The last instance that I shall cite is a predaceous spider which is disguised from both its enemies and its prey by an elaborate combination of form, color, position, and character of web. I refer to Ornithoscatoïdes decipiens (Fig. 5), first described by Forbes and afterwards by Cambridge, the latter author giving in the same paper descriptions of three other species of the same genus, whose habits have not been noted, but whose protection is evidently of the same order as that of decipiens. I give Forbes’s interesting account of his capture of decipiens, quoting also the remarks by which Cambridge prefaces his description, since his explanation of the gradual development, through Natural Selection, of the spider’s deceptive appearance applies as well to all the cases of protective disguise which have been here enumerated.

The capture is described as follows:—

“On June 25th, 1881, in the forest near the village of Lampar, on the banks of the Moesi river in Sumatra, while my ‘boys’ were procuring for me some botanical specimens from a high tree, I was rather dreamily looking on the shrubs before me, when I became conscious of my eyes resting on a bird-excreta-marked leaf. How strange, I thought, it is that I have never got another specimen of that curious spider I found in Java which simulated a patch just like this! I plucked the leaf by the petiole while so cogitating, and looked at it half listlessly for some moments, mentally remarking how closely that other spider had copied nature, when, to my delighted surprise, I discovered that I had actually secured a second specimen, but the imitation was so exquisite that I really did not perceive how matters stood for some moments. The spider never moved while I was plucking or twirling the leaf, and it was only when I placed the tip of my little finger on it, that I observed that it was a spider, when it, without any displacement of itself, flashed its falces into my flesh.

“The first specimen I got was in W. Java, while hunting one day for Lepidoptera. I observed a specimen of one of the Hesperidæ sitting, as is often a custom of theirs, on the excreta of a bird on a leaf; I crept near it, intending to examine what they find in what one is inclined to consider incongruous food for a butterfly. I approached nearer and nearer, and at last caught it between my fingers, when I found that it had as I thought become glued by its feet to the mass; but on pulling gently the spider, to my amazement, disclosed itself by letting go its hold: only then did I discover that I was not looking on a veritable bird’s excreta.... The spider is in general color white, spotted here and there with black; on the underside its rather irregularly shaped and prominent abdomen is almost all white, of a pure chalk white; the angles of the legs are, however, shining jet-black. The spider does not make an ordinary web, but only the thinnest film on the surface of the leaf. The appearance of the excreta rather recently left by a bird on a leaf is well known. There is a pure white deposit in the centre, thinning out round the margin, while in the central mass are dark portions variously disposed; as the leaf is rarely horizontal, the more liquid portions run for some distance. Now, this spider one might almost imagine to have in its rambles ‘marked and inwardly discerned’ what it had observed, and to have set about practising the ‘wrinkles’ gained; for it first weaves a small, irregular patch of white web on some prominent leaf, then a narrow streak laid down towards its sloping margin ending in a small knob; it then takes its place on the centre of the irregular spot on its back, crosses its black-angled legs over its thorax, and waits. Its pure white abdomen represents the central mass of the bird’s excreta, the black legs the dark portions of the slime, while the web above described which it has spun represents the more watery marginal part (become dry), even to the run-off portion with the thickened knob (which was not accidental, as it occurred in both cases), like the residue which semi-fluid substances ending in a drop leave on evaporation. It keeps itself in position on its back by thrusting under the web below it the spines with which the anterior upper surfaces of the legs are furnished.” ...

Protective Habits.—Going along with these forms of protective resemblance, we find certain habits which sometimes serve independently to protect the spider, but oftener are supplemental to color and form. Many species hide in crevices or in leaves which they roll up and bind together at the edges. In the Epeiridæ some are like thaddeus, which makes a little tent of silk under a leaf near its web. The young thaddeus also makes a tent, but spins its little geometrical web on the under side of the leaf, the edges being bent downward. E. insularis has the more common habit of forming its tent by drawing the edges of two or three leaves together with strands of web; in this it sits all day, but at night descends and occupies the centre of the web during the hours of darkness. I have often found it in this position when hunting nocturnal species by lantern light. It is probable that in tropical countries the monkeys, and perhaps the birds, which devour these large Epeiridæ have learned to recognize their webs, which are very large and conspicuous, and to trace them to their hiding places close by; and thus may have arisen the curious habit noticed by Vinson as possessed by E. nocturna and E. Isabella of destroying the web each morning and rebuilding it at night; the spider in this way gaining greater security from diurnal enemies.

Atypus abbotii builds a purse-shaped tube which is found attached to the bark of trees, and which has the external surface dark and covered with sand. The trap-doors which close the nest of some of the Territelariæ are wonderful examples of protective industry. They fit with such absolute accuracy into the openings of the nests and are so covered on the upper side with moss, earth, lichens, etc., as to be indistinguishable from the surrounding surface.

The rectilinear lines which are stretched in front of the webs of many Epeirids are useful in taking and sending on to the spider the shock which tells of an approaching enemy. Some spiders, when danger threatens, shake the web so violently as to grow indistinct to the eye, and others, as Pholcus atlanticus, hang by the legs and whirl the body rapidly with the same bewildering result....

A habit common to many spiders, especially among the Epeiridæ, is that of dropping to the ground at the approach of danger and resting motionless among the dirt, sticks, leaves, etc., which they resemble in color. The holding of the body in some peculiar position, as in Uloborus, Hyptioides, and the flower-like Thomisidæ, is a necessary accompaniment to the color modification.

The cocoons of spiders are seldom left exposed and unprotected. We find them in corners and crevices, concealed in rolled up leaves or under bark. Very often the cocoon itself is covered over with a sheet of web. In some families the mother carries it about with her attached to the underside of the abdomen. In other she carries it in her falces until the young are hatched. The cocoons of others, as Uloborus, Argyrodes, etc., while hung out in the web are still concealed by deceptive form and color, or by being covered with rubbish.

Cambridge speaks of A. brunnea, whose cocoons “are covered over very soon after they are made and the eggs deposited in them, with a coating of clay, which effectually destroys all their form and beauty. This coating of clay answers probably two ends: first, the concealment of the cocoon and its protection from insect enemies; and, secondly, the protection of the eggs from the too powerful rays of the sun, dry clay being (as is well known) one of the best non-conductors of heat.”

The peculiar cocoon of C. bisaccata is described by Emerton as follows: “Only one specimen of this (bisaccata) was found on a beech tree at New Haven with two cocoons. These were dark brown, as dark as the bark of the tree and as hard. Around the middle of each was a circle of irregular points. One of the cocoons was attached by a strong stem to the bark, and the other was attached in a similar way to the first cocoon. The spider held on to one of the cocoons.” In this instance the egg has evidently the same protection as that possessed by the gray, bark-haunting spiders, with the added advantage of hardness.

The habit of distributing the eggs through a number of cocoons made at intervals of several days, is protective. In this way, although one or two of the cocoons may be pierced by the ichneumon, there is a chance that part of the brood may survive.

Indirect Protection.—The indirectly protected group includes those spiders which are rendered inedible by the possession of sharp spines and chitinous plates, and also those that mimic other specially protected creatures.

The females of the specially protected group are characterized by the following attributes:

Their inedibility, which they owe to a more or less coriaceous epidermis and an armature of strong sharp spines (Fig. 6).

Their brilliant colors—glistening black and white, yellow, fiery gold, metallic silver, rose-color, blue, orange and blood-red.

Their habit of hanging always exposed in the centre of the web.

In an interesting discussion of the protective value of color and marking in insects, Poulton says that “the smaller convergent groups of nauseous insects often present us with ideally perfect types of warning patterns and colors—simple, crude, strongly contrasted—everything subordinated to the paramount necessity of becoming conspicuous,” the memory of enemies being thus strongly appealed to.

This proposition is well illustrated by the Gasteracanthidæ. Among larvæ the warning colors are almost invariably black and white, or black (or some very dark color), in contrast with yellow, orange and red. These are the colors that also constantly recur among the Gasteracanthidæ.

Cases that may be more justly considered exceptions to the rule that these hard, uneatable spiders are conspicuous are such species as Acrosoma rugosa (Fig. 7). One of this species was sent me by Mrs. Treat last summer. It lived for several weeks in my window, making no regular web, but hanging among a few irregular strands. It ate nothing, although provided with insects, but drank greedily of water. It might seem that its black and white coloring would make it conspicuous, but in connection with its irregular shape and its way of hanging motionless in the web it had the opposite effect.

We have no reason to suppose that the class represented in rugosa is like that touched upon by Poulton, in which very protectively colored larvæ suddenly assume a terrifying aspect on the near approach of an enemy; still they do enjoy a kind of double protection.

They are inconspicuous, and thus likely to escape attack, but in case they are attacked they have still the advantage of being quickly rejected. This experience cannot be as fatal to them as to the soft and thin skinned larvæ. Their hard covering and projecting spines would protect them to such an extent as to give them a fair chance of surviving.

In one respect the inconspicuous Gasteracanthidæ have a decided advantage over their bright-colored relatives. The birds, indeed, avoid the conspicuous ones, but their brilliancy serves to attract another enemy against which spines are no protection—the hunter wasp, which, as we have seen in the work of Bates, sometimes provisions its nest wholly with spiders of this family. Mr. Smith gives like testimony, saying:

“Spines on the abdomen of certain spiders would serve as a protection against vertebrate enemies, though they do not protect against the hunter wasps, which frequently provision their nests with these species.” He adds, however, that most of the spiny spiders are common, and that their colors make them conspicuous; just as butterflies that are protected by an odor are common and bright-colored....

Mimicry.—Mimicry, or the imitation of animal forms, while it is a form of indirect protection, differs in no essential respect from the imitation of vegetable and inorganic things. As Bates has said, the object of mimetic tendencies is disguise, and they will work in any direction that answers this purpose.

In nearly all respects spiders come under the three laws given by Wallace, as governing the development of mimetic resemblances in several large classes. These laws are as follows:

1. In an overwhelming majority of cases of mimicry, the animals (or the groups) which resemble each other inhabit the same country, the same district, and in most cases are to be found together on the very same spot.

2. These resemblances are not indiscriminate, but are limited to certain groups, which, in every case, are abundant in species and individuals, and can often be ascertained to have some special protection.

3. The species which resemble or “mimic” these dominant groups, are comparatively less abundant in individuals, and are often very rare.

The second and third of these laws are confirmed by what we know of mimetic resemblances among spiders. They mimic ants much oftener than other creatures, and ants are very abundant, are specially protected, and are much more numerous than the mimetic spiders. To the first law, also, they conform to a great extent, since everything tends to show that in tropical America and in Africa the ant and the spider, the one mimicked and the other mimicking, are always found together. So far as I can discover, however, the ant-like spiders of North America are not found in company with any species of ant which they resemble. This may be because they do not mimic any particular species, but only the general ant-like form; or, considering that the genera which contain their nearest relatives are much more abundant in Central and South America, it may be that these forms were originally tropical, mimicking some tropical species of ants, and that after the Glacial Epoch they migrated northward, leaving the ants behind them. However this may be, their peculiar form has served them well, since they have maintained themselves as fairly abundant species with a lower fecundity than is found in any other group of spiders.

The cases in which one species mimics another may be divided, according to the kind of benefit derived, into four classes: Class 1. As a rule, where we find one species mimicking another, the mimicked species possesses some special means of defence against the enemies of both. This defence may consist of a disagreeable taste or odor, as in the Heliconidæ, which are mimicked by other butterflies; of some special weapon of offence, as where wasps and bees are mimicked by flies and moths, or poisonous vipers by harmless caterpillars; or of a hard shell, as where the coriaceous beetles are mimicked by those that are soft-bodied.

Instances of this rule are exceedingly numerous; indeed, Wallace says that specially protected forms are always mimicked; still we have nothing mimicking our Gasteracanthidæ.

Class 2. The mimetic may prey upon the mimicked species, its disguise enabling it to gain a near approach to its victims; as the mantis, mentioned by Bates as exactly resembling the white ants upon which it feeds; and the flies which mimic bees, upon which they are parasitic, and are thus able to enter the nests of the bees and lay eggs on the larvæ.

Class 3. The mimetic species may, by its imitation, be protected from the attacks of the creature it mimics, as is the case with the crickets and grasshoppers which mimic their deadly foe, the hunter wasp.

Class 4. The mimetic species may prey upon some creature which is found commonly with, and is not eaten by, the mimicked species.

No two of these classes are mutually destructive so that in any case of mimicry a double advantage may be gained.

Let us see which of these advantages has directed the development of mimetic tendencies among spiders.

While among beetles and butterflies we most commonly find mimicry of one species by another within the same order, we have no instance of a spider mimicking another spider. This may be accounted for by the fact that the specially protected spiders depend for their safety upon the possession of hard plates and spinous processes, and although the hardened epidermis might be imitated (we know that hard-shelled beetles are mimicked by others that are soft), spines could scarcely be imitated by a soft-bodied creature with sufficient accuracy to insure disguise.

While spiders most commonly mimic ants, we hear also of their imitating beetles, snail-shells, ichneumons and horseflies. There is also a curious Madagascar species which looks exactly like a little scorpion, the resemblance being heightened by its habit of curving its flexible tail up over its back when irritated.

Those that resemble beetles comprise nearly all the species of the genera Coccorchestes and Homalattus. These are small spiders with short, convex bodies. The abdomen fits closely over the cephalothorax, and the epidermis, which has usually a metallic lustre, is sometimes coriaceous. Striking examples are found in H. coccinelloides, which bears a strong resemblance to beetles of the family Coccinelloidæ, and in C. cupreus, in which certain marks on the abdomen imitate the elytra of beetles.

The following account of a spider which mimics a snail-shell is given by Mr. G. F. Atkinson;—

“An undescribed species of Cyrtarachne mimics a snail-shell, the inhabitant of which, during the summer and fall, is very abundant on the leaves of plants in this place. In the species of Cyrtarachne the abdomen partly covers the cephalothorax, is very broad at the base, in this species broader than the length of the spider, and rounds off at the apex. When it rests upon the under side of a leaf with its legs retracted it strongly resembles one of these snail-shells by the color and shape of its abdomen. The two specimens which I collected deceived me at first, but a few threads of silk led me to make the examination. The spider seemed so confident of its protection that it would not move when I jarred the plant, striking it several hard blows. I pulled the spider forcibly from the leaf, and it did not exhibit any signs of movement until transferred to the cyanide bottle.” ...

Trimen gives an account of the imitation, by spiders, of horseflies, a case falling into Class 2, as follows:—

“Hunting spiders are in some cases very like their prey, as may everywhere be noticed in the case of the species of Salticus which catch horseflies on sunny walls and fences. The likeness is not in itself more than a general one of size, form and coloring; but its effect is greatly aided by the actions of the spider, which walks hurriedly for short distances, stopping abruptly, and rapidly moving its falces, in evident mimicry of the well-known movements so characteristic of flies.”

Instances of spiders mimicking ants are very numerous, and in many cases the resemblance is so close as to, at first sight, deceive a trained naturalist. This resemblance is brought about by the spider’s body being elongated and strongly constricted, so that it appears to be composed of three segments instead of two, by the color, by the way in which the spider moves about, zig-zagging from side to side like an ant, and by its habit of holding up one pair of its legs and moving them in such a way that they look exactly like the antennæ of an ant.

Ants may be regarded as specially protected, by their sharp, acid flavor, and in some species by the possession of stings or of horny processes.

On the ground that there are birds which do eat ants, and eat them greedily, it has been thought by some naturalists that they cannot be considered specially protected creatures, and that, as spiders can therefore derive no protection from mimicking them, all cases of such mimicry depend upon the spider’s increased ability to capture the ants as prey, but I am convinced that this is too hasty a conclusion. It is unquestionably true that some birds feed almost exclusively upon ants, but these are the exceptions. It is a common thing to find that specially protected groups, which are safe from the attacks of most creatures, have their special enemies. Thus, even the nauseous Heliconidæ are preyed upon by certain spiders and wasps; and bees, in spite of their stings, are preferred to other insects by the bee-eaters. Moreover, the ant-devouring birds are found largely among the wood-peckers, which eat the ants that run on the trunks of trees, and are therefore not a source of danger to the ant-like spiders, the American species of which, so far as I can learn, live entirely upon the ground.

In the United States comparatively small numbers of either ants or spiders are eaten by birds, but in tropical America there are enormous numbers of humming-birds feeding almost exclusively upon spiders, and there the protective advantage of looking like ants must be of great importance to the smaller species.

Belt considers that the advantages gained by ant-mimicking Central American spiders lies entirely on the side of protection. In relation to this subject he says: “Ant-like spiders have been noticed throughout tropical America and also in Africa. The use that the deceptive resemblance is to them has been explained to be the facility it affords them for approaching ants on which they prey. I am convinced that this explanation is incorrect, so far as the Central American species are concerned. Ants, and especially the stinging species are, so far as my experience goes, not preyed upon by any other insects. No disguise need be adopted to approach them, as they are so bold that they are more likely to attack a spider than a spider them. Neither have they wings to escape by flying, and generally go in large bodies easily found and approached. The use is, I doubt not, the protection the disguise affords against small insectivorous birds. I have found the crops of some humming-birds full of small, soft-bodied spiders, and many other birds feed on them. Stinging-ants, like bees and wasps, are closely resembled by a host of other insects; indeed, whenever I found any insect provided with special means of defence I looked for imitative forms, and was never disappointed in finding them.”

The ant-like species are probably protected by their appearance from the attacks of many of the larger spiders. We have kept great numbers of Attidæ in captivity, and, although they devoured flies, gnats, larvæ, and other spiders, they would never touch ants. Among spiders, however, as among birds, we find that certain groups subsist almost entirely upon ants.

The class of spiders whose mimicry protects them from their enemies, whether they are birds or other spiders, probably includes at least two of our own ant-like species, Synageles picata and Synemosyna formica, which, in confinement, are always hungry for gnats, but will not touch ants, even of small size.

The existence of a class of spiders which mimic the particular species of ants upon which they prey is not to be questioned, but it is doubtful whether the benefit to the spider is increased facility in capturing the ant, or whether it is merely protective. It may be that the spider, by virtue of its resemblance to the ant, not only gets an abundant supply of food, but also escapes being eaten itself, and thus enjoys a double advantage. Both Bates and Wallace take the ground that the advantage derived by the spider consists in greater ease in the capture of prey, but both of these writers refer to spiders only incidentally to illustrate a general proposition, without special consideration of their peculiar conditions.

Mr. Herbert Smith, who has paid a good deal of attention to this subject, is inclined to believe that the mimicry in question is entirely protective. He writes as follows:—

“In the United States there are a few rare spiders that mimic ants. Here at Taperinha we find a good score of species of these spiders aping the various kinds of ants very closely; even the odd, spiny wood-ant, cryptocerus, furnishes a pattern, and there are spiders that mimic the wingless ichneumons. We find, after a while, that the spiders prey upon ants just as our spiders catch flies; indeed, this fact has already been noted by other observers. But we go a step beyond the books when we discover not only that the spiders eat the ants, but that they eat the particular ants which they mimic. At all events, we verify this fact in a great number of cases, and we never find the spiders eating any but the mimicked species.... I do not like to hazard a theory on this case of mimicry. It is difficult to suppose that the quick-witted ants would be deceived even by so close a resemblance; and, in any case, it would seem that the spiders do not require such a disguise in order to capture slow-moving ants. Most birds will not eat ants; it seems likely, therefore, that this is simply another example of protection; the spider deceives its enemies, not its prey; it mimics the particular species that it feeds on, because it is seen in that company when it is hunting, and among a host of similar forms is likely to pass unnoticed.”

At first sight, and especially in view of the fact that such cases are not uncommon among insects, it would be naturally supposed that the object of the mimicry was to enable the spider to approach its victim without exciting suspicion; and it is difficult to account, on any other supposition, for the very close resemblance between certain species of spiders and the particular species of ants which they prey upon. It seems as though the highest point of protective benefit would have been reached long before the resemblance of the spider to the ant had become so close as it really is. On the other hand, it is difficult to believe that ants are deceived, even by those spiders which mimic them most closely, when we remember that their perceptions are so keen that they discriminate not only between ants of their own and different species, but even between ants of their own species living in two different communities.

The mimicry of ichneumon flies by spiders was noted some years ago by Mr. Herbert Smith. This case comes under Class 3, in which one species mimics another which preys upon it. Great destruction is caused by ichneumons which lay their eggs on the bodies of the live spiders, and the disguise probably protects the spider by leading the fly to mistake it for one of its own species.

We have no proof that spiders ever mimic ants as a method of escaping from them, but it is possible that this sometimes happens. We know that some ants prey upon them. The foraging ants of South America destroy spiders as well as many kinds of insects, and Wallace mentions a small, wood-boring ant which fills its nest with small spiders.

If the spiders that feed upon ants deceive them by their mimicry those which are preyed upon by ants would gain an advantage by a similar disguise. I once placed a little ant-like spider of the genus Herpyllus in a bottle with three ants no larger than itself, which I had caught with it in the sweep-net. In a very few minutes the ants had killed and begun to devour the spider. It may be that the resemblance was sufficiently close to deceive them in the open, but failed when spider and ants were confined together in close quarters.

THE BATH OF THE BIRDS
By RICHARD JEFFERIES.

One morning Sir Bevis went down to the brook. Standing on the brink, he said: “Brook, Brook! what are you singing? You promised to tell me what you were saying.”

The brook did not answer, but went on singing. Bevis listened a minute, and then he picked a willow leaf and threw it into the bubbles and watched it go whirling round and round in the eddies and back up under the fall, where it dived down and presently came up again, and the stream took it and carried it away past the flags. “Brook, Brook!” said Bevis, stamping his foot; “tell me what you are singing.”

And the brook, having now finished that part of his song, said: “Bevis, dear; sit down in the shadow of the willow, for it is very hot to-day, and the reapers are at work; sit down under the willow and I will tell you as much as I can remember.”

“But the reed said you could not remember anything,” said Bevis, leaning back against the willow.

“The reed did not tell you the truth, dear; indeed, he does not know all; the fact is, the reeds are so fond of talking that I scarcely ever answer them now or they would keep on all day long, and I should never hear the sound of my own voice, which I like best. So I do not encourage them, and that is why the reeds think I do not recollect.”

“And what is that you sing about?” said Bevis impatiently.

“My darling,” said the brook, “I do not know myself always what I am singing about. I am so happy I sing, sing, and never think about what it means; it does not matter what you mean as long as you sing. Sometimes I sing about the sun, who loves me dearly, and tries all day to get at me through the leaves and the green flags that hide me; he sparkles on me everywhere he can, and does not like me to be in the shadow. Sometimes I sing to the wind, who loves me next most dearly, and will come to me everywhere in places where the sun cannot get. He plays with me whenever he can, and strokes me softly and tells me the things he has heard in the woods and on the hills, and sends down the leaves to float along; for he knows I like something to carry. Fling me in some leaves, Bevis, dear.

“Sometimes I sing to the earth and the grass; they are fond of me, too, and listen the best of all. I sing loudest at night to the stars; for they are so far away they would not otherwise hear me.”

“But what do you say?” said Bevis; but the brook was too occupied now to heed him and went on.

“Sometimes I sing to the trees; they, too, are fond of me and come as near as they can; they would all come down close to me if they could. They love me like the rest, because I am so happy and never cease my chanting. If I am broken to pieces against a stone, I do not mind in the least; I laugh just the same and even louder. When I come over the hatch, I dash myself to fragments; and sometimes a rainbow comes and stays a little while with me. The trees drink me, and the grass drinks me; the birds come down and drink me; they splash me and are happy. The fishes swim about, and some of them hide in deep corners. Round the bend I go; and the osiers say they never have enough of me. The long grass waves and welcomes me; the moor-hens float with me; the kingfisher is always with me somewhere, and sits on the bough to see his ruddy breast in the water. And you come too, Bevis, now and then to listen to me; and it is all because I am so happy.”

“Why are you so happy?” said Bevis.

“I do not know,” said the brook. “Perhaps it is because all I think of is this minute; I do not know anything about the minute just gone by, and I do not care one bit about the minute that is just coming; all I care about is this minute, this very minute now. Fling me in some more leaves, Bevis. Why do you go about asking questions, dear? Why don’t you sing and do nothing else?”

“Oh, but I want to know all about everything,” said Bevis. “Where did you come from, and where are you going, and why don’t you go on and let the ground be dry—why don’t you run on, and run all away? why are you always here?”

The brook laughed and said: “My dear, I do not know where I came from, and I do not care at all where I am going. What does it matter, my love? All I know is I shall come back again; yes, I shall come back again.” The brook sang very low and rather sadly now: “I shall go into the sea and shall be lost; and even you would not know me; ask your father, love; he has sailed over the sea in ships that come to Southampton, and I was close to him, but he did not know me. But by and by, when I am in the sea, the sun will lift me up, and the clouds will float along—look towards the hills, Bevis, dear, every morning and you will see the clouds coming and bringing me with them; and the rain and the dew, and sometimes the thunder and the lightning, will put me down again; and I shall run along here and sing to you, my sweet, if you will come and listen. Fling in some little twigs, my dear, and some bits of bark from the tree.”

“That I will,” said Bevis; and he picked up a stone and flung it into the water with such a splash that the kingfisher flew away; but the brook only laughed and told him to throw another and to make haste and grow bigger and jump over him.

“S—s, we shall meet by the drinking place,” said the grasshopper; and was just hopping off, when Bevis asked him what the birds went down to bathe for.

“I’m sure I do not know,” said the grasshopper, speaking fast, for he was rather in a hurry to be gone; he never could stand still long together. “All I can tell you is, that on Midsummer Day every one of the birds has to go down to the brook and walk in and bathe; and it has been the law for so many, many years that no one can remember when it began. They like it very much, because they can show off their fine feathers which are just now in full color; and if you like to go with me, you will be sure to enjoy it.”

“So I will,” said Bevis; and he followed the grasshopper, who hopped so far at every step that he had to walk fast to keep up with him.

They went on in silence a good way, except that the grasshopper cried “S—s” to his friends in the grass as he passed, and said good-morning also to a mole, who peeped out for a moment.

“Why don’t you hop straight?” said Bevis presently. “It seems to me that you hop first one side and then the other, and go in such a zigzag fashion it will take us hours to reach the brook.”

“How very stupid you are!” said the grasshopper. “If you go straight, of course you can only see just what is under your feet; but if you go first this way and then that, then you see everything. You are nearly as silly as the ants, who never see anything beautiful all their lives. Be sure you have nothing to do with the ants, Bevis; they are a mean, wretched, miserly set, quite contemptible and beneath notice. Now, I go everywhere, all round the field, and spend my time searching for lovely things; sometimes I find flowers, and sometimes the butterflies come down into the grass and tell me the news; and I am so fond of the sunshine, I sing to it all day long. Tell me, now, is there anything so beautiful as the sunshine and the blue sky, and the green grass, and the velvet and blue and spotted butterflies, and the trees which cast such a pleasant shadow and talk so sweetly, and the brook which is always running? I should like to listen to it for a thousand years.”

“I like you,” said Bevis; “jump into my hand and I will carry you.” He held his hand out flat, and in a second up sprang the grasshopper and alighted on his palm and told him the way to go, and thus they went together merrily.

“Bevis, dear, I do not sing at night; but I always go where I can see a star. I slept under a mushroom last night, and he told me he was pushing up as fast as he could before some one came and picked him to put on a gridiron. I do not lay up any store, because I know I shall die when the summer ends; and what is the use of wealth then? My store and my wealth is the sunshine, dear, and the blue sky, and the green grass, and the delicious brook who never ceases sing, sing, singing all day and night. And all the things are fond of me; the grass and the flowers, and the birds and the animals—all of them love me.”

“I think I shall take you home and put you under a glass case on the mantelpiece,” said Bevis.

Off jumped the grasshopper in a moment, and fell so lightly on the grass it did not hurt him in the least, though it was as far as if Bevis had tumbled down out of the clouds. Bevis tried to catch him, but he jumped so nimbly this way and that, and hopped to and fro, and lay down in the grass, that his green coat could not be seen. Bevis now went down to the brook and stood on the bank, where it was high, near a bush at the side of the drinking place. “Ah, dear little Sir Bevis!” whispered a reed, bending towards him as the wind blew, “please do not come any nearer; the bank is steep and treacherous, and hollow underneath where the water-rats run. So do not lean over after the forget-me-nots—they are too far for you. Sit down where you are, behind that little bush, and I will tell you all about the bathing. The birds come down to bathe every Midsummer Day, and the goldfinches, and the sparrows, and the blackbirds, and the thrushes, and the swallows, and the wrens, and the robins, and almost every one of them, except two or three, whose great-grandfathers got into disgrace a long while ago. The rooks do not come because they are thieves, and steal the mussels, nor the crows, who are a very bad lot; the swan does not come either, unless the brook is muddy after a storm. The swan is so tired of seeing himself in the water that he quite hates it, and that is the reason he holds his neck so high, that he may not see more of himself than he can help.”

Soon the birds came. They were all in their very best and brightest feathers, and as the sun shone on them and they splashed the water and strutted about, Bevis thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

They did not all bathe, for some of them were specially permitted only to drink instead, but they all came, and all in their newest dresses. So bright was the goldfinch’s wing, that the lark, though she did not dare speak, had no doubt she rouged. The sparrow, brushed and neat, so quiet and subdued in his brown velvet, looked quite aristocratic among so much flaunting color. As for the blackbird he had carefully washed himself in the spring before he came to bathe in the brook, and he glanced round with a bold and defiant air, as much as to say: “There is not one of you who has so yellow a bill, and so beautiful a black coat as I have.” In the bush the bullfinch, who did not care much to mix with the crowd, moved restlessly to and fro. The robin looked all the time at Bevis, so anxious was he for admiration. The wood-pigeon, very consequential, affected not to see the dove, whom Bevis longed to stroke, but could not, as he had promised the reed to keep still.

Bevis looked up into the sky, and there was the hawk, almost up among the white clouds, soaring round and round, and watching all that was proceeding. Almost before he could look down again a shadow went by, and a cuckoo flew along very low, just over the drinking place.

“Cuckoo!” he cried, “cuckoo! The goldfinch has the prettiest dress;” and off he went.

Now the hawk had bribed the cuckoo, who was his cousin, to do this, and the cuckoo was not at all unwilling, for he had an interest himself in keeping the birds divided, so he said that although he had made up his mind to go on his summer tour, leaving his children to be taken care of by the wagtail, he would stop a day or two longer to manage this little business. No sooner had the cuckoo said this, than there was a most terrible uproar, and all the birds cried out at once. The blackbird was so disgusted that he flew straight off, chattering all across the field and up the hedge. The bullfinch tossed his head, and asked the goldfinch to come up in the bush and see which was stronger. The greenfinch and the chaffinch shrieked with derision; the wood-pigeon turned his back and said “Pooh!” and went off with a clatter. The sparrow flew to tell his mates on the house, and you could hear the chatter they made about it right down at the brook. But the wren screamed loudest of all, and said that the goldfinch was a painted impostor, and had not got half so much gold as the yellow-hammer. So they were all scattered in a minute, and Bevis stood up and hurried homeward.

THE LOON
(From Walden.)
By HENRY D. THOREAU.

It is remarkable how many creatures live wild and free, though secret, in the woods, and still sustain themselves in the neighborhood of towns, suspected by hunters only. How retired the otter manages to live here! He grows to be four feet long, as big as a small boy, perhaps without any human being getting a glimpse of him. I formerly saw the raccoon in the woods behind where my house is built, and probably still heard their whinnering at night. Commonly I rested an hour or two in the shade at noon, after planting, and ate my lunch, and read a little by a spring which was the source of a swamp and of a brook, oozing from under Brister’s Hill, half a mile from my field. The approach to this was through a succession of descending grassy hollows, full of young pitch-pines, into a larger wood about the swamp.

There, in a very secluded and shaded spot, under a spreading white-pine, there was yet a clean, firm sward to sit on. I had dug out the spring and made a well of clear gray water, where I could dip up a pailful without roiling it, and thither I went for this purpose almost every day in midsummer, when the pond was warmest. Thither, too, the wood-cock led her brood, to probe the mud for worms, flying but a foot above them down the bank, while they ran in a troop beneath; but at last, spying me, she would leave her young and circle round and round me, nearer and nearer till within four or five feet, pretending broken wings and legs, to attract my attention, and get off her young, who would already have taken up their march, with faint wiry peep, single file through the swamp, as she directed. Or I heard the peep of the young when I could not see the parent bird.

There, too, the turtle-doves sat over the spring, or fluttered from bough to bough of the soft white-pines over, my head; or the red squirrel, coursing down the nearest bough, was particularly familiar and inquisitive. You only need sit still long enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants may exhibit themselves to you by turns....

In the fall the loon (Colymbus glacialis) came, as usual, to moult and bathe in the pond, making the woods ring with his wild laughter before I had risen. At rumor of his arrival all the Mill-dam sportsmen are on the alert, in gigs and on foot, two by two and three by three, with patent rifles and conical balls and spy-glasses. They come rustling through the woods like autumn leaves, at least ten men to one loon. Some station themselves on this side of the pond, some on that, for the poor bird cannot be omnipresent; if he dive here he must come up there.

But now the kind October wind rises, rustling the leaves and rippling the surface of the water, so that no loon can be heard or seen, though his foes sweep the pond with spy-glasses, and make the woods resound with their discharges. The waves generously rise and dash angrily, taking sides with all waterfowl, and our sportsmen must beat a retreat to town and shop and unfinished jobs. But they were too often successful. When I went to get a pail of water early in the morning I frequently saw this stately bird sailing out of my cove within a few rods. If I endeavored to overtake him in a boat, in order to see how he would manœuvre, he would dive and be completely lost, so that I did not discover him again, sometimes, till the latter part of the day. But I was more than a match for him on the surface. He commonly went off in a rain.

As I was paddling along the north shore one very calm October afternoon, for such days especially they settle on to the lakes, like the milkweed down, having looked in vain over the pond for a loon, suddenly one, sailing out from the shore toward the middle a few rods in front of me, set up his wild laugh and betrayed himself. I pursued with a paddle and he dived, but when he came up I was nearer than before. He dived again but I miscalculated the direction he would take, and we were fifty rods apart when he came to the surface this time, for I had helped to widen the interval; and again he laughed long and loud, and with more reason than before.

He manœuvred so cunningly that I could not get within half a dozen rods of him. Each time when he came to the surface, turning his head this way and that, he coolly surveyed the water and the land, and apparently chose his course so that he might come up where there was the widest expanse of water and at the greatest distance from the boat. It was surprising how quickly he made up his mind and put his resolve into execution. He led me at once to the wildest part of the pond, and could not be driven from it. While he was thinking one thing in his brain, I was endeavoring to divine his thought in mine. It was a pretty game, played on the smooth surface of the pond, a man against a loon.

Suddenly your adversary’s checker disappears beneath the board, and the problem is to place yours nearest to where his will appear again. Sometimes he would come up unexpectedly on the opposite side of me, having apparently passed directly under the boat. So long-winded was he and so unweariable, that when he had swam farthest he would immediately plunge again, nevertheless; and then no wit could divine where in the deep pond, beneath the smooth surface, he might be speeding his way like a fish, for he had time and ability to visit the bottom of the pond in its deepest part. It is said that loons have been caught in the New York lakes eighty feet beneath the surface, with hooks set for trout,—though Walden is deeper than that. How surprised must the fishes be to see this ungainly visitor from another sphere speeding his way amid their schools!

Yet he appeared to know his course as surely under water as on the surface, and swam much faster there. Once or twice I saw a ripple where he approached the surface, just put his head out to reconnoitre, and instantly dived again. I found that it was as well for me to rest on my oars and wait his reappearing as to endeavor to calculate where he would rise; for again and again, when I was straining my eyes over the surface one way, I would suddenly be startled by his unearthly laugh behind me. But why, after displaying so much cunning, did he invariably betray himself the moment he came up by that loud laugh? Did not his white breast enough betray him?

He was indeed a silly loon, I thought. I could commonly hear the plash of the water when he came up, and so also detected him. But after an hour he seemed as fresh as ever, dived as willingly and swam yet farther than at first. It was surprising to see how serenely he sailed off with unruffled breast when he came to the surface, doing all the work with his webbed feet beneath. His usual note was this demoniac laughter, yet somewhat like that of a waterfowl; but occasionally when he had balked me most successfully and come up a long way off, he uttered a long-drawn unearthly howl, probably more like that of a wolf than any bird; as when a beast puts his muzzle to the ground and deliberately howls. This was his looning,—perhaps the wildest sound that is ever heard here, making the woods ring far and wide. I concluded that he laughed in derision of my efforts, confident of his own resources.

Though the sky was by this time overcast, the pond was so smooth that I could see where he broke the surface when I did not hear him. His white breast, the stillness of the air, and the smoothness of the water were all against him. At length, having come up fifty rods off, he uttered one of those prolonged howls, as if calling on the god of loons to aid him, and immediately there came a wind from the east and rippled the surface, and filled the whole air with misty rain, and I was impressed as if it were the prayer of the loon answered, and his god was angry with me; and so I left him disappearing far away on the tumultuous surface.

For hours, in fall days, I watched the ducks cunningly tack and veer and hold the middle of the pond, far from the sportsman; tricks which they will have less need to practise in Louisiana bayous. When compelled to rise they would sometimes circle round and round and over the pond at a considerable height, from which they could easily see to other ponds and the river, like black motes in the sky; and, when I thought they had gone off thither long since, they would settle down by a slanting flight of a quarter of a mile on to a distant part which was left free; but what beside safety they got by sailing in the middle of Walden I do not know, unless they love its water for the same reason that I do.