Elaborate arrangements have been made at the establishments of the National Fish-culture Association for hatching the ova of all kinds of fish this year. For some time past, agents have been employed in spawning fish and collecting the eggs from various rivers and streams, and a considerable number have already been deposited in the Hatchery at South Kensington for incubation. The American government have intimated their intention to forward very large consignments of ova from the various species of salmonidæ abounding in the waters of the United States, including the white-fish (_Coregonus albus_), which, owing to the success attending their propagation in this country during 1885, will be hatched out in large numbers. As soon as the fry are in a fit condition, they will be located in the waters at the Delaford Park Establishment, belonging to the Association, whence they will be distributed in Scottish and other lakes. It is intended by the Association to increase the range of their operations, and bestow further attention upon the culture of ‘coarse’ fish, which will necessitate an extension of the Fishery at Delaford. In 1885 numerous presentations of salmonidæ were made to public waters in the United Kingdom, but only those fish were selected that are desirable for the purposes of replenishing depleted _locales_. The various fish, both American and English, reared at the beginning of last year by the Association are thriving well, and it can be fairly said that great success has crowned all the endeavours put forward to increase the numerical proportions of our fish and improve their multifarious species. TWO SONNETS. KEATS. O purblind world! Not seldom in the years You find your hero in some man despised, Some martyr whom you slew, too lightly prized, And bathe the corse in vain unheeded tears. Too late your wisdom; for the lost one hears No longer or contumely or praise: On kinder death in weariness he lays His head, forgetting all that life endears. And this one, on whose lips the altar coal Of inspiration burned; within whose soul The fire of the eternal lived, and wrought Your baser dross to bars of golden thought; Oh, how you scorned him! Now, in reverent wise, The weakest murmur of his lips you prize. And thou, strong soul in a weak body pent, Spirit of Keats! It was not thine to know In thy brief span the joy, the generous glow Of common praise and common wonderment. But wearying until the clarion breath, The voice of fame, should fix thy name among Immortals, came the murmur soft as song, As sad as thine—the summoning of death. O sorrow that the deaf world would not hear Such music, the enchantment of all time, Until the singer, leaving the sublime, The orphic song half sung, had fled its sphere! Too late, too late, our tardy honours now, Wreathing vain laurel on thy calm dead brow.