convenient a tool for getting a living with. But this was only one of those instances in which ignorance led to presumption, and presumption to folly. A better knowledge of the sheerwater's ways of life has served to show, that in this case, as in all others, the Author of nature has shown wonderful skill in adapting means to ends; in supplying His creatures with the best possible contrivances for the trade or profession they are to follow.

Now, the black skimmer is made for a fisherman; he is made to feast upon shrimps, and small fishes of various kinds, that live near the surface of the water. Accordingly, he is provided with a bill, the lower part of which is the longest, and which he can dip in the water while he is skimming close over its face. In order to prevent this from impeding his progress, it is shaped like the blade of a knife, and thus it cuts the water with ease. As he speeds along, his bill scoops up the little fishes, and by the impetus of his flight, they are carried along in his bill, and swallowed as he goes.

No better proof of the success of the ingenious contrivance furnished by nature to the sheerwater can be needed, than that he is a lucky fisherman, and seems to enjoy an almost perpetual banquet. His wings are made of vast length, on purpose to assist him in sustaining his continued flight; and thus he seems to sail as if the wind were made on purpose for him; and he feasts as if the wide ocean were his larder.

This singular and interesting bird comes to us along the northern shores of the Atlantic, in May, and retires to the south in autumn, where he spends the winter. His favorite haunts are low sand-bars, raised above the reach of the tides. He builds his nest on dry flats, near the ocean." His body is nineteen inches long, and his wings, when ex

panded, are forty-four inches from tip to tip. Thus the sheerwater, instead of being shabbily treated, is a striking instance of the adaptation of nature's work, to the purposes of its great Author.

The Squirrel.

THE more we examine the works of nature, the more we shall be made to feel that there is infinite variety in them

that almost every part of the universe is filled with inhabitants appropriate to it; and that each individual thing is fitted to the place it occupies. Among plants, for instance, there are nearly a hundred thousand kinds already recorded in the books of the botanists; among animated beings, there are, perhaps, even a greater number of species. And what a countless number of each individual kind, whether in the vegetable or animal world! Every part of the earth is occupied. The earth, the air, the sea-each and all are inhabited by myriads of living things. And how wonderfully are they all adapted to their several designs! How well is the fish fitted to his element; how admirably is the bird adapted to the life he is to lead!

Among quadrupeds, the lively little fellow, whose name we have placed at the head of this article, is a pleasing illustration of the success with which nature accomplishes her designs. The squirrel is made to enliven the forest, to live among woods, to gather his food and make his nest, and spend a great part of his life amid the branches of the trees. And how perfectly is he at home in his domain! He springs from limb to limb-from tree to tree; he ascends or descends the trunks at pleasure, and seems to be as safe, in his airy evolutions, as the ox, or the horse, upon the solid ground-or the bird in the air, or the fishes in the river.

THE modes of building in different countries, and in different ages of the world, have resulted in several distinct styles of architecture.

Among the ancient Egyptians, it would seem, from the low and massy forms of their edifices, that they were fashioned in imitation of caves-the first habitations of savage man. The temples, of which many ruins remain along the borders of the Nile, seem almost like structures hewn out of the rock; so heavy are the columns, and so low the arches.

Among the Greeks, the style of architecture seemed to be suggested by the

wooden cabin, supported upon the trunks of trees. Thus the lighter and loftier columns supporting their edifices, seem to be a leading feature of their buildings.

In China, the houses appear to be fashioned after the tent, as if the idea had been borrowed from the pastoral age, when the inhabitants subsisted upon flocks, and dwelt in tents.

The Gothic architecture appears to be an imitation of the grove; the roof being supported by pillars, branching upward. The engraving will give some idea of this style of building. It flourished from the year 1000 to 1500, A. D., and was particularly used in the construction

of churches, monasteries, and other religious buildings, during that period. In France and Germany there are still to be seen many churches in this style; and though they have an ancient and gloomy appearance, they are very beautiful, and the sombre light within, seems well fitted to a place of worship. In England, also, there are many Gothic edifices of the olden time, among which Westminster Abbey, in London, is a fine specimen. In Boston, Trinity Church is somewhat in the Gothic taste; and at Hartford there is a fine specimen, in the Episcopal Church. There are also several other edifices in this country, of recent structure, which are imitations, in part, of ancient Gothic buildings; but a pure example of this style is hardly to be found, except in Europe, and among the edifices of past centuries.

Merry's Life and Adventures.

CHAPTER XIV.

Recovery from sickness.--Change of character.— Story of a quack.

In about two months after my accident, I rose from the sick bed, and was permitted to walk abroad. Although it was autumn, and the sere and yellow leaves were now nearly stript from the trees, the face of nature bore an aspect of loveliness to me. I had so long been shut up, and excluded alike from fresh air and the out-door scenes of life, that I was like a man long deprived of food, with a ravenous appetite and a full meal before him. I enjoyed everything; the air, the landscape, the walk-each and all delighted me. My fever was entirely gone, and, having nothing but weakness to contend with, I recovered my former state of health and strength in the course of a few weeks.

But I was not restored to my full flow of spirits-nor, indeed, from that day, have I ever felt again the joyous gush of boyhood emotions. My accident, attended by the wholesome shame it produced, had in no small degree abated my selfappreciation. I was humbled, if not before the world, at least in my own esteem. My sick-bed reflections, too, had served to sober my mind, and give me a sense of responsibility I had never felt before. I had, in short, passed from the gay thoughtlessness of a boy to somewhat of the sobriety of manhood.

I did not, myself, remark the change in my manners or my character; but others did. My uncle, particularly, noticed it, and became uneasy, or, rather, vexed about it. He was a jolly old man, and wished everybody else to be jolly too. Nor could he readily comprehend why such a change should have come over me he did not easily appreciate sickness, or its effects; nor did he estimate the sobering influences of reflection. He insisted upon it that I was "in the dumps" about something; and, half in jest and half in earnest, he scolded me from morn to night.

In spite of all this, I continued to be a much more serious personage than before, and my uncle at last became alarmed. Though a man of pretty good sense, in general, he entertained a contempt for physicians, especially those engaged in regular practice. If he had faith in any, it was in those who are usually called quacks. He believed that the power of healing lay rather in some natural gift, than in the skill acquired by study and practice. As usually happens in such cases, any impudent pretender could deceive him, and the more gross the cheat, the more readily was he taken in, himself. Having made up his mind that I was, as he expressed himself, "in a bad way," he was casting about as to what was to be done, when, one evening, a person,

notorious in those days, and an inhabitant of a neighboring town, chanced to stop at the tavern. This person was called Dr. Farnum, and, if I may use the expression, he was a regular quack. I happened to be in the bar-room when the doctor came. He was a large, stout man, with grizzled hair, a long cue adown his back, and a small, fiery, gray eye. This latter feature was deepset beneath a shaggy eyebrow, and seemed as restless as a red squirrel upon a tree, of a frosty morning. It was perpetually turning from object to object, seeming to take a keen and prying survey of everything around, as we sometimes see a cat, when entering a strange room. The doctor's dress was even more remarkable than his person: he wore small-clothes-the fashion of the time-and top-boots, the upper portion being not a little soiled and fretted by time and use. His hat had a rounded crown, in the manner of an ancient helmet; and the brim, of enormous width, was supported on each side by strings running to the crown. His over-coat was long and ample, and of that reddish brown, called butternut color. I noticed that the hat and boots were of the same hue, and afterwards learned that this was a point of importance, for the person in question assumed and maintained the designation of the "but'nut doctor."

Having greeted my uncle heartily, and said " good day" to the loungers around the fire, he took a seat, spread his feet apart, and, sfiding his hands up and down his legs, from the thigh to the shin-bone, called for a glass of flip. This was soon provided, and taking a large quid of tobacco out of his mouth-which he held in his hand, to be restored to its place after the liquor was discussed-he applied himself to the steaming potation. Having tasted this, and smacked his lips, alickerish smile came over his face, and

turning round to the company, he said, in an insinuating tone-" Does any on ye know of any body that's sick in these parts?"

There was a momentary pause-and then Mat Olmstead, the standing wag of the village, replied: "Nobody, I guess, unless it's Deacon Kellig's cow."

"Well," said the doctor, not at all abashed at the titter which followed"well, I can cure a cow; it's not as if I was one of your college-larnt doctors; I should then be too proud to administer to a brute. But, the scriptur' says, a marciful man is marciful to a beastand I prefer follerin' scriptur' to follerin' the fashion. If Providence has given

me a gift, I shall not refuse to bestow it on any of God's critters that stand in need on 't."

Well," said Matthew, "do you cure a cow with the same physic that you cure a man?" "Why not?" said Farnum; "it's better to be cured by chance, than killed by rule. The pint is, to get cured, in case of sickness, whether it's a beast, or a man. Nater's the great physician, and I foller that."

"What is nater?" said Olmstead. "Nater? Ah, that's the question! Nater's-nater!"

"Indeed but can't you tell us what it is?"

"I guess I could, if I tried it's the most mysteriousest thing in the univarsal world. I've looked into 't, and I know. Now, when a cow has lost the cud, so that it won't work up or down, I go to a place where there's some elder; then I cut some strips of the bark up; and I cut some on 't down; and I cut some on 't round and round. I then make a wad on 't, and put it down the cow's throat. That part of the bark that's cut up, brings the cud up; that part that's cut down, carries it down; and that part that's cut round and round,

makes it work round and round: and so, you see, there's a kind of huzzlety muzzlety, and it sets everything agoin', and all comes right, and the critter's cured as clean as mud. That's what I call nater!"

This speech was uttered with a very knowing air, and it seemed to derive additional authority from the long cue and broad brim of the speaker. He looked around, and perceived a sort of awful respect in the countenances of the hearers. Even the shrewd and satirical Matthew was cowed by the wisdom and authority of the doctor. My uncle, who had hitherto stood behind the bar, now came forward, and, sitting down by his side, inquired how it was that he had gained such a wonderful sight of knowledge.

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Why," says Farnum, "there 't is agin, squire; it's nater-it 's clear nater. I never went to college, but I had a providential insight into things from my childhood. Now, here's my but'nut physic -it's true, an Indian give me the fust notion on 't; but I brought it to perfection, from my own study into nater, Now, all them doctors' stuffs that you git at the pottekary's, is nothin' but pizen; thur's no nater in 't. My physic is all yarbs-every mite on 't. I can cure a man, woman, or child, jest as sure as a cat'll lick butter! There's no mistake."

Well, one dark, rainy night, as I was goin' along thro' some woods, thinkin' about somethin' or other, I came to a bridge over a river. The wind was blowin' desput hard, and it seemed to go through me like a hetchel through a hand of flax. I stood there a minit, and then I looked down into the dark water, wolloping along; and, thinks I, it's all exactly like human nater. Well, now, if you'll believe me, jest as that are thought crossed my mind, I heerd a hoot-owl in the woods. He hooted jest seven times, and then he stopped. Then he hooted seven times more, and so kept goin' on, till he'd hooted jest forty-nine times. Now, thinks I to myself, this must mean somethin', but I could n't tell what. I went home, but I did n't sleep any. The next day I could n't eat anything, and, in fact, I grew as thin as a June shad. All the time I was thinkin' of the bridge, and the wind whistlin', and the river, and the dark rollin' water, and the hoot-owl that spoke to me seven times seven times.

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Well, now, there was an Indian in the place, who was famous for curin' all sorts of diseases with yarbs. I went to see him one day, and tell'd him I was sick. He ax'd me what, was the matter, and I related the story of the owl. 'You. are the man I have been seeking for,' said he. The spirit of the night has told me that I shall soon die; and he has commanded me to give my secret to one that shall be sent. In seven weeks from the time that you were at the bridge, meet me there at midnight."

"True to the appointment, I went to the bridge. It was a rainy night agin, and agin the wind howled over the bridge-agin the owl was there, and agin he lifted up his voice forty-nine times. At that moment I saw the dark Indian come upon the bridge. He then told me his secret. Man,' said he, 'is subject to seven times seven diseases;