are certainly bold birds when their young ones are in danger. Mr. Charles St. John says he has often seen the hooded crows hunting the fields frequented by the peewits, as regularly as a pointer, flying a few yards above the ground, and searching for the eggs. The cunning crow always selects the time when the old birds are away on the shore. As soon as he is perceived, however, the peewits all combine in chasing him away. We are told that they will also attack any bird of prey that ventures near their breeding ground; they are quarrelsome, too, and the cock birds will fight with each other should they come into too close quarters. A cock bird one day attacked a wounded male bird which came near his nest; the pugnacious little fellow ran up to the intruder, and taking advantage of his weakness, jumped on him, and pecking at his head, dragged him along the ground as fiercely as a game cock. This was witnessed by Mr. St. John.[A] "I have often heard peewits uttering their peculiar noise," said Willy, "quite late at night. What do they feed on? I should so much like to have a tame young one." The food of the peewits consists of insects, worms, snails, slugs, the larvæ of various insects; I am certain they do much good to the farmer by destroying numerous insect-pests. "Oh, papa," exclaimed May, "do come here, what a splendid cluster of bright golden flowers is growing on the side of the drain." Yes, indeed it is a beautiful cluster; it is the marsh-marigold, and looks like a gigantic buttercup; it is sometimes in flower as early as March, and continues to blossom for three months or more. Country people often call it the may-flower, as being one of the flowers once used for may-garlands. I dare say you have sometimes seen wreaths hanging on cottage doors. Some people have invented what I think very ugly names for this showy plant, such as horse-blob, water-blob.

I have somewhere read that the young buds are sometimes pickled and used instead of capers, but I do not think I should like to try them. "And what," asked May, "are those bright green feathery tufts under the water? they are very pretty, but they do not bear any flowers." No, there are no flowers at present, but in about a month's time you will see plenty. Out of the middle of the feathery tuft there grows a single tall stem with whorls of four, five, or six pale purple flowers occurring at intervals. Its English name is water-violet,—not a fitting name for it, because this plant is not at all related to the violet tribe, but is one of the primrose family; so we should more correctly call it water-primrose. Its Latin name is Hottonia palustris; it is called Hottonia in honour of a German botanist, Professor Hotton, of Leyden. Willy will tell us that the word palustris means "marshy," in allusion to the places where the water primrose is found growing. It is a very common plant in the ditches on the moors here, and I will take care to show you its pretty tall stem when the flowers appear. While I was talking to May about the water primrose, Jack espied a sulphur-coloured butterfly, and off he set in full chase; he did not, however, succeed in capturing it, for his foot tripped over a molehill and down he tumbled—the beautiful sulphur butterfly having fled across a wide ditch and escaped. Not far from where he fell there was a thorn bush and a number of unfortunate moles gibbeted thereon: some had been killed quite recently, so I took three or four from the thorn with the intention of taking them home and examining their stomachs to see what they had eaten. In the meantime, down we sat on an adjoining bank covered with primroses looking so gay and smelling so sweet. Willy then wanted to know the history of the mole; why people generally think it right to kill these animals, and whether they really are blind. May, of course, could not resist the charm of collecting primroses for mamma. The two boys cared more for animals, so I answered their questions about the mole. First of all I pointed out the amazing strength of its feet, its soft and silky fur, the form of its body so well adapted for a rapid progress through the underground passages it forms. Look, I said, at its soft fur, how it will lie in any direction; each delicate hair is inserted in the skin perpendicularly to its surface, so that the mole can move rapidly either backwards or forwards with great ease; the fur, lying as readily in one direction as another, makes no difficulty to a backward retreat. If you look closely when I push away the fur with my finger and breath in the neighbourhood of the eyes, you will see two tiny black specs; so we can hardly call the mole a blind animal; but as it lives for the most part underground its power of vision must be small. The fore feet do the work of the spade and potato-fork combined; its sense of smell is acute, and this, no doubt, aids the animal in the search of its food; the mole's sense of hearing is also very good. "Well, but, papa," exclaimed Jack, "a mole has got no ears, so how can it hear?" There is no outward appearance of ears, it is true, but look: I blow away the fur, and now you see clearly a hole which is the beginning of the passage that leads to the internal ear. The ears of many animals are very admirably made and fitted for the purpose of receiving sounds, but you must not suppose that because some animals—as moles, seals, whales, &c.—have no outward appendages, they are destitute of ears and the power of hearing. But you must wait till you are a little older, and then I will explain to you the matter more fully. The little curiously shaped earbones which are found in all mammalia are found also in the mole; and I have in my drawer at home a mole's earbones which I dissected from the animal.

But here comes, I do think, the mole-catcher himself; let us hear what he has to say. "Good morning, Mr. Mole-catcher; have you been setting any more traps to-day? I suppose those unfortunate fellows gibbeted on yonder thorn were caught by you." "Well, yeez, sir," he replied, "I reckons as they were; I have stopped their play, I guess; but there's a plaguey lot more on them about, I'm a thinking." "What harm do you consider that moles do?" I asked. "Harm, maister? why, lor' bless you, see them hummocks they throw up all about. The farmers dunna like them ugly heaps, I can assure you." "Probably not; still if they were spread on the land the soil would be as good as top-dressing. Do you know what moles eat?" "Well, sir, I believes they eats worms." "Yes, they feed principally on worms, but they also devour wireworms and other creatures which prey upon the farmer's crops. I think moles do more good than harm, and I have examined the stomachs of many, and I am of opinion that it is a mistake to kill them." "Lor', sir, you be's a gemman that has seen the inside of a mole's stomach, has you? You may be a cliver sort of a mon, but moles be varmint." Thus saying, the old fellow wished us good morning and left us. "Papa," said Willy, "do not moles make very curious places under the ground in which they reside at times? I think I have somewhere seen pictures of these encampments." Yes, they do; but I only know of them from description and figures; the fortress is generally made under a hillock; it consists of many galleries connected with each other, and with a central chamber. You remember a young mole was brought to us last summer, and that we put it into a box with plenty of loose