other; and I am glad of it, for it is fit the wretch should have something to content herself with."

The word "wretch," as here used, does not imply that Mrs. Pepys was a wretched woman, but was rather a term of endearment.

Shakespeare, as well as Chaucer, Donne, Drayton, Lydgate, and other poets of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, allude to this festal day. In one of Gray's poems he mentions the fact of the current belief that the first unmarried person of the other sex whom one met on St. Valentine's Day under any circumstances, but particularly when walking out, was destined to be a wife or husband. Gray makes a country dame say,

Thee first I spied, and the first swain we see,
In spite of fortune shall our true love be."

The

Among the great variety of occult devices practised on the eve of Valentine's Day was one which was sufficiently heroic to deserve a favorable response. anxious maiden must secure five bayleaves, pin one to each corner of the pillow, and the fifth in the middle, and then the man of whom she dreamed would assuredly marry her before the year closed. But if she wished to make assurance doubly sure there was virtue in boiling an egg hard, removing the yolk, and filling the cavity with salt; this was to be eaten just on going to bed, salt, shell, and all, without speaking or drinking after it. The artless votary of this superstition thus records to a friend her gratifying

success:

"Would you think it? Mr. Blossom was my man. I lay abed and shut my eyes all the morning, till he came to our house; for I would not have seen any man before him for the world.»

Although the day has degenerated from the olden-time festival, the children still find pleasure in the recurrence of the anniversary of this ancient saint. The missives that fill the shop windows about the 14th of February are sometimes romantic or sentimental in verse and design, but more frequently ridiculous caricatures, highly colored, with either jocular or cffensive stanzas. Still the custom prevails of sending anonymous communications upon the day, as the postman burdened with thousands of letters will testify; these are mostly contributed by school-children or people of the humbler class.

"The Easy Chair," in a somewhat cynical way, says:

"On St. Valentine's Day Romeo may throw his heart at the feet of Juliet, but she may not pick it up. He may offer her his life, his hope, his fortune, his all; but it must be to her only as the offer of a Spanish host, who places his house and all it contains at your disposal. On Valentine's Day lovers talk Spanish."

Although the festival is relegated quite to the rear of the long list of social observances, it is not very long ago that quite a stir would be caused in any household where there were young people, by the return of the anniversary of this legendary saint.

There was a period of remarkable lovetokens, gilt-edged, and made in lace-like designs; for a decoration there might be a brace of hearts impaled with an arrow, or a gilded bird-cage, which, when a silken cord was pulled, brought to view an altar where Hymen, with Cupid as an attendant, was waiting in a most suggestive manner. Another favorite style was a screen of silver and lace, bearing the device, "Look at my love," and, this lifted, the maiden beheld her own face in a tiny mirror.

In those days ridiculous caricatures and scurrilous rhymes were unknown. There was also a period when letters often contained a courteous expression of attachment, with possible compliments regarding personal charms, and the hope that the affection might be reciprocated.

The annals of valentine lore of this period contain some original stanzas, sweet and strong, which were made the vehicle of declaring the real passion. Undoubtedly, an honest expression of genuine affection, even if possessed of little poetic merit, in the mind of a sensible maiden would outweigh any amount of elaborate decorations surrounding the made-toorder verses.

A very delightful way of remembering the day and the maiden fair is by a gift of flowers, whose fragrance may plead successfully the suit the bashful lover dare not breathe in words. But though the day be the festival of spring and hope and youth, yet such a commemoration may include the older ones in years, not in heart. For, years ago, a sweet story was told of a certain grandfather, who was also a poet, who, on the day of the kindly saint, sent to the wife of his youth

A

SPEEDING railway train is not sup

posed to be a conveyance from which we can easily form bird acquaintances. The speed of the train alone, permitting but momentary glimpses of our feathered friends, prevents one from learning much about ornithology; and, moreover, the observer must of a necessity know the birds before he begins his patient discernment from a car window.

The fifty birds described in this paper constitute a partial list of the feathered tribe noted by the writer from a railway carriage at different seasons of the year. The observations were made in the vicinity of America's metropolis.

On a frosty January morning I beheld three large goshawks as the train was passing a swamp. They were unusually common that winter; and their large size and eagle-like demeanor added much to nature's barren attractions.

The goshawk (its name a contraction of goosehawk) cares little for the noise of the railroad train, but draws himself up on his perch with a somewhat haughty air.

Clambering up another swamp tree just beyond the goshawks were a hairy and two downy woodpeckers, seeking their food with laudable industry. To the unpractised eye these two birds seem nearly alike, so closely does the plumage of one resemble that of the other.

The

principal difference between them, however, is the superior size of the hairy woodpecker, which bird particularly attracted my attention because in severe winters he is much less common than his downy cousin.

Several rods below where a railway bridge crosses a small river, a belted kingfisher is wont to perch on an overhanging willow. More than once I have seen him pondering there, and very seldom were his reflections allowed to be disturbed by the train thundering past so close to him. Few birds add more life to the picturesque brooks than the kingfisher, now perching on some rotting swamp tree, or skimming the surface of the stream in search of his prey.

As the train whirls on through the January weather, constantly unfolding new panoramas, a group of a dozen blackcapped chickadees comes into view in another portion of the swamp, their every action betokening their happy temperament, no matter how cold the weather. Their contented disposition is worthy of man's highest emulation; it is deserving of that panegyric which Emerson indited to him, entitled "The Titmouse."

As night approaches a white-breasted nuthatch and an American creeper may be seen clinging to the decaying wood of an old rail fence two rods away. While the nuthatch seemed astonished at the rum

bling train, the creeper was in no wise curious. From the momentary glance afforded it would seem that the nuthatch regarded this flying machine as of the utmost importance, but that the creeper deemed it as in no way pertinent to his affairs.

When thus watching the birds from the car window, it has been a matter of interest to note in what manner each of them is disturbed by the express. Some are so frightened that they immediately fly off in the opposite direction; while others, in their bewilderment, follow along beside the train, or even, dashing against it, are hurled to instant death. Many birds are but temporarily aroused, and return to their former employment as soon as the noise of the train becomes less audible. And yet some birds are so used to man's progress that they can sit quietly viewing the noisy flight of the midday express.

In nearly every field beside the railroad troops of slate-colored juncos and treesparrows suddenly fly up at the approach of the locomotive, like the scattering of leaves before an autumn gale. The slatecolored junco seems to harmonize with winter scenery more than any other bird, because his white and slaty-black plumage is most attractive when the fields are lying deep under a heavy snowfall. Out in such snowbanks I have seen that admirable linguist, the tree-sparrow, which, with his bell-like melodies, seems to belong to spring rather than to winter, notwithstanding the fact that my acquaintance with this Canadian visitor is chiefly connected with the cold months.

But I am not the only one in the car to observe the birds. Not many seats in front of me is a young woman student of ornithology, but alas, her subjects of interest are the stuffed birds adorning the bonnets of other women. Let us examine the species that such an exhibition flaunts before us. There are gulls, blackbirds, humming-birds, sparrows, buntings, warblers, not to mention sections of other valuable individuals of the bird kingdom. There is one bonnet bearing a plume which may have been torn from the white egret, a bird reported as being nearly extinct through the merciless raids of the plumage-hunters. These cruel butchers are making inroads upon others of the feathered race, so that the time may come when many of our beautiful

winged friends will be exterminated because of a fashion which is nothing more than a relic of barbarity. Nature, thus robbed of her children, will repay their murders tenfold. It will be learned then that society must obey the mandates of nature, and not nature the mandates of society.

It is always a pleasant time for the carwindow observer when the first robin and

bluebird appear. In March I noticed them two or three days before their advent at a point twenty-five miles farther north. Both the robins and the bluebirds often accompany the express for some distance; and on such occasions I have compared their speed with man's swiftest conveyance. By calculating the rate at which the train was travelling, and the flight of its winged companions, I have gained an impression that at times the bluebird and robin fly more rapidly than is generally imagined.

Near the robins I noticed more than one group of American goldfinches. Many of these had remained with us throughout the cold season, and still kept their dull winter plumage notwithstanding spring had arrived.

On several mornings a sparrow-hawk was to be seen perched in a dead willow as we whirled by his retreat; and I noticed that this smallest and handsomest of our hawks was undisturbed by the train, while his relative, the pigeon-hawk, usually retreated at our coming.

From a car window it is somewhat difficult to distinguish the yellow-billed and the black-billed cuckoos. Not the speed of the train alone, but the similarity in form and plumage of these individuals seem to prevent the observer from identifying them. Even the most experienced and discerning eye is inclined to confuse one cuckoo with the other, unless the conditions of the instantaneous glimpse are especially favorable. Such observations, though often failing to reveal a bird's identity, are not always futile occupations, since they give the sight a proper and usually much needed training. The eye of the ornithologist will discover fifty or sixty birds in the woods and meadows where an ordinary person, though he makes a determined effort, will not discern more than a third of that number. It may be true that the keen ornithologist is favorably endowed by nature with penetrating sight, but constant use of his eyes has doubled his power

of vision, as it should do for anyone who desires to improve this sense.

Even more plentiful than the common downy woodpecker is his larger cousin, the beautiful golden-winged woodpecker. A half dozen of these birds, one warm mid-April day, were examining the bark of decaying trees and discoursing about some parable of nature. While the cars were running with the least noise, I caught several notes through the open window from a golden-winged woodpecker, which gave the bird a pompous manner, both from the inflection of his syllables and his mien when delivering them. The golden-wing is not a very swift flyer, with his noticeable undulating flight, which, from its peculiar movements, informs us of the bird's name when he is half a mile distant across the fields.

Sometimes, the tiny ruby-throated humming-bird is to be seen perched on a slender branch, undaunted by the noisy train. Such diminutive residents of our latitudes will generally escape the notice of those who have not the quickest and sharpest discernment,- at least from the windows of the car. There is a certain degree of nobility about the trim little form of the humming-bird which is suggestive to me of the eagle. Whether he can fly as swiftly as this last bird I do not know, nor have I seen him try his speed with the railroad train; but if such an effort should be made, the humming-bird would doubtless prove his superior rapidity.

Certainly that bird of marvellous flight, the chimney swift, would have no trouble to pass the express, as he cleaves the air on lightning wing, dashing straight forward at a dizzy altitude, or skimming the surface of the meadows or sheets of water that lie along the margin of the track.

Another bird apparently as tireless on the wing as is the chimney swift is the nighthawk, which is especially noticeable on dark and cloudy mornings and in the twilight. A moonlit evening of spring has revealed more than one nighthawk aloft over the silvered woods and fields. Sometimes I have fancied seeing his form flitting through the night's shadows when there was no moon; and thus I have been enabled to study ornithology from the car window under both sun and stars.

From his throne on the telegraph wires the doughty kingbird inspects the rushing train, unmindful of its noise.

It

is not uncommon, from the car window, to see the kingbird in fierce pursuit of a crow or hawk, doubtless to the extreme disgust of these latter birds, because they are obliged to retreat before so small an adversary.

The phobe-bird looks like a smaller kingbird as it perches on some conspicuous dead limb, surveying the clouds of insects which collect along the railway. The phoebe-bird finds a niche in the heart of every lover of Nature - a maiden who, it may be whispered, never repulses her most humble admirers.

On a cool May morning the elegant attire of the yellow-throated vireo may be seen moving about the willows; and in the same spot a wood-thrush may be heard communing with the latent joys of nature that we have yet to know. In his own masterly way he sends such music into the world as was never heard elsewhere; not even the nightingale or the skylark ever approached the peculiar and beautiful themes interpreted by the wood-thrush. Most readers have a predilection for the songs of the nightingale and skylark, but few have heard or even formed an opinion about the melody of the wood-thrush, that Chopin of bird musicians.

Not far from the railway a pair of brown thrashers building a nest in a shrub jerk their long tails somewhat angrily at being interrupted by the express, which blundered too near the thrasher residence to have their best approval. In a brier-bush overhanging the water of a swamp two saucy catbirds are already sitting upon four green eggs. At first the train frightened the hovering bird from the nest, until, becoming accustomed to the noise, she remained on the eggs unmindful of the tumult.

The following afternoon, while looking toward the catbirds' nest, I saw a handsome trio of warblers. There were the black-and-white creeping warbler, the American redstart, and the yellow warbler. The last bird is more a tenant of the underbrush around the water than his two companions, and against the subdued tint of the foliage his dainty yellow plumage makes him more conspicuous than many birds of the lowlands. No less handsome is the active American redstart, flitting about in the tallest tree and from that to the lowest shrub, with his tail spreading out fan-like with nearly every movement. Following him through the woodland is his

mate of duller plumage, very proud, indeed, to call attention to the superior excellence of her gayly-plumed lord. For that one reason I fear she will never secure favor from our woman suffragists, who would consider this action as perfidy to their sex. Mrs. Redstart should treat her spouse more severely, to let him know of her importance, whether such treatment is necessary or not.

My record begins again with summer heat and drought, when the birds keep in the shady retreats during the warmth of the day; and, choked with dust, the daisies growing on the banks of the railroad look heavenward for the long expected rain. While the summer sun is at his meridian, every cloud seems like a snowdrift thrice purified by his tempering furnace, and then cast into the glimmering ocean of blue, there to drift about, never touching anything but brother clouds, all in quest of, though never reaching, some fabulous land of the sky.

An American osprey peers into the river in rather a lazy fashion, more intent upon a siesta at noonday than about catching the fish in the pool underneath his tree. As the train rushes by, the osprey arouses himself sufficiently to shift his position from a lower to a higher branch, where he droops into a more meditative condition than before. Several miles beyond, another bird of prey, the marsh-hawk, skims heavily over the low-lying meadows to reach a wooded swamp near the river, where, without doubt, his nesting mate waits the arrival of her lord.

The scarlet tanagers, with their plumage of fire and black wings and tail, are like messengers from the sun-gods flitting through the holocaust of summer. They hold their beaks wide agape to catch whatever benediction the slight breeze has to offer.

Regardless of the scorching heat, rows of bank and barn swallows sit along the telegraph wires, and though momentarily frightened away by the noisy train they quickly settle down again. The firstnamed birds have their nests in holes which they make in a clay bank; while the latter claim a neighboring barn as their shelter from heat and storm.

Two of our famous singing-birds are the field and song sparrows, which may be seen from the car window from March until November, rising from the fields and marshes along the railway. They

migrate in winter and are absent about three months, though we seem to miss them for a longer term. This brief absence endears the birds to us more than if they never departed from the northern States. When frightened by the train, these two sparrows fly but a short distance before alighting in a thicket or clump of weeds, and, often, when the train is proceeding with less commotion than usual, they are not disturbed at all. Neither of these birds is of bright plumage, so that the passenger, unless he is a close observer, will probably miss the unpretending minstrels which, with their unconscious manner, deliver such sweet pastorals for the benefit of nature, and for whosoever feels the thrill from the woods and fields running through his veins.

One of the fairest of nature's children is the indigo bunting, a bird often resorting to the telegraph wires, but usually to be seen fluttering along the margins of the woodlands, with his blue vestments gleaming from the underbrush wherever the screening leaves are more open; and not infrequently he mounts to a higher post to survey the horizon. I have watched this minstrel from the window of my vehicle when he was in a song attitude; but, though I listened, every other sound was overcome by the rolling wheels. I once caught a glimpse of a nest in a hazel bush which I concluded was the property of the indigo bunting, a thought greatly strengthened by seeing a male and female bunting not a rod distant from the little home.

Here we pass a happy bobolink swaying on a reed, with his devil-may-care manner, which would give most passengers the impression that he was but an idle singing fellow, and to be appreciated for this reason alone. Let us take a pencil and paper, utilizing the sill of the car window for a table, and see if the bobolink is worth more than his music.

His food is chiefly the grubs and other destructive insects of the fields and meadows, and therefore the bird must be very beneficial to agriculturists. Suppose that a pair of bobolinks arriving in the Empire State on the 5th of May remain until the 5th of September before returning to the South; and that by the 5th of June their brood of four young break from the eggshells to tarry with us until their parents depart. Let us suppose further that the birds are awake each day, or mainly