One of the most remarkable birds in the North American fauna is the Chimney Swift, or, as it is probably better known, the Chimney Swallow. It is remarkable in more ways than one and offers the lover of Nature a wide field for study. It is a sooty-brown color; its length is about five inches, the wing the same; tail about two inches. One of the peculiarities of this bird is that it never alights on the branches of trees or on the ground, nor on the flat roofs of houses, on rocks, or any place except on the inside of chimneys. Like the martins, however, it formerly did roost in the cornices of high buildings in cities. The bird lives exclusively upon winged insects, and it is almost constantly flying. Its flight is rapid, nervous, and flickering, so much so that the correct form of its body cannot be distinctly outlined by the naked eye. Its twittering notes while flying match the flickering of its wings. You must have a specimen of the bird in hand before you can determine its actual form and other peculiarities. The shafts of its tail-feathers extend out into points like those of needles; and the bird, upon alighting in the chimney, presses these points close to the wall, and there it rests as easily and firmly as any bird on a branch. When the country was first settled this species was known to breed only in the hollow trunks of forest trees, but as soon as the chimneys of dwellings erected by civilized man presented greater convenience and better security against enemies, this bird forsook its primitive nesting-places, and now only in remote regions or wild portions of the country, where natural facilities are still afforded, is it found breeding in the hollows of decaying trees.

The progress of civilization has brought about conditions and causes that have given rise to this bird's common and now appropriate name. The chimney swifts frequently nest in the chimney of a quiet farmhouse, and, when the young accidentally fall out of the nest and tumble all the way down into the grate, grandma gives the alarm that spooks or goblins are in the house. The large, unused chimneys of mills and factories are favorite resorts for countless numbers of these birds. It is a wonderful sight to witness them manœuvre in vast numbers when they are about to retire for the night. Just about sundown, when the last rays of the monarch of light are disappearing, when the

western sky is calm and beautiful, they seem to come from all directions, as if driven by a whirlwind, circle round and round, and drop into the mouth of the old chimney like exhausted rockets. Some have gone too far away from home to play, but presently you will see the last two or three drop into the chimney when their forms are scarcely visible. The nest of the chimney swift is truly unique. It is a beautiful semicircular basket made of small dead twigs of nearly uniform length and thickness, and when attached to the inside of a chimney is placed sufficiently below the top to be protected from the rays of the sun. The twigs are broken from trees by the birds while on the wing. They are all strongly cemented together and fastened to the wall with the saliva of the birds. This glue-like substance dries and hardens, and becomes so firm that, when the nest is separated from the sides of chimneys, portions of the brick to which it is fastened often adhere to the structure. A chemical analysis of this bird's nest, made for me by Professor Weber, chemist of the Ohio State University, proves conclusively that the glue which they use is not from the gum of any tree, but purely an animal product. This should set at rest the claims made by a number of writers in recent periodicals that the glue of the swift is of a vegetable nature. I have several records of this bird building its nest on the rafters in barns, the position being similar to those of the barn swallow's nest.

Some renowned naturalists have asserted that the true vultures are devoid of the sense of smell. But this power does exist in these birds in an extraordinary degree, and it has lately, in several instances, been demonstrated by practical experiments. An ornithological friend of mine recently took advantage of an opportunity to test the smelling powers of the Turkey Vulture, or Turkey Buzzard as it is commonly called. My friend lives on a farm and has better advantages of studying the traits of the turkey buzzard than most people. He often wondered how this bird could locate a dead animal after he had completely covered the carcass with brushwood. One day in July two of his full-grown sheep suddenly died. The thought occurred to him to try an experiment on the buzzards which were so plentiful in his neighborhood. Placing the two dead sheep in an out-of-the-way

In the

shed which had small window holes cut in it, he awaited the decay of the animals and the appearance of buzzards. The weather was extremely warm, yet no result was noticed until the eighth day, which was the 12th of July. Early that morning he observed a number of buzzards soaring in large circles at an immense height and at a long distance from his home. The wind was blowing from the east, the buzzards were coming from the west. Odor in the atmosphere travels in concentric circles, the farther away and up from an odorous body the larger the circle. The buzzards were following these circles, lower and lower, smaller and smaller, following up the curves of scent from the decaying mass, as it were, until they had reached its fountain head. It required almost two hours before my patient and dauntless friend saw the results. In majestic circles, down, down they came on motionless wing nearer to the object of their search, each circle winding smaller as the descent was made. higher atmosphere the birds at times seemed to lose the scent and wandered many yards away from the waves of odor. Finally their gyrations became smaller as they descended nearer the decaying bodies. Circling for a few minutes above the shed where the carcasses lay, and seeing that the field was clear, several of the birds alighted on the roof of the shed while others descended to the ground and walked about the place, apparently carefully inspecting it. They lingered there fully five minutes. Seeing that the object of their search was beyond their reach, one by one they gently and gracefully lifted their sable wings and soared away. Is it necessary for any more convincing proof than this incident that vultures do possess the sense of smell in a remarkable degree? I know of another case where a canvas was placed over the carcass of a horse, completely covering it. The turkey buzzards also found this in the same manner. The flight of the turkey vulture is truly beautiful, and no landscape with its patches of green woods and grassy fields is perfect without its dignified figure, high in the air, moving in great circles, so steady, graceful, and easy, and apparently without any effort. It is a very silent bird, only uttering a hiss of defiance or warning to its neighbors when feeding, or a low guttural croak of alarm when flying low overhead.

Some of the strangest sounds in nature come from the swamp-lands, and because we cannot always discover the sources from which they originate,—the creatures who cause them, it makes the inquiry all the more interesting. None of the birds inhabiting these places have a more remarkable voice than the American Bittern. It is a common bird throughout temperate North America, but rare to nearly every one except ornithologists, on account of its retiring habits. It is a noted bird and is known by various names, such as Stake-driver, Indian Hen, Bog-bull, and Thunder-pump or Thunder-pumper. In some localities it is known as "Flyup-the-Creek," -a name more generally applied to the Little Green Heron. It is often spoken of by poets as the Booming Bittern. In the nesting season it has two distinct "love notes," that sounds precisely like thunder, as if coming from the depths of water; the other resembling the stroke of a mallet on a stake, chunk-a-lunk-chunk, quank-chunk-a lunk-chunk-hence the two or three significant names. Few naturalists, indeed, have actually seen the bittern engaged in its serenades. I have heard them many a time, but never saw the bird performing them. A naturalist friend of mine-a civil engineer-recently had the good fortune to see one of these birds engaged in "pumping," it having come within easy range of his telescope. I will describe it as nearly as possible in his own words:

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"After standing in an apparently meditative position for some time, it would slowly raise its head and stretch up its neck until its bill pointed nearly straight upwards, when it commenced by several times opening and shutting its big beak with a snap that was plainly heard, though five or six hundred feet distant; it then uttered the characteristic notes, and truly it sounds much like 'pumping,' for each syllable seems to originate deep in the interior of the bird, and to be ejected only with the greatest muscular exertion; puffing out its feathers and working its long neck up and down, as if choking to death. After a short season of rest to recuperate its strength, the performance is again repeated, and doubtless, to its mate engaged in her maternal duties, is the sweetest of music.»

The American bittern never associates with other species of heron, and is not even fond of the society of its own kind. Like some human hermits it prefers to live solitary and alone. It does not breed in colonies, and the nest is difficult to discover.

It inhabits almost impenetrable swampy places: the bog, the reedy marsh, and the tangled brake. In such places the little .Rails play and nest in the reeds and rushes. Here also you can hear the splash of the Kingfisher as he plunges for his finny prey, and when you hear his rattling notes you may know he is carrying it triumphantly away. On the naked trunk of a sycamore is heard the drum of the Flicker, and now and then he pauses to say emphatically, Quit you, quit you, quit you. In the bushes the little Maryland Yellow

throat keeps up his incessant Tackle me, tackle me, tackle me. Here at dawn of day the frogs are still croaking and the hollow notes of the Rain Crow warn us of the coming storm. Suddenly we are astonished to hear thunder beneath a clear sky; but presently we know the alarm is false, for we hear the bittern beginning his day's work by driving his stake in the marsh, and we can distinctly hear the mallet fall, chunk-a-lunk-chunk, quank-chunk-a-lunkOLIVER DAVIE.

chunk.

COLUMBUS, OHIO.

T

HE writer's personal acquaintance with these islands was derived

from a trip through their entire length from north to south several years ago. We entered many of the ports, and, being in a sailing-vessel, were obliged to anchor frequently to prevent drifting on the rocks during the prevalent calms, and to secure fresh water and timber for replacing spars which were lost in some of the heavy squalls. We went ashore at every opportunity and thus acquired knowledge of the various islands and their interesting inhabitants.

What are the Philippines? A group of fourteen hundred islands extending from five degrees north latitude to almost the latitude of Hong Kong (220),— about as far as the distance from New Orleans to Minneapolis. If moved due west into our hemisphere they would reach from Hayti to Dutch Guiana. They are so far away from us that when the gunboat "Wilmington," exploring the Amazon, reached the head of navigation, she was in almost the antipodes of Manila. Their position is not very choice. Northward lies Formosa, the land of the "Black Flags," and to the south is Borneo, inhabited by the head-hunting Dyaks, whose idea of hospitality is to tie a visitor to four stakes in the ground and pile hot coals on his abdomen. The Philippines are larger than the New England States and the State of New York together. Luzon, the largest island, contains about one half of the total area, but the smallest can accommodate only a convention of seagulls. Probably five hundred of them are large enough to have commercial importance. Their origin is

clearly volcanic, the area of upheaval being much enlarged by the patient labor of the coral insect. The southern islands, Mindanao and the Sulu group, are the Moro country, peopled by followers of Islam and under the dominion of their sultan. The Spanish settlements here were only a few strongholds on the coast, and Spanish control was practically limited to repression of forays into the northern islands. The interior is still an unknown country, except for some explorations made by the Jesuits. Spanish authority increased toward the north,-the Visayas, or middle group, and Palawan, having been nominally subdued. Luzon is largely Spanish, but the northern part is still occupied by wild tribes.

There were only three open ports, Manila, Iloilo, and Cébu. All exports and imports had to pass through these ports to or from any of the islands, and all tobacco - a governmental monopoly - went to Manila only. The foreign trade was largely in the hands of British and German commercial houses. The banking and clerical positions of trust were held by the Chinese, and what we call the natives formed the producing and debtor class.

A more beautiful archipelago I never saw-not excepting even the Spice Islands. Some of the mountains are high enough for grandeur; a few are active volcanoes with all the spectacular features of eruption; and the nearer rocks sparkle with iridescent hues amid the rich green of the picturesque tropical foliage, while the waves of the blue or emerald sea break against white coral beaches and

rugged cliffs. Many of the islands are artistic gems, to which only the pen of a Ruskin could do justice; but the jewel is guarded by a dragon. Let the white man remain ashore during the wet season and thrust his spade into the soil, and he is fortunate if he escapes the fever. In truth, here "every prospect pleases and only man is vile;" that is, man and the ants, mosquitoes, roaches, locusts, centipedes, scorpions, tarantulas, snakes, crocodiles, and sharks. Perhaps this is unjust to the snakes, for the natives use one kind as domestic rat-catchers.

The climate is of course tropical, with three seasons, wet, hot, and dry. The dry season- November to February-is quite comfortable for Europeans in the northern islands, if they can escape nervous prostration caused by the warm sociability of the numerous creeping and wriggling population just mentioned. If there is anything calculated to banish tropical ennui, it is the excitement of turning down coverings and lifting pillows to see which of your venomous neighbors has elected to share your bed, looking through your sleeves or trousers before inserting a limb, and knocking your shoes by the heel to dislodge previous occupants. We were even obliged to insist upon firewood without adhering bark, as it furnished cozy hiding-places for picturesque horrors, and after a few narrow escapes I never plucked a banana without lifting it carefully by the end to see if some hairylegged creature was waiting for me on the other side of it.

During the hot season-August to October- a man reared in the temperate zone is almost stifled. The hot stones blister the feet; an iron railing is too hot to touch without discomfort; and the air seems baked and lifeless. My thermometer was graduated to 110° F., but the expanding mercury burst the bulb. I have sat with my face in my hands, watching the perspiration drop from my chin faster than the sun on a hot deck could dry it, and in fifteen minutes been chilled to the bone by the drenching and rapid evaporation of a rain-squall. Fortunately no one bothers much about clothes, except in the capitals. My usual costume was a cotton shirt and denim trousers, grass slippers and straw hat. This was more clothing than a half-dozen natives For full dress I added a necktie and a pair of socks.

wore.

In the wet season-March to July-you can have no scepticism about Noah. Imagine what we call a cloudburst every day for months, or several times a day, or all day and all night. Everything is soaked like a wet sponge; roads - where there are any-have no bottom, and rivers no definite top. Leather shoes mildew on your feet. Books and glued furniture fall apart, and you long to put creation through a wringer. These downpours are accompanied by heavy thunder and lightning, often of awe-inspiring grandeur; and twice a year, when the monsoons change, also during the hot months, devastating typhoons occur. During the interim earthquakes destroy your faith in anything built by either the hand of God or the hand of man, and give an extra rattle to joints already shaken by malaria. The climatic conditions which wrecked Shafter's army in Cuba are duplicated in the Philippines. If our troops surmount them in Luzon, it is no guarantee that they will not succumb further south.

The monsoons are trade winds blowing from the southwest from April to October, and from the northeast during the rest of the year. The mountainous islands are damp on the weather side and dry on the lee side. When the wind changes and blows six months from the opposite direction, the rainfall shifts to the other side of the mountains. The varying topography of the islands therefore mixes up the seasons in some localities in a way to make a Yankee feel quite at home. What is thus true of the rainfall is also true of other things. The archipelago is so large that terse generalities cannot be made to fit everywhere, any more than in our own country. The aim in this description is to give an idea of the average conditions.

The soil is wonderful in its richness, and any crop may be raised if it is not washed away, blown over, or shaken down. A thunder-squall cuts a swath a hundred yards wide through a banana grove, and in ten days you cannot locate the place through the glass. Sugar-cane, hemp, and tobacco grow with a luxuriance hard to appreciate in the temperate zone. The coal, metals, and timber are believed to be very valuable, but no white man knows much of the interior of the islands. They have never been scientifically explored, and even the best charts obtainable are inaccurate. In one place we found

a large outcrop of comparatively good coal close to a fine harbor, to which it could be run by gravity. As much of the coal used by vessels in the East is brought from Great Britain, the value of this can be appreciated. In our search for timber we found some remarkable woods. Our first cutting for a new topgallant yard was a surprise. The tree, which was shown us by the natives, was about the right size, and had been blown down and broken off to suit by a tornado. We rolled it to the beach, launched it, and took it in tow of one of the ship's boats. It sank immediately, and, slipping off a ledge into deeper water, capsized the boat. After much trouble we got it on board, but when the flinty surface had taken the edge off all the carpenter's tools, he had it thrown over the rail in disgust. We finally made the spar of a beautiful piece of mahogany.

There have been some changes in Manila since my visit. The foreign residents have succeeded in securing waterworks, and some drainage, which greatly reduced the fever in the city and vicinity. The comparative immunity of the American troops is largely due to these improvements. So much has been written about cosmopolitan Manila that I can add nothing more of consequence; but some description of Iloilo may be interesting. The straggling town nestles among the palms upon the low shore of Panay, where the strait between that island and Guimaras is narrowest. Upon a rocky point is the fort, the typical Morro of all Spanish colonial cities. There are two principal streets, one parallel with a small river, and lined with galvanized iron sugar storehouses; the other extending at right angles; and at the intersection is a plaza containing some unattractive public buildings. In the town are a few whitewashed or stuccoed masonry structures, but the native house is usually of bamboo frame. The floor joists are several feet from the ground and several inches apart. These, and the sides, ceiling, and roof are covered with matting and a palm thatch. They are very cool and comfortable in the hot season, and the space underneath forms a convenient corral for children, pigs, and poultry; but the thatched sides are exceedingly musty in wet weather, and are full of inhabitants not recognized as members of the family. The snakes and rats do battle among the rafters. Some of the

foreigners and rich Filipinos have good houses, and as there is no hotel the visitor must accept their hospitality, stay aboard ship, or join the invaders under the bamboo thatch of the Malay.

In the creek at the time of my visit lay a small American vessel. Visiting her one morning, I found the deck deserted except that in a hammock, slung under an awning, was a dead man with arms hanging down and uncovered head. Just as I was about to spread my handkerchief over his face the eyes opened, and to my intense surprise the supposed corpse whispered "Good morning." He was the boatswain, and had been sick with the fever about eight weeks, while so many of the crew had died that there were not men enough left to take the ship to

sea.

The surrounding country is as flat as an Illinois prairie, and is covered with tobacco and rice fields, sugar cane, banana groves, and patches of stately palms. In the distance is a mountain range looming through the misty air. Across the narrow strait, only a few miles wide, Guimaras rises in rugged cliffs of distorted volcanic rock. The channel lies so close to these that incoming ships sometimes scrape their yard-arms. The Morro commands the anchorage, but as its battery is not movable all vessels had to shift their positions as directed by the port captain until the guns bore upon them. This was more amusing to the spectators than to the ships' masters. There were no towboats. The tide runs like a race between the narrowing shores, and, as the bottom is rocky, anchors are frequently lost in obeying orders. Two homesick "Carabineros de Filipinos"— about as dangerous as tin soldiers were put aboard each ship to prevent contraband trade in tobacco. They regarded the salt air and good food as blessings, and their absence from Morro as a pleasant vacation. Most of the shipmasters put them to work mending the bunting as pay for their board.

When we had come to anchor in the roadstead, we saw a light gig, with yellow and red striped awning, coming out of the creek. The portly party under the awning so weighted the boat that the other end was in the air and slapped the waves at intervals only. The bow-oar frequently missed the water entirely. Coming under our stern, the official asked in very illiterate Spanish for the ship's papers, which