There is something very remarkable in the almost reasoning powers manifested occasionally by birds in eluding pursuit or in turning attention from their nests and young, but in few is this more noticeable than in the Duck tribes. In Capt. Black's narrative of his Arctic land expedition the following instance of this is given: "One of his companions, Mr. King, having shot a female Duck, fired again, and, as he thought, disabled its male companion. Accordingly, leaving the dead bird, which he had the mortification of seeing shortly afterward carried off by one of the white-headed Eagles, he waded into the water after the drake, which, far from being fluttered or alarmed, remained motionless, as if waiting to be taken up. Still, as he neared it, it glided easily away through innumerable little nooks and windings. Several times he reached out his hand to seize it, and having at last with great patience managed to coop it up in a corner, from which there appeared to be no escape, he was triumphantly bending down to take it, when, to his utter astonishment, it looked around at him, cried 'Quack!' and then flew away so strongly that he was convinced he had never hit it at all. The bird's object clearly was to draw the gunner away from its companion." THE SQUIRREL'S ROAD. It zigzags through the pastures brown, And climbs old Pine Hill to its crown, With many a broken stake and rail, And gaps where beds of ivy trail. In hollows of its mossy top The pine-cone and the acorn drop; While, here and there, aloft is seen A timid, waving plume of green, Where some shy seed has taken hold With slender roots in moss and mold. The squirrel, on his frequent trips With corn and mast between his lips, Glides in and out from rail to rail, With ears erect and flashing tail. Sometimes he stops, his spoil laid by, To frisk and chatter merrily, Or wash his little elfin face, With many a flirt and queer grimace. Anon he scolds a passing crow, Jerking his pert tail to and fro, Or scurries like a frightened thief At shadow of a falling leaf. All day along his fence-top road He bears his harvest, load by load; The acorn with its little hat; The butternut, egg-shaped and fat; The farmer's corn, from shock and wain; Cheek-pouches-full of mealy grain; Three-cornered beechnuts, thin of shell; The chestnut, burred and armored well; And walnuts, with their tight green coats Close buttoned round their slender throats. A busy little workman he, Who loves his task, yet labors free, Stops when he wills, to frisk and bark, And never drudges after dark! I love to hear his chirring cry, When rosy sunrise stains the sky, And see him flashing in his toil, While frost like snow encrusts the soil.