The horns of the full-grown chamois are quite black and smooth, and formed like a perfect hook with very sharp points. These elegant creatures are the only animals of the antelope kind to be found in Western Europe. They choose for their home the loftiest mountains. They dislike heat, and in the summer time they frequent the cold upper regions of the everlasting hills,--either the lofty peaks, or those valleys where the snow never melts. In the winter time, however, the cold of those bleak solitudes seems too much for them, spite of their long, hair and thick coat of fine wool; and they descend to the lower regions. It is then, and only then, that the hunter has any chance of capturing them. [Illustration] It is said they can scent a man a mile and a half off; and their restlessness and suspicion are extreme. At the prospect of danger they are off and away, racing at an incredible speed, scaling crags with the most amazing agility, and leaving the pursuer far behind. They are usually taken by a party of hunters, who surround the glen where they are, and advance towards each other until the herd is hemmed in on all sides. The flesh of the antelope is like venison. No animal ought to yield sweeter meat than the chamois, when we think what he feeds upon. Mountain herbs and flowers, and tender shoots from tree and shrub--such is his food. He drinks very little, but that little is sparkling water; while the air which reddens his blood is the purest in the world. UNCLE CHARLES. THE GARDEN TOOLS. [Illustration] COME, hoe and shovel and rake, From your winter nap awake! The spring has come; There's work to be done: The birds are calling, And off I must run My little garden to make. You have lain in the attic so long, Perhaps you forget you belong In the sunshine and air full half of the year; And to leave you to mice and to cobwebs up here Any longer would surely be wrong. Come out of the darkness to light, Where the sunbeams are glittering bright, And the green grass is growing; For I must be hoeing, And digging the earth, and my seeds be a-sowing, And finish it all before night. Oh, how I hurried and dressed! For the robin was building his nest, And he cried, "Fie! For shame! What is the boy's name, Who sleeps in the morning? He's surely to blame For not working here with the rest." Come then, rake, shovel, and hoe, With a run and a jump, here we go! Soon so busy we'll be, That the robins shall see, For all their fine words, they're no smarter than we, As off to the garden we go! AUNTIE FRANK. [Illustration]