[3] About three hundred thousand salmon fry have been planted in the upper waters of the Hudson each year, since 1882. In 1884, a salmon weighing four pounds was taken near Hudson, New York, and several yearling salmon were caught, a year ago, in a stream tributary to the Hudson. Last spring, a salmon weighing ten pounds was taken in Gravesend Bay, and there have been other similar results from the work done by Mr. Fred Mather, Superintendent of the New York Fish Commission, in charge of the station at Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island. It is thought that the Hudson was never much frequented by salmon for the purpose of spawning, on account of Cohoes’ and Miller’s Falls. But the fish were formerly taken near the mouth of the river, and it is hoped that the entire river may be made a salmon stream, if it will “grow salmon,” by the construction of fish-ways which will enable the salmon to ascend the falls. Professor Baird, the United States Commissioner of Fish and Fisheries, restocked the Connecticut, where no salmon had been for twenty-five years, with such success that “Connecticut River salmon” were regularly quoted in the markets. But the fishermen caught out the spawning fish and foolishly depopulated the river so that the work was stopped, although I understand that another effort has been made recently. In the Penobscot River, in Maine, salmon have been hatched and cared for, until, this very season, there has been excellent salmon fishing in the neighborhood of the city of Bangor.—R. H. THE OWL, THE BAT, AND THE BUMBLE-BEE. (_A Nonsense Rhyme._) BY LAURA E. RICHARDS. [Illustration] The brown owl sat on the caraway tree, A ruffed-up, great big owl. Who so learnéd and wise as he? A puffed-up, eminent fowl. The black bat hung by a twig of the tree, A blinking, blind old bat. And buzzing anear was the bumble-bee, Crinkling, yellow, and fat. “Ho!” said the owl, “but the sun is so bright, So torrid, blazing away!” “Oh,” said the bat, “for the shades of night, This horrid dazzling day!” “Psho!” said the bee. “If that is all, Blundery, blind old bat, Yonder’s a cloud coming up at your call,— Thundery,—black as a hat.” “Ah!” cried the bat and the owl together, “Tumbling great black Cloud, Bring us some fine dark thundery weather, Rumbling fierce and loud!” Up came the cloud, flying far and wide, Wizardly weird and strong,— Brisk little hurricane sitting inside, Blizzardly bowling along.