soil. At such times undrained land becomes saturated with the chilly water, and for this and other reasons it has 'been observed that the effect of draining land is the same as if it had been removed one hundred miles to the :southward. It is not, therefore, surprising that in many countries considerable attention is given to the work of observing the snow, so that ample warning may be given to those whom it may concern of the time when it is beginning to melt.

Both when on the ground and when it melts it will therefore be seen that Knowledge.

snow is constantly modifying the temperature of its surroundings. On the winds also which blow to and from the snow-covered areas these changes have also their effects, so that in studying climatic conditions it is imperative to know the times and seasons when a given locality is covered with snow. As already mentioned, to follow the biography of a snowflake to the end, something should be said concerning glaciers and icebergs; but it is sufficient for present purposes to call attention to them, with the observation that they were built by the snowflakes.

Arthur H. Bell.

The final end and aim of all the gatherings, flights, circlings and other "skiey" evolutions of starlings at the close of each day is, of course, the entry into that dark wood where in "numbers numberless" yet packed into a wonderfully small space, they pass the night, clinging beneath every leaf, like the dreams that Vergil speaks of. This entry they accomplish in various ways. Sometimes, but rarely, they descend out of their brown firmament in one perpetual rushing stream which seems to be sucked down by a reversed application of the principle on which the column of a water-spout is sucked up from ocean; but their general plan is to settle, somewhere, in the neighborhood of their sleepingplace before finally passing to it. They may swarm into the adjacent hedges along the line of which they move like uproarious rivers of violent life and joy, in them and just above them, and should there happen to be another thicket or plantation, a field or so from their chosen one, it is much their habit

to enter this first and fly from it to the latter. This passage from the ante or drawing-room to the dormitory is an interesting thing to watch, but it does not take place till after a considerable interval, during which the birds talk and seem to be preparing themselves for going to bed. At last they are ready or the proper time has arrived. The sun has sunk and the still evening waits for the stealing night. The babbling sing-song, though swollen, now, to its greatest volume, seemssuch are the harmonies of nature-to have more of silence in it than of sound, but all at once, it changes to a sudden roar of wings as the birds whirl up and fly across the intervening space to their final resting-place. It seems then as though all had risen at one and the same moment, but, had they done so, the plantation would now be empty whilst the entire sky above it would be darkened by an immense host of birds. This, however, is not the case. There is, indeed, a continuous stream of them from the planta

tion, but all or most of the while that it is flowing the plantation itself must be stocked with still vaster numbers, since it takes, as a rule, about half an hour for it to become empty. It is drained, in fact, as a broad sheet of water would be by a constant narrower outflow, taking the actual water to represent the birds. Thus, though the exodus commences with suddenness, it is gradually accomplished, and this gives the idea of method and sequence in its accomplishment. The mere fact that a proportion of the birds resist, even up to the last moment, the impulse to flight, which so many rushing pinions but just above their heads may be supposed to communicate, suggests some reason for such self-restraint, and gradually, as one watches-especially if one comes night after night-the reason begins to appear. For a long time the current of flight flows on uninterruptedly, hiding with its mantle whatever of form or substance may lie beneath. But at last the numbers begin to wane, the speed, at least in appearance, to flag, and it is then seen that the starlings are flying in bands of comparatively moderate size, which follow each other at longer or shorter intervals. Sometimes there is a clear gap, which may be wide or narrow, between band and band, sometimes the leaders of the one are but barely separated from the laggards of the other, sometimes they overlap but, even here, their existence is plain and unmistakable. This, as I have said, is towards the end of the flight. On most occasions as on this that I have been imagining, nothing of the sort is to be seen at its beginning. There is a sudden outrush and no division in the continuous line is perceptible. Occasionally, however, the exodus begins in much the same way as it ends, one troop of birds following another, until soon there ceases to be any interval between them. But though this band

formation is now masked to the eye, one may suppose that it still exists and that, as there are unseen currents in the ocean, so this great and apparently promiscuous stream of birds is made up of innumerable small bands or regiments which, though distinct and capable at any moment of acting independently, are so mingled together that they present the appearance of an indiscriminate host moving without order and constructed upon no more complex principle of subdivision than that of the individual unit. There is another phenomenon to be observed in these last flights of the starlings which appears to me to offer additional evidence of this being the case. Supposing there to be a hedge or any other shelter in the birds' course, one can, by stooping behind it, remain concealed or unthought of whilst they pass directly overhead. One then notices that there is a constant and, to some extent, regular rising and sinking of the rushing noise made by their wings. It is like rush after rush, a maximum roar of sound, quickly diminishing, then another roar, and so on in unvarying or little varying succession. Why should this be? That at more or less regular intervals those birds that happened to be passing just above one should fly faster, thereby increasing the sound made by their wings, and that this should continue during the whole flight does not seem likely. It would be method without meaning. But supposing that, at certain points, the living stream were composed of greater multitudes of birds than in the intermediate spaces, then, at intervals, as these greater multitudes passed above one, there would be an accentuation of the uniform rushing sound. Now, in a moderate-sized band of starlings, flying rapidly, there is often a thin forward or apex end, which increases gradually, or sometimes rather suddenly to the maximum bulk in the

centre, and a hinder or tail end decreasing in the same manner. If hundreds of these bands were to fly up so quickly, one after another, that their vanguards and rearguards became intermingled or even a little absorbed into the rest, yet still the numbers of each main body ought largely to preponderate over those of the combined portions, so that here we should have a cause capable of producing the effect in question. The starlings then -this, at least, is my own conclusion -though they seem to fly all together, in one long string, really do so in regiment after regiment, and moreover there is a certain order-and that a strange one-by which these regiments leave the plantation. It is not the first ones-those, that is to say, that are stationed nearest the dormitory-that lead the flight out, but the farthest or back regiments rise first and fly successively over the heads of those in front of them. Thus the plantation is emptied from the farther end and that part of the army which was, in sitting, the rear, becomes, in flying, the van. This, at least, seems to be the rule or tendency and precisely the same thing is observable with rooks, though in both it may be partially broken and thus obscured. One must not, in the collective movements of birds expect the precision and uniformity which characterize drilled human armies. It is, rather, the blurred image of, or confused approximation towards, this that is observable, and this, perhaps, is still more interesting.

One more point; and here again, rooks and starlings closely resemble each other. It might be supposed that birds thus flying in the dusk of evening, to their resting-place, would be anxious to get there and that the last The Saturday Review.

thing to occur to them would be to turn round and fly in the opposite direction. Both here, however, and in the flights out in the morning, we have that curious phenomenon of breaking back, which, in its more salient manifestations, at least, is a truly marvellous thing to behold. With a sudden whirr of wings, the sound of which somewhat resembles that of a squall of wind, still more, perhaps, the crackling of sticks in a huge blaze of flame, first one great horde and then another tears apart, each half wheeling round in an opposite direction, with enormous velocity and such a general seeming of storm, stir and excitement as is quite indescribable. This may happen over and over again and each time it strikes one as more remarkable. It is as though a tearing hurricane had struck the advancing host of birds, rent them asunder and whirled them to right and left with the most irresistible fury. No act of volition seems adequate to account for the thing. It is like the shock of elements, but the birds are their own hurricane, and they rage in order. Having divided and whirled about in this gusty, fierce fashion, for a moment or so, they seem to hang and crowd in the air, and then-the exact process of it is hardly to be gathered-they reunite and continue to throng onwards. Sometimes, again, a certain number, flashing out of the crowd, will wheel sharply round in one direction and descend in a cloud on the bushes they have just left. In these sudden and sharply localized movements we have, perhaps, fresh evidence of that division into smaller bodies which may possibly underlie all great assemblies either of starlings or other birds.

Edmund Selous.

A biography that will live, of a man whose memory is enduring, is Bishop William Lawrence's "Roger Wolcott". (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) Written with affection but without exaggeration, compact, clear-cut, it reflects in its form and style something of the simplicity and singular beauty of the life which it commemorates. Roger Wolcott's life was one of high and fine ideals, nobly realized, and this record of it furnishes a sort of moral tonic to any who are concerned over the decadence of American public life or public men.

time reading will welcome "In Happy Far-Away Land," in which Ruth Kimball Gardiner re-tells the familiar stories in modern prose, with fantastic combinations and ingenious detail of just the sort to delight young children, incidentally eliminating the horrors and at the same time teaching helpful lessons in everyday manners and morals. A profusion of illustrations by Howard Smith adds to the attractiveness of the volume. Zimmerman's, New York.

The heroine of "Signora, A Child of the Opera House," is a tiny waif, deserted by its mother at the stage-door of a metropolitan opera house, adopted by the eccentric old doorkeeper and cared for by him in his room under the roof, and growing up as the pet and protegée of company after company. The first half of the story is exceedingly attractive, but the same intimate knowledge of life behind the scenes which enables the writer-Gustav Kobbé, the well-known musical critic -to fill out his ingenious plot with so much fascinating detail, has tempted him to introduce an excess of gossip and chit-chat in the later chapters, so that the result is less artistic than it promised to be. R. H. Russell.

If Luck and Chance did not make such sport with the fortunes of the current historical novels, one would predict a real popular success for Molly Elliot Seawell's "Francezka." A story of the time of Louis XV, told by one Babache, captain of the body-guard to Count Maurice of Saxe, and centering in the romance of a wilful young heiress of Brabant, beloved by two brothers of a resemblance striking enough to confuse their identity-it is full of

color and spirit, and holds the interest of the hardened novel-reader with a firmness surprising to himself. The denouement, in particular, shows unusual feeling for artistic effect. A conspicuous figure in the historical background is Voltaire. The Bowen-Merrill Co.

In refreshing contrast to the labored tediousness of much of our modern fiction is Booth Tarkington's new novel, "The Two Vanrevels." Time and space are still essential concepts, of course, and Mr. Tarkington pauses long enough to fix his scene in Southern Indiana, at the time of the Mexican War, but he gets at his story with the very minimum of descriptive delay and does not relax his hold on the reader's attention for an instant. A real love-story it is, with a wilful, capricious, captivating heroine, a David-and-Jonathan pair of lovers, and a gambler of an old father for the villain. A confusion of identity furnishes the mystery of the plot, the character-drawing is admirable, and the atmosphere breathes the mellowness of the South. But it is in the exuberance and spontaneity of the book that its chief charm lies. McClure, Phillips & Co.

Timely, and full of information as well as interest, is "The Spirit of the Ghetto," in which Hutchins Hapgood writes of the old men and boys, the women, orthodox and socialist, the teachers and cantors, rabbis and scholars, the poets and actors, novelists and newspaper-writers of the East Side Jewish Quarter of New York. Mr. Hapgood's standpoint is that of the friendly and sympathetic observer and his descriptions are quite free from the condescension which sometimes obtrudes itself into philanthropy or the levity which betrays the mere quest for "copy." The chapter called "Old and New," in which the diverse influences

that are shaping the development of the rising generation are contrasted with the traditions still followed by their grandfathers, is particularly fresh and suggestive. Illustrations from life, by Jacob Epstein, emphasize the individuality of the book. Funk & Wagnalls Co.

Full of shifting light and shade, the title of Bettina von Hutten's muchtalked-of story, "Our Lady of the Beeches," befits its theme. The Lady is the brilliant young wife of an Austrian nobleman, writing incognito, from her retreat among her beeches, to a distinguished American scholar whose books have attracted her, and the correspondence between them, full of quaint and sprightly comment on life and its conventionalities, makes by far the most satisfactory half of the slender volume. The instrument appointed of fate to bring about the meeting between them is an old French maid of hers, in search of a recreant husband, who proves to be a backwoods guide of his, and the disclosure takes place in the Maine woods. From that point their author tells their story for them, bringing it to a conclusion which is none the less ineffective for being inevitable. The Baroness von Hutten has a deft touch, but her work somehow recalls to the discontented reader that unfortunate heroine of Mr. Howells', who essayed the milliner's art, and whose bonnets were said to be "all touch." Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

Of the group of new writers who are winning distinction by their studies of child-life, McClure, Phillips & Co. count the two foremost on their list, and between them it would be hard to choose. Both observe closely, and with a keen eye to the grown people they address as well as the children they describe; both write with unusual