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"Sometimes, it is true, a beaver is found nearer to our houses, and now and then a wildcat, that has strayed from his native forest, is found in the neighboring woods. The musquash builds his habitation on the banks of streams, and is not very uncommon even in districts frequented by man.

would catch them must go and find them of two years, the fur-hunter comes back in these wild retreats. with his load of skins; and a pretty fig ure he is. The clothes he carried with him are worn out, and he is now attired in the skins of various wild beasts. On his head you see the grizzled fur of a raccoon, with his tail hanging down behind. His coat is made of a wolf's skin, and his vest of the skin of an otter. But his trowsers are the drollest part of his attire. They are made of a bear's skin, and each leg looks like a great, shaggy, black dog, standing upright! Altogether, the hunter is a most curious object. He looks like three or four wild animals all sewed into one!

"But these animals are, on the whole, so scarce, that, in order to obtain a supply of their fur, a great many hunters and trappers spend their time in roaming through the mountains, valleys, and prairies of the far West, in order to obtain them. These people meet with a great many strange adventures. Sometimes they will follow the branch of a river for five hundred miles, in a boat, during which time they will not meet with a human habitation, save the wigwams of the Indians. Sometimes they will sleep at night upon the ground, with no covering but a blanket; sometimes they will meet with a party of Indians, and have a fight with them. Sometimes they will meet with friendly Indians, who receive them into their lodges, and entertain them kindly; sometimes they are confronted by a grizzly bear, who places himself in their path, and must receive at least a dozen bullets in his breast before he is killed. Sometimes they will roam over wide deserts, and suffer very much for want of water. Sometimes they will be in the midst of a vast prairie, the grass of which is on fire, and then they have the greatest difficulty to escape from the flames. Sometimes they are robbed of all their furs by hostile Indians, and sometimes they meet with Indians who sell them large quantities of fur.

"After a great many cares, and trials, and dangers, and often after an absence

"What a great variety of adventures has this man met with in his wanderings of two years. How many pleasant stories could he tell, if he would sit down of a long winter night, and recount all that happened to him; all about the bears, the foxes, the wolves, and the wild Indians that he saw. How much this poor man must have suffered; what toil, hunger, thirst, danger and privation; and all this, that master Philip might have a hat; all this to get furs to make hats of.

"The wool and fur being obtained, these are prepared by the hatter, who, in the first place, makes a sort of cap, shaped something like a sugar-loaf. This is then soaked in hot water, and, being put upon a block, the crown is made of a proper shape. The whole is stiffened with gum, colored, dressed, put in boxes, and sent to the hat-seller. The price paid for me was two dollars. Philip has worn me for about a year, but I am in a sad condition. The hole in my crown was made by a stick, which went through me one day when Philip threw me at a red squirrel on the fence. The rent on my brim was caused by a saucy fellow, that tried to pull me off one day;

but I chose to be torn, rather than see Philip insulted by having his hat knocked off; for, though the boy has his faults, I like him better than anybody else."

Such is the story of the hat. My object in giving it to you is, to show, that the commonest article of daily use has its history, if we will only inquire into it.

CHAPTER IV.

Arrival at my Uncle's.— -The Village.-Bill, Keeler.-My first Day at School.-Trouble.

I MUST now return to the story of myself. The morning after I left the little tavern where I discovered how milk was obtained, we proceeded on our journey, and at evening arrived at my uncle's house. It was an oldfashioned building, painted red, with a large sign swinging in front, upon one side of which was the picture of a stout barn-yard cock, and on the other side was the head of a bull. So my uncle's tavern went by the name of the "Cock and Bull."

I soon became acquainted with the family, and in a few weeks was quite familiar with the main street and all the by-lanes in the village. My uncle had no children, but there was living with him a boy_about ten years old, by the name of Bill Keeler. He became my principal companion, and, being a very knowing sort of lad, gave me an insight into many things, which I could not otherwise have understood.

After I had been at my uncle's about six months, it was concluded to send me to school. I was now seven years of age, but, strange as it may seem to boys and girls of the present day, I did not know my letters, and, what is more re

markable, I had a great dislike to the idea of going to school. I believe it is the case that all people who grow up ignorant acquire a settled dislike to learning and learned people. As an owl can see best in the dark, because the light seems to put his eyes out, so ignorant people love ignorance and darkness, because truth and knowledge of fend and distress them. I mention these things as a warning to my reader against growing up in ignorance, and thereby becoming a lover of darkness, rather than light.

Well, I went to school for the first time, and I remember all about it to this day. The schoolhouse was situated in a large space, where four roads met. It was a bleak and desolate hill-side, partly covered with heaps of stones, thrown out of the path, or gathered from the neighboring fields. There were a few groups of tangled briers and stunted huckleberry bushes amid these heaps of stones. On the lower side of the hill, there was an old gnarled oak growing out of a heap of splintered rocks, at the foot of which there bubbled forth a small stream of pure water. This fountain went by the pretty name of " Silver Spring."

Bill Keeler led me into the school, which was then kept by Mistress Sally St. John. She looked at me through her spectacles, and over her spectacles, and then patted me on the head, told me I was a good boy, and sent me to a seat. In about an hour I was called up, the spelling-book opened, and the alphabet being placed before me, the mistress pointed to the first letter, and asked me what it was.

I looked at the letter very carefully, and then gazed in the face of Mistress St. John, but said nothing. "What's that?" said she, peremptorily, still pointing to the first letter of the alphabet.

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The school-mistress shut up her book. Bill Keeler rolled up his eyes, and made his mouth into a round O. "Go to your seat!" said the school-mistress. I turned to go. Stop!" said the schoolmistress, fetching me a slap on the side of the head; at the same moment she opened the book, and again presented the alphabet to my view. "Look, there!" said she, pointing with her finger to the top letter; "do you see that?" I answered, "Yes." "Well, that's A," said she. "That's A?" said I, doubtingly. "Yes," said the mistress sharply. "I don't believe it!" said I. "Why don't you believe it?" said she. "Because I never heard of it before," I replied. Go to your seat!" said the school-mistress; and away I went.

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Such was my first day's schooling. In the evening, Mistress St. John called upon my uncle, and told him I was the most stupid creature she ever saw, and very ill-mannered beside; and she hoped I would by no means be permitted to come again to her school. My uncle was greatly offended, not with me, but with the school-mistress. He declared I should not go near her again; and, for more than a year, I was per

mitted to amuse myself in my own way. I was greatly pleased with all this at the time, but I have since often thought how severely I was punished for my ill behavior at school. For more than a year, I was left to run about in idleness, getting bad habits, and losing the precious time that should have been devoted to the acquisition of knowledge. Thus it always happens, that, soon or late, we are made to suffer for our misconduct.

(To be continued.)

Swallows.

Of these birds there are several kinds, but I am going to speak of only one or two of them now. The common barn swallow is one of the most interesting. It does not come much among us at the north, till the settled warm weather of May. A straggler now and then appears before, which has led to the adage, "One swallow does not make summer."

The

The flight of the swallow is often low, but distinguished by great rapidity, and sudden turns and evolutions, executed as if by magic. Over fields and meadows, and the surface of pools and sheets of water, all the day may this fleet, unwearied bird be seen, skimming along, and describing, in its oft repeated circuit, the most intricate mazes. surface of the water is indeed its delight; its insect food is there in great profusion; and it is beautiful to observe how dexterously it skims along, and with what address it dips and emerges, shaking the spray from its burnished plumage, as, hardly interrupted by the plunge, it continues its career. Thus it feeds, and drinks, and bathes upon the wing.

The swallow breeds twice a year, and constructs its nest of mud or clay, mixed

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ters, passing in and out by the same opening.

It is delightful to witness the care which the swallow manifests towards her brood. When able to leave the nest, she leads them to the ridge of the barn, where, settled in a row, and as yet unable to fly, she feeds them with great assiduity. In a day or two they become capable of flight, and then they follow their parents in all their evolutions, and are fed by them while on the wing. In a short time they commence an independent career, and set up for themselves.

The notes of the swallow, though hurried and twittering, are very pleasing; and the more so as they are associated in our minds with ideas of spring, and calm serenity, and rural pleasures. The time in which the bird pours forth its melody is chiefly at sunrise, when, in "token of a goodly day," his rays are bright and warm.

"The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed,"

unite alike to call man from his couch of rest, and to praise "the God of seasons as they roll."

After the work of rearing the young, ere autumn sears the leaf, the swallow prepares to depart. Multitudes, from various quarters, now congregate together, and perch at night in clusters on barns or the branches of trees, but especially among the reeds of marshes and fens, round which they may be observed wheeling and sinking and rising again, all the time twittering vociferously, before they finally settle. It was from this circumstance that some of the older naturalists supposed the swallow to become torpid and remain submerged beneath the water during winter, and to issue forth from its liquid tenement on the return of spring; a theory utterly

incompatible with reason and facts, and now universally discarded. The great body of these birds depart about the end of September.

The Holy Scriptures make frequent allusions to this interesting bird. Jeremiah, reproaching the Jews for their turning away from God, alludes to the swallow as obeying His laws, while they who have seen his glory rebelled: "Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle and the crane and the swallow observe the time of their coming; but my people know not the judgment of the Lord." viii. 7.

The Psalmist notices the partiality of this bird for the temple of worship, the sanctuary of God: "Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God." Psalm lxxxiv. 3. Hezekiah, king of Judah, wrote of himself, "Like a crane or a swallow, so did I chatter." Is. xxxviii. 14. In these casual notices we at least trace out that the habits, migration, and song of the swallow, were known to the inspired writers; a circumstance of no little value, since a false assertion that the facts of natural history are not correctly stated in the Bible, has long been among the weak engines used by the infidel against the validity of that book, "which maketh wise unto salvation."

The Sand Martin, or Bank Swallow, is a most curious bird of this family. It is the least of the tribe, and the first to arrive, appearing a week or two before the swallow, and often while the weather is severe. Its flight is vacillating, but it is equally fond of skimming over the surface of the water. This bird, unlike its race, mines deep holes in sand or chalk cliffs, to the depth of two feet, or even more, at the extremity of which it

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