The West Indian Archipelago, with its four islands and numberless islets, is called the gameless country, because in a region of more than 100,000 square miles there are no Monkeys, Bears, Raccoons, Wild Hogs, Jaguars, Pumas, Panthers, Lynxes, Wild Cats, Foxes, Wolves, or Jackals. There is not even a Woodchuck to be dug out of the many caves. Dogs and Cats, too, are unknown, and this lack of household pets seems to have driven the aborigines to expedients, for in a book called "Ogilvy's Voyages" there is a story told of a San Domingo native who kept a tame Manatee or Sea Cow that made its headquarters in an artificial pond, and was so well trained that when called by its name it would come out of the water, go to a neighbor's house and after receiving food return to the pond, accompanied by boys who seemed to charm it by singing, and it often carried two children on its back. Its instinct was wonderful. It was once struck by a pike in the hand of a Spaniard and after that always refused to come out of the water when there was a clothed man near. Manatees are often seen northwest of Cuba in shoals, sporting about the reefs like Sea Lions. They are cunning creatures and can dodge the harpoon with more success than any other aquatic animal. The largest land animal of this strange territory is a huge Rat, measuring eighteen inches in length without the tail. With this exception, it is claimed, Cuba, Jamaica, San Domingo, and Porto Rico have no land animals. SNOWFLAKES. Out of the bosom of the air, Out of the cloud folds of its garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow, Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field. --_Longfellow._ THE AMERICAN GOLDEN-EYE. We watch the hunters creeping near Or crouching in the silvery grasses; Their gleaming guns our greatest fear, As high o'erhead our wild flock passes. But we are of the air, and speed Like meteors dropping from the sky; He's "the man behind the gun" indeed Who can fairly wing a Golden-eye. --C. C. M.