In character our little visitor showed energy and courage, usually driving off any new-comer, even of his own family, from his feeding-ground. He journeys in mixed crowds, but prefers a table to himself. He even won respect from English sparrows by his pugnacious traits. They generally let him alone, though they attacked the other strangers unmercifully. He explored his tree thoroughly, and with great agility, often spending hours in traveling from bough to bough, twig to twig, up and down our maple, and especially examining the underside of all the leaves within reach. Sometimes on tiptoe he stretched his pretty head to its farthest extent to investigate a dangling leaf above him; sometimes he hung, head downward, to clean the eggs and larvæ from a leaf below. I have seen him dextrously somersault to a lower bough, or hold on to a slender twig, scolding and pecking alternately, as the wind-tossed him to and fro. Occasionally he sang a little song, rather thin and monotonous, but not unpleasing. It has been compared to the song of the Nashville warbler, and also to that of the black and white creeper. The cause of his long stay was no doubt the abundance of insects during our warm fall. Swarms of gauzy-winged insects were seen everywhere, wheeling in airy circles in the sun, and sometimes covering the wraps and hats of pedestrians. There were crowds of birds in our parks. One sunny afternoon I watched with interest the likeness between a wood pewee, catching insects in the air, and a flock of Cape May warblers engaged in the same pursuit. But there was a difference; the warbler darted straight out from his magnolia tree, caught his gnat and returned, whether to the same bough I could not see for the leaves were so thick, but probably only near by. The true flycatcher fluttered in an aerial circle, returning to precisely the same perch after capturing his insect. The tiny fringed and cleft tongues seemed useless in this occupation, but like some parts of the human body for which we have not yet ascertained the present use, they may be invaluable as records of past history under different conditions from those of to-day. * * * * * "Look at Nature. She never wearies of saying over her floral pater noster. In the crevices of Cyclopean walls--on the mounds that bury huge cities--in the dust where men lie, dust also--still that sweet prayer and benediction. The 'Amen!' of Nature is always a flower."--_Autocrat._ The gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding; and beneath The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath of May. --_Charlotte Smith._ [Illustration: RAVEN. 1/3 Life-size. FROM COL. F. KAEMPFER. COPYRIGHT 1900, BY A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.] THE RAVEN. (_Corvus Corax._)