGTON. By ROBERT BUCHANAN. Second Edition.
AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS. By JOSEPH CONRAD. Second Edition.
ALMAYER'S FOLLY. By JOSEPH CONRAD. Second Edition.
THE EBBING OF THE TIDE. By LOUIS BECKE. Second Edition.
A FIRST FLEET FAMILY. By LOUIS BECKE and WALTER JEFFERY.
PADDY'S WOMAN, and Other Stories. By HUMPHREY JAMES.
CLARA HOPGOOD. By MARK RUTHERFORD. Second Edition.
THE TALES OF JOHN OLIVER HOBBES. Portrait of the Author. Second Edition.
THE STICKIT MINISTER By S. R. CROCKETT. Eleventh Edition.
THE LILAC SUNBONNET By S. R. CROCKETT. Sixth Edition.
THE RAIDERS. By S. R. CROCKETT. Eighth Edition.
THE GREY MAN. By S. R. CROCKETT.
IN A MAN'S MIND. By J. R. WATSON.
A DAUGHTER OF THE FEN. By J. T. BEALBY. Second Edition.
THE HERB-MOON. By JOHN OLIVER HOBBES. Third Edition.
NANCY NOON. By BENJAMIN SWIFT. Second Edition. With New Preface.
MR. MAGNUS. By F. REGINALD STATHAM. Second Edition.
TROOPER PETER HALKET OF MASHONALAND. By OLIVE SCHREINER. Frontispiece.
PACIFIC TALES. By LOUIS BECKE. With Frontispiece Portrait of the Author. Second Edition.
MRS. KEITH'S CRIME. By Mrs. W. K. CLIFFORD. Sixth Edition. With Portrait of Mrs. Keith by the Hon. JOHN COLLIER, and a New Preface by the Author.
HUGH WYNNE. By Dr. S. WEIR MITCHELL. With Frontispiece Illustration.
THE TORMENTOR. By BENJAMIN SWIFT, Author of "Nancy Noon."
PRISONERS OF CONSCIENCE. By AMELIA E. BARR, Author of "Jan Vedder's Wife." With 12 Illustrations.
THE GODS, SOME MORTALS AND LORD WICKENHAM. New Edition. By JOHN OLIVER HOBBES.
THE OUTLAWS OF THE MARCHES. By Lord ERNEST HAMILTON. Fully illustrated.
THE SCHOOL FOR SAINTS: Part of the History of the Right Honourable Robert Orange, M.P. By JOHN OLIVER HOBBES, Author of "Sinner's Comedy," "Some Emotions and a Moral," "The Herb Moon," &c.
THE PEOPLE OF CLOPTON. By GEORGE BARTRAM.
EFFIE HETHERINGTON BY ROBERT BUCHANAN
Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
"Mr. Robert Buchanan has written several novels ... but among those which we know, there is not one so nearly redeemed by its ability and interest.... The girl is simply odious; but Mr. Buchanan is a poet—it would seem sometimes malgre lui, in this instance it is quand meme—and he dowers the worthless Effie with a rugged, half-misanthropic, steadfast lover, whose love, never rewarded, is proved by as great a sacrifice as fact or fiction has ever known, and who is almost as striking a figure as Heathcliff in 'Wuthering Heights.'"—World.
WORKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD
AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS
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"Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (vide first part of notice), 'An Outcast of the Islands' is perhaps the finest piece of fiction that has been published this year, as 'Almayer's Folly' was one of the finest that was published in 1895.... Surely this is real romance—the romance that is real. Space forbids anything but the merest recapitulation of the other living realities of Mr. Conrad's invention—of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer, the one-eyed Babalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla—all novel, all authentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad's quality. He imagines his scenes and their sequence like a master; he knows his individualities and their hearts; he has a new and wonderful field in this East Indian Novel of his.... Greatness is deliberately written; the present writer has read and re-read his two books, and after putting this review aside for some days to consider the discretion of it, the word still stands."—Saturday Review.
Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
"THIS STARTLING, UNIQUE, SPLENDID BOOK." MR. T. P. O'CONNOR, M.P.
"This is a decidedly powerful story of an uncommon type, and breaks fresh ground in fiction.... All the leading characters in the book—Almayer, his wife, his daughter, and Dain, the daughter's native lover—are well drawn, and the parting between father and daughter has a pathetic naturalness about it, unspoiled by straining after effect. There are, too, some admirably graphic passages in the book. The approach of a monsoon is most effectively described.... The name of Mr. Joseph Conrad is new to us, but it appears to us as if he might become the Kipling of the Malay Archipelago."—Spectator.
THE EBBING OF THE TIDE BY LOUIS BECKE Author of "By Reef and Palm"
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"Mr. Louis Becke wields a powerful pen, with the additional advantage that he waves it in unfrequented places, and summons up with it the elemental passions of human nature.... It will be seen that Mr. Becke is somewhat of the fleshly school, but with a pathos and power not given to the ordinary professors of that school.... Altogether for those who like stirring stories cast in strange scenes, this is a book to be read."—National Observer.
PACIFIC TALES BY LOUIS BECKE With a Portrait of the Author
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"The appearance of a new book by Mr. Becke has become an event of note—and very justly. No living author, if we except Mr. Kipling, has so amazing a command of that unhackneyed vitality of phrase that most people call by the name of realism. Whether it is scenery or character or incident that he wishes to depict, the touch is ever so dramatic and vivid that the reader is conscious of a picture and impression that has no parallel save in the records of actual sight and memory."—Westminster Gazette.
"Another series of sketches of island life in the South Seas, not inferior to those contained in 'By Reef and Palm.'"—Speaker.
"The book is well worth reading. The author knows what he is talking about and has a keen eye for the picturesque."—G. B. BURGIN in To-day.
"A notable contribution to the romance of the South Seas."
T. P. O'CONNOR, M.P., in The Graphic.
PADDY'S WOMAN BY HUMPHREY JAMES
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"... They are full of indescribable charm and pathos."—Bradford Observer.
"The outstanding merit of this series of stories is that they are absolutely true to life ... the photographic accuracy and minuteness displayed are really marvellous."
Aberdeen Free Press.
"'Paddy's Woman and Other Stories' by Humphrey James; a volume written in the familiar diction of the Ulster people themselves, with PERFECT REALISM AND VERY REMARKABLE ABILITY.... FOR GENUINE HUMAN NATURE AND HUMAN RELATIONS, AND HUMOUR OF AN INDESCRIBABLE KIND, WE ARE UNABLE TO CITE A RIVAL TO THIS VOLUME."
"For a fine subtle piece of humour we are inclined to think that 'A GLASS OF WHISKY' takes a lot of beating.... In short Mr. Humphrey James has given us a delightful book, and one which does as much credit to his heart as to his head. We shall look forward with a keen anticipation to the next 'writings' by this shrewd, 'cliver,' and compassionate young author."—Bookselling.
CLARA HOPGOOD BY MARK RUTHERFORD EDITED BY REUBEN SHAPCOTT
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"The writer who goes by the name of Mark Rutherford is not the most popular novelist of his time by any means. There are writers with names which that recluse genius has never heard of, probably, whose stories give palpitations to thousands of gentle souls, while his own are quietly read by no more than as many hundreds. Yet his publisher never announces a new story by the Author of 'Mark Rutherford's Autobiography,' and 'The Revolution in Tanner's Lane,'—which we believe to be one of the most remarkable bits of writing that these times can boast of—without strongly exciting the interest of many who know books as precious stones are known in Hatton Garden.... 'Clara Hopgood' is entirely out of the way of all existing schools of novel-writing.... Had we to select a good illustration of 'Mark's way' as distinguished from the way of modern storytellers in general, we should point to the chapter in which Baruch visits his son Benjamin in this narration. Nothing could be more simple, nothing more perfect."—Pall Mall Gazette.
A FIRST FLEET FAMILY BEING A HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED NARRATIVE OF CERTAIN REMARKABLE ADVENTURES COMPILED FROM THE PAPERS OF SERGEANT WILLIAM DEW, OF THE MARINES
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"A very interesting tale, written in clear and vigorous English."—Globe.
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THE TALES OF JOHN OLIVER HOBBES
With a Frontispiece Portrait of the Author
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"The cleverness of them all is extraordinary."—Guardian.
"The volume proves how little and how great a thing it is to write a 'Pseudonym.' Four whole 'Pseudonyms' ... are easily contained within its not extravagant limits, and these four little books have given John Oliver Hobbes a recognized position as a master of epigram and narrative comedy."—St. James's Gazette.
"As her star has been sudden in its rise so may it stay long with us! Some day she may give us something better than these tingling, pulsing, mocking, epigrammatic morsels."—Times.
"There are several literary ladies, of recent origin, who have tried to come up to the society ideal; but John Oliver Hobbes is by far the best writer of them all, by far the most capable artist in fiction.... She is clever enough for anything."—Saturday Review.
* * * * *
THE HERB MOON BY JOHN OLIVER HOBBES
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"The jaded reader who needs sauce for his literary appetite cannot do better than buy 'The Herb Moon.'"—Literary World.
"A book to hail with more than common pleasure. The epigrammatic quality, the power of rapid analysis and brilliant presentation are there, and added to these a less definable quality, only to be described as charm.... 'The Herb Moon' is as clever as most of its predecessors, and far less artificial."—Athenaeum.
THE STICKIT MINISTER AND SOME COMMON MEN BY S. R. CROCKETT
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"Here is one of the books which are at present coming singly and at long intervals, like early swallows, to herald, it is to be hoped, a larger flight. When the larger flight appears, the winter of our discontent will have passed, and we shall be able to boast that the short story can make a home east as well as west of the Atlantic. There is plenty of human nature—of the Scottish variety, which is a very good variety—in 'The Stickit Minister' and its companion stories; plenty of humour, too, of that dry, pawky kind which is a monopoly of 'Caledonia, stern and wild'; and, most plentiful of all, a quiet perception and reticent rendering of that underlying pathos of life which is to be discovered, not in Scotland alone, but everywhere that a man is found who can see with the heart and the imagination as well as the brain. Mr. Crockett has given us a book that is not merely good, it is what his countrymen would call 'by-ordinar' good,' which, being interpreted into a tongue understanded of the southern herd, means that it is excellent, with a somewhat exceptional kind of excellence."—Daily Chronicle.
* * * * *
THE LILAC SUN-BONNET BY S. R. CROCKETT
Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
"Mr. Crockett's 'Lilac Sun-Bonnet' 'needs no bush.' Here is a pretty love tale, and the landscape and rural descriptions carry the exile back into the Kingdom of Galloway. Here, indeed, is the scent of bog-myrtle and peat. After inquiries among the fair, I learn that of all romances, they best love, not 'sociology,' not 'theology,' still less, open manslaughter, for a motive, but, just love's young dream, chapter after chapter. From Mr. Crockett they get what they want, 'hot with,' as Thackeray admits that he liked it."
Mr. ANDREW LANG in Longman's Magazine.
THE RAIDERS BY S. R. CROCKETT
Eighth Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
"A thoroughly enjoyable novel, full of fresh, original, and accurate pictures of life long gone by."—Daily News.
"A strikingly realistic romance."—Morning Post.
"A stirring story.... Mr. Crockett's style is charming. My Baronite never knew how musical and picturesque is Scottish-English till he read this book."—Punch.
"The youngsters have their Stevenson, their Barrie, and now a third writer has entered the circle, S. R. Crockett, with a lively and jolly book of adventures, which the paterfamilias pretends to buy for his eldest son, but reads greedily himself and won't let go till he has turned over the last page.... Out of such historical elements and numberless local traditions the author has put together an exciting tale of adventures on land and sea." Frankfurter Zeitung.
* * * * *
SOME SCOTCH NOTICES.
"Galloway folk should be proud to rank 'The Raiders' among the classics of the district."—Scotsman.
"Mr. Crockett's 'The Raiders' is one of the great literary successes of the season."—Dundee Advertiser.
"Mr. Crockett has achieved the distinction of having produced the book of the season."—Dumfries and Galloway Standard.
"The story told in it is, as a story, nearly perfect." Aberdeen Daily Free Press.
"'The Raiders' is one of the most brilliant efforts of recent fiction."—Kirkcudbrightshire Advertiser.
THE GREY MAN BY S. R. CROCKETT
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"All of that vast and increasing host of readers who prefer the novel of action to any other form of fiction should, nay, indeed, must, make a point of reading this exceedingly fine example of its class."—Daily Chronicle.
"With such passages as these [referring to quotations], glowing with tender passion, or murky with horror, even the most insatiate lover of romance may feel that Mr. Crockett has given him good measure, well pressed down and running over."—Daily Telegraph.
A DAUGHTER OF THE FEN BY S. R. CROCKETT
Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
"It will deserve notice at the hands of such as are interested in the ways and manner of living of a curious race that has ceased to be." Daily Chronicle.
"For a first book 'A Daughter of the Fen' is full of promise."—Academy.
"This book deserves to be read for its extremely interesting account of life in the Fens and for its splendid character study of Mme. Dykereave." Star.
"Deserves high praise."—Scotsman.
"It is an able, interesting ... an exciting book, and is well worth reading. And when once taken up it will be difficult to lay it down." Westminster Gazette.
* * * * *
IN A MAN'S MIND BY JOHN REAY WATSON
Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
"We regard the book as well worth the effort of reading."—British Review.
"The book is clever, very clever."—Dundee Advertiser.
"The power and pathos of the book are undeniable."—Liverpool Post.
"It is a book of some promise."—Newsagent.
"Mr. Watson has hardly a rival among Australian writers, past or present. There is real power in the book—power of insight, power of reflection, power of analysis, power of presentation.... 'Tis a very well made book—not a set of independent episodes strung on the thread of a name or two, but closely interwoven to the climax." Sydney Bulletin.
"There is behind it all a power of drawing human nature that in time arrests the attention."—Athenaeum.
NANCY NOON BY BENJAMIN SWIFT
Second Edition. Cloth, 6s.
Some Reviews on the First Edition.
"'Nancy Noon' is perhaps the strongest book of the year, certainly by far the strongest book which has been published by any new writer.... Mr. Swift contrives to keep his book from end to end real, passionate, even intense.
... If Mr. Meredith had never written, one would have predicted, with the utmost confidence, a great future for Mr. Benjamin Swift, and even as it is I have hopes."—Sketch.
"Certainly a promising first effort."—Whitehall Review.
"If 'Nancy Noon' be Mr. Swift's first book, it is a success of an uncommon kind."—Dundee Advertiser.
"'Nancy Noon' is one of the most remarkable novels of the year, and the author, avowedly a beginner, has succeeded in gaining a high position in the ranks of contemporary writers.... All his characters are delightful. In the heat of sensational incidents or droll scenes we stumble on observations that set us reflecting, and but for an occasional roughness of style—elliptical, Carlyle mannerisms—the whole is admirably written."—Westminster Gazette.
"Mr. Swift has the creative touch and a spark of genius."—Manchester Guardian.
"Mr. Swift has held us interested from the first to the last page of his novel."—World.
"The writer of 'Nancy Noon' has succeeded in presenting a powerfully written and thoroughly interesting story."—Scotsman.
"We are bound to admit that the story interested us all through, that it absorbed us towards the end, and that not until the last page had been read did we find it possible to lay the book down."—Daily Chronicle.
"It is a very strong book, very vividly coloured, very fascinating in its style, very compelling in its claim on the attention, and not at all likely to be soon forgotten."—British Weekly.
"A clever book.... The situations and ensuing complications are dramatic, and are handled with originality and daring throughout."—Daily News.
"Mr. Benjamin Swift has written a vastly entertaining book."—Academy.
MR. MAGNUS BY F. REGINALD STATHAM
Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
Some Press Opinions on the First Edition.
"One of the most powerful and vividly written novels of the day."—Nottingham Guardian.
"A grim, terrible, and convincing picture."—New Age.
"Very impressive."—Saturday Review.
"A remarkable book." Standard.
"Full of incident."—Liverpool Mercury.
"One of the most important and timely books ever written." Newcastle Daily Mercury.
"A vivid and stirring narrative."—Globe.
"An exceedingly clever and remarkable production."—World.
"A book to be read."—Newsagent.
"A terrible picture."—Sheffield Independent.
"One of the best stories lately published."—Echo.
"Worth reading."—Guardian. "A sprightly book."—Punch.
"The story is very much brought up to date."—Times.
"Vivid and convincing."—Daily Chronicle.
"The story is good and well told."—Pall Mall Gazette.
"Ought to be immensely popular."—Reynolds' Weekly Newspaper.
"A most readable story."—Glasgow Herald.
"A brilliant piece of work."—Daily Telegraph.
"The story should make its mark."—Bookseller.
"Admirably written."—Sheffield Daily Telegraph.
"The more widely it is read the better."—Manchester Guardian.
"Will find many appreciative readers."—Aberdeen Free Press.
"Exciting reading."—Daily Mail.
"Can be heartily recommended."—Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper.
"A well-written and capable story."—People.
"Well written."—Literary World.
TROOPER PETER HALKET OF MASHONALAND BY OLIVE SCHREINER Author of "Dreams," "Real Life and Dream Life," &c.
Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
"We advise our readers to purchase and read Olive Schreiner's new book 'Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland.' Miss Schreiner is one of the few magicians of modern English literature, and she has used the great moral, as well as the great literary, force of her style to great effect."—Daily Chronicle.
"The story is one that is certain to be widely read, and it is well that it should be so, especially at this moment; it grips the heart and haunts the imagination. To have written such a book is to render a supreme service, for it is as well to know what the rough work means of subjugating inferior races."—Daily News.
"Some of the imaginative passages are very fine.... The book is powerfully written."—Scotsman.
"Is well and impressively written."—Pall Mall Gazette.
MRS. KEITH'S CRIME BY MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD
With a Portrait of Mrs. Keith by the Hon. John Collier.
Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
"Is certainly the strongest book that Mrs. W. K. Clifford has given to the public. It is probably too the most popular."—World.
"It is charmingly told."—Literary World.
"A novel of extraordinary dramatic force, and it will doubtless be widely read in its present very cheap and attractive form."—Star.
"Mrs. Clifford's remarkable tale."—Athenaeum.
"Will prove a healthy tonic to readers who have recently been taking a course of shilling shocker mental medicine.... There are many beautiful womanly touches throughout the pages of this interesting volume, and it can be safely recommended to readers old and young."—Aberdeen Free Press.
SOME 3/6 NOVELS
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARK RUTHERFORD. Fifth Edition. MARK RUTHERFORD'S DELIVERANCE. New Edition. MIRIAM'S SCHOOLING, and other Papers. By MARK RUTHERFORD. With Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE. Second Edition. THE REVOLUTION IN TANNER'S LANE CATHARINE FURZE: A Novel. By MARK RUTHERFORD. Fourth Edition. CLARA HOPGOOD. By MARK RUTHERFORD.
"These writings are certainly not to be lightly dismissed, bearing as they do the impress of a mind which, although limited in range and sympathies, is decidedly original."—Times.
THE STATEMENT OF STELLA MABERLY. By F. ANSTEY, Author of "Vice Versa." Crown 8vo, cloth.
"It is certainly a strange and striking story."—Athenaeum.
GINETTE'S HAPPINESS. Being a translation by RALPH DERECHEF of "Le Bonheur de Ginette." Crown 8vo, cloth.
"Pretty and gracefully told."—Pall Mall Gazette.
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"Mr. Frazer writes powerfully and well, and seems to have an intimate acquaintance with the sun-steeped land, and the strange beings who people it."—Glasgow Herald.
PAUL HEINSIUS. By CORA LYSTER. Crown 8vo., cloth.
"This is an extremely clever and altogether admirable, but not altogether unkind anatomisation of Teutonic character."—Daily Chronicle.
MY BAGDAD. By ELLIOTT DICKSON. Illustrated. 8vo., cloth.
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SILK OF THE KINE. By L. MCMANUS (C. MacGuire), Author of "Amabel: A Military Romance." Crown 8vo., cloth.
"We have read 'The Silk of the Kine,' from the first page to the last, without missing a single word, and we sighed regretfully when Mr. McManus brought the adventures of Margery Ny Guire and Piers Ottley to a close."—Literary World.
A POT OF HONEY. By SUSAN CHRISTIAN. Crown 8vo., cloth.
"The book is the outcome of a clever mind."—Athenaeum.
LIZA OF LAMBETH. By W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM. Crown 8vo., cloth.
"An interesting story of life and character in the Surrey-side slums, presented with a great deal of sympathetic humour."—Daily Chronicle.
THE TWILIGHT REEF, and other Stories. By HERBERT C. MCILWAIN. Crown 8vo., cloth.
THE HALF-CROWN SERIES
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Each Demy 12mo., cloth.
1. A GENDER IN SATAN. By RITA. 2. THE MAKING OF MARY. By JEAN M. MCILWRAITH. 3. DIANA'S HUNTING. By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 4. SIR QUIXOTE OF THE MOORS. By JOHN BUCHAN. 5. DREAMS. By OLIVE SCHREINER. 6. THE HONOUR OF THE FLAG. By CLARK RUSSELL. 7. LE SELVE. By OUIDA. 2nd Edition. 8. AN ALTRUIST. By OUIDA. 2nd Edition.
THE CAMEO SERIES
* * * * *
Demy 12mo., half-bound, paper boards, price 3s. 6d.
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1. THE LADY FROM THE SEA. By HENRIK IBSEN. Translated by ELEANOR MARX AVELING. Second Edition. Portrait.
4. IPHIGENIA IN DELPHI, with some Translations from the Greek. By RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D. Frontispiece.
5. MIREIO: A Provencal Poem. By FREDERIC MISTRAL. Translated by H. W. PRESTON. Frontispiece by JOSEPH PENNELL.
6. LYRICS. Selected from the Works of A. MARY F. ROBINSON (Mme. JAMES DARMESTETER). Frontispiece.
7. A MINOR POET. By AMY LEVY. With Portrait. Second Edition.
8. CONCERNING CATS: A Book of Verses by many Authors. Edited by GRAHAM R. THOMPSON. Illustrated.
9. A CHAPLET FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. By RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D.
11. THE LOVE SONGS OF ROBERT BURNS. Selected and Edited, with Introduction, by Sir GEORGE DOUGLAS, Bart. With Front. Portrait.
12. LOVE SONGS OF IRELAND. Collected and Edited by KATHERINE TYNAN.
13. RETROSPECT, and other Poems. By A. MARY F. ROBINSON (Mme. DARMESTETER), Author of "An Italian Garden," &c.
14. BRAND: A Dramatic Poem. By HENRIK IBSEN. Translated by F. EDMUND GARRETT.
15. THE SON OF DON JUAN. By DON JOSE ECHEGARAY. Translated into English, with biographical introduction, by JAMES GRAHAM. With Etched Portrait of the Author by DON B. MAURA.
16. MARIANA. By DON JOSE ECHEGARAY. Translated into English by JAMES GRAHAM. With a Photogravure of a recent Portrait of the Author.
17. FLAMMA VESTALIS, and other Poems. By EUGENE MASON. Frontispiece after Sir EDWARD BURNE-JONES.
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17, 19, and 20. THE BEST PLAYS OF BEN JONSON, Vol. I. edited, with Introduction and Notes, by BRINSLEY NICHOLSON and C. H. HEREFORD.
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21. THE BEST PLAYS OF GEORGE CHAPMAN. Edited by WILLIAM LYON PHELPS, Instructor of English Literature at Yale College.
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4. THE STORY OF A PUPPET. By C. CULLODI. Translated from the Italian by M. A. MURRAY. Illustrated by G. MAZZANTI.
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THE STORY OF THE NATIONS
A SERIES OF POPULAR HISTORIES.
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Transcriber's notes: Obvious spelling/typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. The text is a compilation of previously published articles. Inconsistent spelling and inline hyphenation occurs across chapters and is retained. "meal-worm[s]" occurs four times, "mealworm[s]" thirteen times "re-appeared" occurs once and reappeared" occurs three times Page 3: The signature date 1800 is clear error, 1898 is likely correct. Page 28, 29: "I used still to to", extra "to" removed. Page 158: Small ligature oe transcribed as oe in "Scaraboeus". Last Pub. Page: Last entry "The Franks" unnumbered, retained.