But, although this insect is so bright-headed it is not so wise as some others whose heads are not brilliant at all. Perhaps this head is like some shops we have seen, where pretty much all the furniture is on the outside. OWLS ON A FROLIC. [Illustration: THE OWLS UPSETTING THE LAMP.] The owls are abroad on a mad carouse, Waking the echoes far and wide; They whirl in a crowd through the ruined church, Or up to the belfry glide. The little screech-owl makes a horrid din; While the great white owl looks wise; And the horned owl nods his head, and blinks; As around the lamp he flies. The lamp is a cup, half filled with oil, That swings from a broken beam; And, over the traveler sleeping below, It throws but a dusky gleam. The owls have no fear of the burning wick— ’Tis only a cotton loop— They’re after the oil in the swinging cup, And down on its brim they swoop. The weary traveler, sound asleep, Hears naught of the noise o’erhead, A rickety chair as a bedstead serves, His overcoat is his bed. With the sweep of the wings the lamp upsets, While the gurgling oil o’erflows With a drip, and a rush, on the great owl’s tail, A splash on the traveler’s nose. He’s up in a trice, and, seizing a broom, He arms himself for a fight. But all is still in the ruined church; For the owls are out—and his light. COMMON AND UNCOMMON SPONGES. [Illustration: A FINE SPONGE.] They are all wonderful enough, no matter how common they may be. It takes thousands and thousands of minute creatures, to make a sponge, and these creatures are so little understood that about all we know of them is that they must belong to the very lowest order of animal life, and that they do build sponges. That is not much to know, but it is not long since the sponge was first known to be an animal production at all, and our scientific men may yet find out something more definite about these curious little architects. Perhaps they may have lately found out something, and I have not heard of it. This would be the least wonderful thing about sponges. The ordinary form of the sponge is familiar to nearly everybody who has ever been washed, and this picture gives a good idea of a fine large one, as it is found growing at the bottom of the sea. I say growing, because it seems to be growing there, like a vegetable. But it does not grow, in the ordinary sense of the word, any more than a wasp’s nest grows. But there are sponges with which we are not at all familiar, and which are curious, apart from the manner of their construction. Such a one is the sponge called the “Cup of Neptune.”