this intrusion, and hastily returned to defend his hearth-stone. He alighted at the door; the oriole went on eating. He rushed in, all bristled up for war; still the enemy remained busy at the fooddish, actually ignoring the presence of the outraged proprietor, who stood three inches away, in dumb amazement at such assurance. The oriole finished his repast at his leisure, and in the most natural way hopped to the upper perch as though at home, apparently not having once seen the foe. These peculiar tactics so impressed the cardinal that he meekly left the cage, and when fully ready the oriole did the same. Not for long, however; he evidently decided to take up his residence there, where no other oriole would disturb, for in a little while he returned. This time the Brazilian was at home. When the intruder reached the middle perch, the insulted resident dropped upon him, or upon the spot where he had been; for quick as thought the oriole flung himself over backward, still holding to the perch, and hung below it, quite ready to fight upside down, while the cardinal stood exactly over him, snapping his beak. In that strange position the two birds remained a few seconds; then the oriole dropped to the floor, and proceeded to help himself to a luncheon, not in the least subdued.

Nor did this rebuff alter the oriole's intention regarding the cage. In an hour he again appeared on the step. At this moment the Brazilian was close beside the door, eating. Seeing his enemy approach, he gave one spring to the other side of the door, and there stood, ready for war, uttering his most savage cry. The oriole also was ready, in his peculiar attitude, crouching, with feathers erected, especially over the shoulders, which made him look hump-backed. The cardinal "huffed" and blustered, but the patient foe still remained motionless, and relentlessly determined to go in. Now appeared a supreme effort

on the part of the householder, his master stroke: he bowed with great dignity, moving his head slowly, and when at its lowest deliberately scraped his beak on the perch, as if sharpening it for the coming contest; then drew his body up to its greatest height, and bowed again, repeating the performance. This he kept up till the oriole decided to take a more favorable time for his entrance, and for that once left the owner in possession.

The next encounter was over the bathtub, where the cardinal was spattering the water, when the oriole came down and alighted on the edge. The only thing he did was to crouch and hold his face to the foe; the cardinal bowed, scolded, circled around the dish, and met his antagonist on the edge; he hopped into the water, and tried to be brave enough to go on, then retreated a moment to the edge; lastly he flew to a perch close by and back again, snapping his beak and doing the whole thing over; but of course he gave up in the face of his tireless persecutor, when the oriole went in and took a deliberate bath.

Matters were settled between them, and their relative positions forever adjusted, by contention over some fruit. Dried currants soaked soft were the oriole's favorite dainty, and when half a dozen were thrown out for him, one morning, he hurried to the feast. He had eaten all but one, and when about to add that to the goodly number already disposed of, the cardinal alighted before it, with the evident intention of appropriating it to his own use, though he did not care for currants. Not at all flurried, but firmly resolved to secure that bit of fruit, the oriole crouched so flat that he looked as if he had no legs, shoulder feathers erected, and beak turned towards his antagonist, while the cardinal stretched up very tall, feathers puffed out, wings opened, and almost leaning over his rival. After a little of this

attitudinizing the cardinal picked up the object of dispute. Seeing it about to disappear, the oriole suddenly lost his calmness, and snatched at it. Both held on, and there was a droll tug of war for a few seconds, till the oriole carried off the trophy.

In a similar manner this bird vanquished a big blustering robin, and won the freedom of his cage. The robin clattered his beak at his motionless, persistent foe, and looked as savage as he could, but after a few demonstrations retired to the upper perches, while the interloper ate and drank as he liked. On his second visit he mounted the middle perch, and stood for a moment quiet, while the robin jumped back and forth on the upper perches with cries and hostile actions, then sprang up and seized the perch close to the feet of the robin, hanging back down, quite ready to fight if fight it must be in that attitude. This unnatural performance so startled the robin that he at once departed, while the impish oriole swung there sev eral seconds before he assumed a proper position.

I was no more successful than the indignant householders in getting this mischief-maker out of a cage he wished to be in. None of the usual devices had the smallest effect, and I had to catch him in my hand, or remove the food. He had a very tender care of his stomach, and never stayed long where there was nothing to eat. It was curious that the oriole's peculiar attitude was SO impressive that, although he did absolutely nothing, no bird ventured to touch him. The robin could have hurt him badly with his strong beak, but he never seemed to dare attack him.

The dignity of this bird deserted him, however, when he saw another oriole in the looking-glass. This was plainly a foeman worthy of his steel; he instantly pounced upon it, driving furiously at the enemy, and uttering a harsh "churr-r." Again and again he hopped upon the

cushion, stretched up, promenaded the whole length of the glass, and hurled himself savagely against it. The second time he noticed the glass, his reception of the stranger he saw there was different. He saluted it with the sweet, low oriole call, lifted the feathers on his shoulders, spread wide his tail, and shook out all his plumage. Finding that neither scolding nor coaxing had any effect, he met the tantalizing figure in still another way: he grieved over it, laid his wings upon his back, spread his tail like a fan, and swelled out his breast feathers. After a few moments he turned as if to go away, wings drooping, and all the time breathing a low, plaintive cry that was really mournful to hear. Finally he drew his head down into his shoulders, and stood silent and motionless. Thus he remained a half hour or more, and then tore himself away with difficulty, looking back, and calling every step or two as he went.

All the time that the oriole had occupied himself establishing his rights in the room, his cage-mate had been settling her own troubles. Though not exactly in his way, her tactics were equally successful.

One had no right to expect sociability between a pair living in mere tolerance of each other, and yet I was disappointed that they did not talk together. I wanted to hear them, but I listened in vain for weeks. In sight or out of sight, it made no difference; they were the same taciturn couple, each occupied in its own way, and never exchanging a note. But at last I caught them. At night, during the winter, each cage was closely wrapped in a thick, warm cover, and before this was taken off in the morning I began to murs from the orioles. a complaining tone, as if do you treat me thus?

hear low mur

One spoke in it said, "Why and the other

of pitch, inflection, and duration of note, accompanied often by a hopping back and forth, as if the listener were inattentive. Wishing to see as well as hear this little domestic drama, I took care to arrange the covering in such a way that I could peep in without disturbing it. Then I saw the lordly Baltimore on the middle perch, leaning over and looking at his mate on the floor. He addressed her in a tone so low that it was scarcely audible at the distance of one foot, and she replied in the fretful voice I have spoken of. Then he began hopping from perch to perch, occasionally pausing to take his part in the conversation, which was kept up till they saw

me.

Not all the time of the beautiful orioles was passed in contentions; once having placed themselves on what they considered their proper footing in the family, they had leisure for other things. No more entertaining birds ever lived in the room; full of intelligent curiosity as they were, and industriously studying out the idiosyncrasies of human surroundings in ways peculiarly their own, they pried into and under everything, -opened the match-safe and threw out the contents, tore the paper off the wall in great patches, pecked the backs of books, and probed every hole and crack with their sharp beaks. They ate very daintily, and, as mentioned above, were exceedingly fond of dried currants. For this little treat the male soon learned to tease, alighting on the desk, looking wistfully at the little china box whence he knew they came, wiping his bill, and, in language plain enough to a birdstudent, asking for some. He even went so far, when I did not at once take the hint, as to address me in low, coaxing talk of very sweet and varied tones. Still I was deaf, and he came within two feet of me, uttering the halfsinging talk, and later burst into song as his supreme effort at pleasing or propitiating the dispenser of dainties. I

need not say that he had his fill after that.

On the 24th of April, spring emotions began to work in the oriole family. The first symptom was a song, so low it was scarcely heard, though the agitation of the singer, with head thrown up and tail quivering, was plainly enough seen. As it grew in volume from day to day, it proved to be totally different from the beautiful oriole strain of four or six notes so familiar during the nesting season. It was a long-continued melody, of considerable variety. with an occasional interpolation of the common scolding "chur-r-r." After a month (lacking three days) of this lovely chant, the usual June carol was added, and from this time he sang the two. Both birds also treated us to the several calls we are accustomed to hear in the orchard in that perfect month.

Shortly following the beginning of the second and more familiar song, a change appeared in the relations of the pair. The male assumed the aggressive, and became rather violent in his attentions. He drove his mate around the room, and when he cornered her they indulged in what must be called a "clawing match," upon which he flew away with a loud song, as though he had won a victory. When this performance had gone on a few days, she began to show a disinclination to go home, took possession of another cage whose owner was amiable, and finally turned upon her rough wooer, as I suppose he must be named, though if I had not seen a similar style of courtship in the oriole family the orchard orioles I should hesitate to give it that name. One morning she rose in her might to put an end to all this persecution, and I saw her on the war-path, pursuing him with open beak; but after fleeing a moment, he turned and flung himself upon her so savagely that both flew violently against the window, which they had not touched for months, being perfectly aware of the

obstacle there. However, he changed his manners, and I heard much low, sweet talk in the cage, such as he had used to coax me for currants. She listened, but said nothing. I neglected to say that meanwhile she had replaced her scraggy feathers and grown a fine tail.

Another time I saw the two orioles on top of a cage, six or eight inches apart. First she stretched up and faced him, uttering a peculiar cry, a single note of rich but mournful tone, and then she bowed again and again, constantly

repeating the call. He posed, turned this way and that, evidently aching to fly at her. At last she flew, and he followed to another cage, where the performance was repeated. Then came a mad chase around the room, which she ended by slipping behind a large cage.

For some days these scenes were frequent, and I began to feel myself a jailer; so one morning they were carried to the country, where sparrows would not mob them, and set at liberty to pursue their wooing, if such it were, in freedom. Olive Thorne Miller.

THIS personal history of Emerson by his son brings biography back to that old simpler form in which it is most interesting; for though the study of a man's works reveals his character, it is the description of himself and his ways which is the heart of a memoir. In Mr. Cabot's admirable Life there was a lack of this latter element. Emerson appeared in it in a most abstract form, almost a spirituality. Here he is the citizen, neighbor, and friend, the son, husband, and father; and while his specific character as a literary man and the tone of his thinking are continually present even in this memoir, they are not allowed to usurp the first place.

The volume is made up mostly of anecdotes and quotations from the journals which he so faithfully kept, - a mosaic of reminiscences; but a certain order has been observed, which gives unity to the story, and carries it on regularly from boyhood to age. The earlier por

hold in the intellectual life of the world is rapidly passed over, but not without affording a complete picture of a characteristic home of the old time. The Spartan severity of these days is most powerfully illustrated by the letter which Emerson's mother wrote to him on the occasion of his telling her that he was comfortably situated at college. "My dear son," she says, "you did right to give me so early a proof of your affection as to write me the first week of your college life. Everything respecting you is doubtless interesting to me, but your domestic arrangements the least of anything, as these make no part of the man or the character, any further than he learns humility from his dependence on such trifles as convenient accommodations for his happiness." She goes on to inculcate the necessity of moral improvement and progress in virtue as the one thing needful. This was heroic treatment, but was undoubtedly the habitual tone of thought in which the family was reared. The success of the children in maintaining high aims and ever pressing forward toward their setts. By EDWARD WALDO EMERSON. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1889.

achievement is the justification for such education, though in our days it would be accounted unnecessarily harsh and ascetic.

The character of Emerson, however, as we know him, was not fully declared until his fortunate settlement in Concord. There he began to form the ties and enter into those relations with men which made up his social life. He felt his scholarly solitariness, but he did not fail to form such connections as were possible with the life of the community. He easily took a certain position as a speaker and lecturer, and it was by virtue of his capacities in this direction that he came nearest to his fellow-townsmen. He was, by that touch of broad humor often to be found in rural places, first made hog-reeve, an office bestowed, it is said, on the newly married man. He was doubtless more useful upon the school board and as a member of the village club. He naturally could have little part in the church life, but he began by attending church with his neighbors; and he had but small share in the townmeeting, which nevertheless he always participated in as an interested and appreciative spectator. A certain "divinity" hedged him in, and kept him aloof from that common life and conversation which usually were interrupted by his entrance among the group at the grocery or the blacksmith's; he might talk with stage-drivers and fishermen, and his companions in travel to the city, as he liked to do, but he could not be among them on the same footing. "Fools and clowns and sots make the fringe of every one's tapestry of life, and give a certain reality to the picture. What could we do in Concord without Bigelow's and Mason's bar-rooms and their dependencies? What without such fixtures as Uncle Sol, and old Moore who sleeps in Dr. Hurd's barn, and the red charity - house over the brook?" But these were more attractive to him at a distance, and through

the medium, as it were, of Wordsworth's poetry, than they would have been on closer acquaintance. He did not often come in contact with this side of life. Once, indeed, his son relates, when the bar-room wits hung a sign out at the Middlesex stable, insulting to an esteemed doctor of the town who was a temperance advocate, Emerson beat it down with his cane; and he goes on, "In the afternoon when I went to school, I remember my mortification at seeing a new board hanging there, with a painting of a man with a tall hat, long nose, and hooked cane raised aloft; and lest the portrait might not be recognized, the inscription, 'Rev. R. W. E. knocking down the sign.'" This, he says, was the only incivility ever shown his father. He tells, however, of a bad neighbor who moved an unsightly building on to the lot before Emerson's house, to blackmail him; but this was quickly removed by a band of young "White-Caps," an organization always potential in an Anglo-Saxon community, who, "uniformed in green baize jackets lent from Mrs. Rice's store, silently marched in the night to the spot, pulled the old frame down with a crash, and withdrew with some speed, vainly pursued by the enraged owner." These occasional glimpses of the village are interesting, and at times, in connection with them, one comes on a fine country anecdote. There is nothing better in this way than George Minot's excuse to Emerson for not going to town-meeting in abolition times: "No, I ain't goin'. It's no use a-ballotin', for it won't stay. What you do with a gun will stay so."

Besides Emerson's general townspeople, we find mention of his literary friends, Alcott, Thoreau, Hawthorne, and William Ellery Channing, and of course the whole race of nameless longhaired reformers who were always trooping in and out. The more entertaining portion is that which has to do with the work of the garden. In tilling his acres