way. "The wasp is as large as a hornet, and has a most was pish appearance. I was rather startled when one out of the flock which was hovering about us flew straight at my face: it bad espied a motúca on my neck, and was thus pouncing on it. It seizes the fly, not with its mandibles, but with its fore and middle feet, and carries it off, held tightly to its breast." Having thus secured its prey, the wasp flies right back to its sand-bank, and makes, without hesitation, straight to the closed mouth of its

mine.

The American insects, though many of them much resembling those of Europe, are rarely, if ever, identical with them. "It is curious that the bees have none of them attained that high degree of architectural skill in the construction of their comb than is shown by the European hive-bee," says Mr. Bates. He speaks as if our bees had obtained their skill by degrees, and as man does-by practice; but I think we have a right to assume that the bees of both continents alike follow the laws of their nature, and have from their creation differed in their modes of building as they now do. The wax cells of the Meliponæ, a Brazilian bee, are generally oblong, with only a slight tendency to the hexagonal form which is always so beautifully perfected in the cells of our own bees.

66

Mr. Bates gives an extended account of the cities of the white ants, in which I will not follow him; but his account of the "fire-ant" makes one rejoice in the comforts of our own land, where if the insects are not so beautiful as in Brazil, they are at any rate less alarming. Wherever the landing-place was sandy (this is on the Tapagio river, a tributary to the Amazon) it was impossible to walk abroad on account of the swarms of the terrible fire-ant, whose sting is likened by the Brazilians to the puncture of a red-hot needle. There was scarcely a square inch of ground free from them." Aveynos, he says, is the head-quarters of this fearful pest, the fire-ant-Formiga de fuga, as they call it. This place was deserted on account of it, a few years before our author's visit, and the inhabitants bad but lately returned to the village, thinking its numbers had decreased. He describes it as small, of a shining reddish colour, differing but little from our own country Myrmica rubra, except in the intensity of suffering caused by its sting. The whole of the village is undermined by it, the ground perforated by the entrances to their subterranean galleries, and a little sandy dome appears here and there, where the insects bring their young to receive warmth near the surface. The houses are overrun with them; they dispute every fragment of food with the inhabitants, and destroy clothing for the sake of the starch. All eatables are obliged to be suspended in baskets from the rafters, and the cords well soaked with Copaiba balsam, which is the only known means to prevent them from climbing. They seem to attack persons out of sheer malice: if we stood for a few moments in the street, even at a distance from their nests, we were sure to be overrun,

and severely punished; for the moment an ant touched the flesh, he secured himself with his jaws, doubled in his tail, and stung with all his might. When we were seated on chairs, in the evenings, in front of the house, to enjoy a chat with our neighbours, we had stools to support our feet, the legs of which, as well as those of the chairs, were well anointed with the balsam. The cords of the hammocks are obliged to be smeared in the same way, to prevent the ants from paying sleepers a visit." The people say that the pest was unknown on the Tapajos before the disturbance of 1835-6, and believe that they sprang from the blood of the slaughtered Cabanos.

But there is a means by which the hosts are lessened. At the end of the rainy season they become winged, and leave the nest, and large swarms of them are caught by the winds, and destroyed. Mr. Bates describes the quantity of this species that he saw drowned on his voyage up the river, where "the dead, or half-dead bodies were heaped up in a line, an inch or two in height and breadth, the line continuing without interruption for miles at the edge of the water." Another terror that he describes is a large brown fly, with a proboscis half an inch long, and sharper than the finest needle, which settled on the backs of him and his companions by twos and threes at a time, and perched through their thick cotton shirts, making them start and cry out with the sudden pain.

I am sorry that space forbids my reciting much more that is of deep interest in these volumes, especially my saying more of the lovely and various birds that frequent the forest. I will therefore only venture on the account of Mr. Bates's pet toucan, and then conclude. "One day, whilst walking along the principal pathway in the wood near Ega, I saw one of these toucans seated gravely on a low branch close to the road, and had no difficulty in seizing it with my hand. It turned out to be a runaway pet bird; no one, however, came to own it, though I kept it in my house several months. The bird was in a half-starved and sickly condition, but after a few days of good living it recovered health and spirits, and became one of the most amusing pets imaginable. I allowed Tocano to go free about the house, contrary to my usual practice with pet animals. He never, however, mounted my working table after a smart correction which he received the first time he did so. He used to sleep on the top of a box in a corner of the room, in the usual position of these birds, namely, with the long tail laid right over on the back, and the beak thrust underneath the wing. He ate of everything, even ate beef, turtle, fish, farina, fruit, and was a constant attendant at our table-a cloth spread on a mat. His appetite was most ravenous, and his powers of digestion quite wonderful. He got to know the meal-hours to a nicety, and we found it very difficult after the first week or two to keep him away from the dining-room, where he had become very impudent and troublesome. We tried to shut him out by enclosing him in the back

CHAP. I.

UNCLE CHARLIE'S RIDDLE.

I love the country; not in the spring-time only, and the summer, but all the year round. People talk of the sombre air of autumn, and the sad thoughts it brings; when the fallen leaves strew the ground, and the trees, gloriously beautiful in their decay, stand ready to rain down more leafy showers of many hues. And they tell you of the dreary winter, when the russet of the dried leaves and grass mingles with the snow, and the bare trees stand like spectres.

But there is more of sadness, and quite as much to suggest, melancholy thought in the long rows of houses in a city-street. You have a sort of companionship with the trees, and feel at home with them; and the quiet life of the farm-yard seems to offer you the freedom of the place. But the stately city-walls, the endless rows of bricks, the closed or closely draped windows, the doors, inviting, yet repelling entrance, create a feeling of solitude among living thousands, deeper than one knows in the free air of the country-side. With every man you meet, whether you know him or not, you have, in the green lanes, a nod, or passing word. Even the kine, and the sober country horses, as they graze, look up at you with a silent "God speed!" But, in the crowded town, each man is too earnest in the battle of life, each woman too busy with her own thoughts, to give a stranger even a look, to say nothing of a gesture which might indicate a wish for any acquaintance, or the betrayal of the slightest interest in you. There is no loneliness like the solitude of a stranger among the busy thousands in the crowded town.

So felt Charles Merrill-Uncle Charlie-as he threaded his way through the city on New Year's day, many years ago, to pay his invariable visit at his brother's house. Uncle Charlie loves the country as dearly as I do. He was, at the time of which I write, a country gentleman, well to do, with all the refinement

of education, and the true polish of Christian courtesy. You would know him anywhere for a man who could be trusted. In a crowd he was the man whom you would single out, if you wished to ask a question. And still he was just the person whom an impostor would avoid. Nobody tried him with tales of feigned distress. Nobody offered him gilt watches as gold, with which the owner was compelled to part. No "confidence-man" approached him, for there was something in his clear grey eye which told you that he could see through the arch device, conceal it never so wisely. The honest applicant, in real need, never failed to address him, and was seldom disappointed: for Uncle Charlie had that species of freemasonry which honesty establishes among honest people.

So it was no wonder that a little girl, scantily clad, but very neat, timidly approached him, and touched his arm. She had been repulsed many times on that New Year's morning; sometimes by those who rudely scolded or curtly answered her, sometimes by others who tendered her small money to escape her importunity. She held a handful of small coin, as if she really did not know what to do with it, how she came by it, or why people gave it to her. Uncle Charlie looked intently at her face, and then at her blue arms, and fingers which trembled with the cold, as in one hand she held her noney, and with the other drew her thin shawl about her.

66

Why, child," he said, with a smile the least shade satirical, " you should hide that money in your pocket, before you ask for more. There is more in your hand already than two or three pennies to buy a loaf of bread.' Poor child !" he added, in a kinder tone, "perhaps, as you have little use for a pocket, you indulge in no unnecessary luxuries."

"I did not ask you for money," said the girl. "And I did not ask those who gave me this. My mother did not send me out to beg, and we have a loaf of bread for to-day, and one for to morrow."

"Well, then, what is it ?"

"I wish somebody in all this great city to go and see my mother, for she told me to-day that she had not a friend in the world!"

"And you could not find a friend in all this great city, and so have taken me who come here a stranger. Why, little one, you don't think to take me in-me, a right sharp man, just from the Jerseys."

"Oh, sir, don't tease me, please. Don't joke with me, for I am quite ready to cry. I know you are a kind-hearted man, whatever you may pretend.”

Uncle Charlie's first thought was to shake her off. He read the newspapers, and knew all about the tricks which are played in the cities upon innocent travellers. The little girl still stood shivering by his side. She waited his decision without saying another word; but her eager eyes furtively scanned the passing crowd, as if looking for some one else whom she might accost. Uncle Charlie put his hand in his pocket

"Now don't do that, for I will not take your

money.

"Well, you are a strange"-beggar, he was going to say, but he thought better of it. “Go on, and I will follow."

And so they went, Uncle Charlie all the while thinking that he would not figure in the "local columns" of the newspapers, even if he lost his watch and pocket-book. He would suffer and be silent, and no alderman's office should hear the story of his wrongs. But his lecent opinion of himself assured him that nobody could impose upon him! No, indeed! The child, as she hurried along, looked less and less like a little rogue. Uncle Charlie began to think that she was pretty, and as he scanned her appearance he noticed that her garments, though scanty, were the well-saved witnesses of better days. She turned down a court, and Uncle Charlie, following, soon found himself suddenly ushered into a room where he was little expected. The single inmate was as much surprised as he.

"Mother," said the child, “you said you had not a friend in the world. I have brought you one." And the curious child looked round complacently, as if she really thought she had done a clever thing.

The mother's face expressed bewildered astonishment. But in a moment, though unused to mirth, an involuntary smile succeeded. "I could be angry with you," she said, "you strangest of all children. But I know you think you have done right. And I must tell you, sir, that whatever my little girl has said to you was of her own motion, and not of mine. I sent her of an errand, hours ago, and had begun to be frightened at her absence. What is that you have in your hand, Edith?"

"I did not ask for it," said Edith, as she put the money on the table. "They would give it to me, and there it is. I said I was no beggar." The mother sank in a chair, overcome with mortification, and hid her face in her hands. The discomfited child leaned against the wall,

and steadily looked at the floor. Uncle Charlie helped himself, uninvited, to a seat, and feeling that his watch and purse were still safe, determined to see the adventure out. "Pretty clever acting, if it is acting," he thought. He took in the whole situation with his keen eyes, and failed to find anything suspicious. The apartment bespoke need, not absolute poverty. All he saw only exhibited that unhappily common case, the falling into necessity, of those who have known better days. And Uncle Charlie could sympathise with that; for there were those near and dear to him who had met the like misfortune.

"If I can be of any service to you," he began. But he did not finish, for the mother's eyes were fixed on him, and only respect for his evident good intentions prevented the flash of defiant anger from them. They were splendid eyes, as Uncle Charlie had said many a time since, and is ready to say still.

"This is very awkward," she said, at length. "I could cry, but it is better to laugh. You must be aware that I cannot, under such peculiar circumstances, make a confidant of a stranger. And I can mean no disrespect to one whom I never saw before, if I say that I cannot become indebted to you, sir, for anything. I hope I am still entitled to think myself a lady."

"Every inch a lady," thought Uncle Charlie. "And I must therefore thank you for the kindness you intended".

"Poor and proud," thought Uncle Charlie. "And bid you good-morning."

"Done like a queen," thought Uncle Charlie, as he rose, and found his watch and money still safe. "I have two requests to make of you," he said, "since you will receive nothing of me."

"I am ready to hear," she said. That much, she thought, is due to your good intentions, if you had them, and you really do not look like a bad man.

Uncle Charlie looked like anything else. He said: "One is that you shall not reprimand or punish my little enigma for bringing me here."

"Granted."

"The other that you will allow me to call again." The lady shook her head.

"I am very

"With my sister, this afternoon." The lady considered a moment. much embarrassed," she said, "at this remarkable interview. But you may call; it will not do to suspect everybody, though heaven knows I have reason enough." A shade of deep sadness came over her face.

"You are certainly very handsome," thought Uncle Charlie, as he took his leave, "and more interesting. It is quite a New Year's adventure." He did not feel for his watch and purse till he was clear of the court. Still finding the integrity of his pockets preserved, he walked briskly away, full of curiosity and determined to satisfy it, if possible.

It is an agreeable amusement, as you walk along the streets, to speculate upon the in

habitants of houses, and to people them with folks of your own fancying; to imagine who ought to live in this house, and who in that, to preserve the unities. Uncle Charlie would no doubt have indulged in such day-dreams, if his head had not been full of the wonderful place he had just left-wonderful, for its very simplicity, as a fairy bower; with its remarkable child, and the quiet, lady-like, self-possessed mother. The tenement had to a Philadelphian nothing noticeable about it. It was one of those small houses peculiar to the Quaker City, with the street-door opening directly into the best room, with a very narrow front and not much depth. But it was one house, a whole house, though small for one family; such a tenement as a widow could have all to herself at small cost, or a clerk or other man of modest means might occupy, and not be forced into a mixed residence with other people.

And the furniture had evidently been removed here from a place more commodious. The piano took up more than its fair share of one side of the room; and other articles said, as plainly as they could speak, that they were never purchased for their present quarters. These things were not the puzzle of the place to Uncle Charlie. What did that child mean by taking him home with her? And what did the mother mean by saying that she had no friends? If she had only entertained him with a plausible story, he would have understood at once that the whole thing was palpably a trap.

While Uncle Charlie walks and wonders, we will slip on before him to the house where he would have been long before, if the little enigma had not beguiled him out of his way.

Here too were the evidences that the inmates had seen more cheerful days. But none of the thousands who passed the modest mansion, scrupulously neat, could have guessed that anything but prosperity was within. The wellwashed marble steps were kept so by a compromise with a single woman of all work. That functionary took a turn at street-sweeping, window-washing, and passenger-gazing, while her mistress supplied, for a time, her place within doors. And thus the house was managed, as many such are, in the "Quaker City.”

It is a paradise for people of limited income, and for the poor and respectable, where by decent fictions in housekeeping, and laudable hypocrisy, good appearance may still be made; the honest self-respect may be preserved, after the wealth which once made all things easy has slipped away.

In that house, a cheerful voice had broken everybody's slumbers betimes, with "Happy New Year! Happy New Year!" Of course it

was a child's voice. Children are the last to learn that it is proper and sensible to mar our present by regrets over the past. And it was a boy's voice; for little girls, like our strange friend Edith, will sometimes acquire a precocious and unchild-like knowledge of the world's cares and perplexities. Girls are more discerning in many things-more wise, more prudent, than boys. They are admitted behind the scenes in the little drama of domestic acting, in which the family "weep as though they wept not." Boys know less than girls. And so men than women, I think. But then I am a woman.

All

Uncle Charlie called this little boy his mother's "sunshine." And so he was. children, in some degree, deserve the name, but it was little George's pre-eminently. God, in his wisdom, has made these little ones angels in the house. They will see only the bright side. Little sorrows afflict them, but their tears pass over like April showers, and they will not be defrauded of the happiness that is left, and are willing to be pleased still, after all reverses and disappointments.

If little George was "sunshine" to his uncle, Uncle Charlie was the whole solar system to his nephew. The boy lived in his uncle's light. His mother was dear to him, very dear. But then mother was with him always, and Uncle Charlie came in like the wonder in a fairy story, just when he was most wanted and most welcome. Mother was sad, and often perplexed, and though always kind, sometimes slow to answer the thousand questions of childhood, But Uncle Charlie was always light and cheery. He never looked perplexed, for nothing could puzzle him. Oh no! And as to questions, he always answered them, even the most difficult, though candour compels the confession that his replies would not always bear verification under oath or affirmation.

Mother, George was compelled to believe, was somewhat helpless, like himself; but Uncle Charlie could do everything. George had only to hint his wishes, and if his uncle could not quite accomplish them, he could suggest something else which he maintained, and the child believed, was a deal better. George longed, Oh how much, for a live pony. Uncle Charlie bought him a rocking horse, which would neither kick nor run away. Besides, it would eat nothing, and George was easily convinced that the wooden pony's moderate appetite was a great recommendation. He could make-believe feed it, you know; and a horse that only makesbelieve eat, is a very profitable animal.

"Will Uncle Charlie come to-day?" The mother sighed, as she said, "I hope so, Georgie."

"O, mother, I know he will, for he always came on New Year's Day, when father was at home."

Mrs. Merrill could no longer stay her tears. It was a sad New Year's day to her; for she had no assurance-scarce a hope-that the husband and father, who a year ago was the light of the household, was longer among the