of which the wily hunter conceals itself, only its jaws and many eyes being visible; and here it awaits its prey, that sooner or later comes tumbling in. Ants that happen to be off on a foraging journey are the most frequent victims. The ant comes running along rapidly, and is over the edge of the pit before he knows it, the treacherous sand giving way and precipitating him down toward the concealed lion. A moment more and two (to him) enormous jaws open, and the ant quickly disappears from sight forever. Sometimes, instead of tumbling down into the pit, the ant obtains a foothold and almost escapes; but in such a case the ant-lion throws aside all concealment, rushes out, and shovels sand upon its struggling victim, and by successive jerks bombards it with such a fusillade of sand that, beaten and confused, it rolls down into the open jaws of the cruel hunter. For two years the ant-lion carries on its predatory warfare, gradually growing larger and enlarging its pit, until finally it is ready to change into a chrysalis. It then envelops itself in a round ball of sand, cemented together by fine silken cords. In this cocoon it lives for about three weeks, when it emerges a perfect four-winged insect resembling the dragon-fly.

The dragon-flies themselves are bold and voracious hunters, and with their gauzy, lace-like wings, brilliantly colored bodies and rapid flight, are among the most beautiful of the insect tribe. Grubs, butterflies, insects of all kinds, are their legitimate prey, and in New Zealand the giant dragon-fly has been observed chasing small fresh-water fishes about in a shallow pond, making desperate dashes at them, finally seizing one by its upper or dorsal fin, and amid repeated duckings and struggles bearing it away to a neighboring bush to be devoured, after the manner of the kingfishers. Gosse, the English naturalist, observed a similar instance in Alabama. The winged fisherman a large dragon-fly-was seen chasing the affrighted fishes, dashing into the water with a splash, the finny prey rushing about in terror, soon congregating, however, to be again attacked by the swift-winged hunter, which finally secured one of them. The larvæ of the dragon-fly live under water and are extremely voracious, often capturing small fishes with their powerful jaws.

silk, erects a long web, and then patiently awaits the entanglement of some luckless insect. At the first break of day the web is taken down, the trap-door lowered, and nothing is seen of the spider until the evening. Other spiders leap after their prey like tigers, first attaching a single thread of silk to the starting-point-by which, if they fail to strike the victim, they swing off and return up the thread, to make the attack anew. Others entangle their prey, rolling them over and over and winding them in silk, in which they are kept till wanted. Small snakes, lizards, and various tiny animals are thus caught, and, though weighing vastly more than their captors, are lifted clear of the ground into the fairy-like nets.

The largest web of which I ever heard, however, is not a trap, and is built by the larva of a butterfly from Australia. A lady, observing the insects, placed a number of them in a room upon her veranda. Having to use the apartment some time after, she found, to her astonishment, that the walls were completely covered by a beautiful, uniform web, attached at the corners by coarse threads, so that it hung like a tapestry of silvery sheen, presenting an unbroken surface of about two hundred and fifty-two square feet, a wonderful work for a few little creatures, each hardly fivetwelfths of an inch long.

In some of the islands of the Pacific, webs have been found in which living birds were entangled,

The webs of many spiders are really very similar to the traps of professional bird-catchers in the East. One of the trap-door spiders comes out of its nest at dusk, fastens back the door with a cord of

and in Bermuda, other kinds of webs, the threads of which were so stout that they have been used as sewing-silk. For many years the account given by Madame Merian of the spider that hunted birds and

lizards was not believed, but Mr. H. W. Bates, the naturalist, has observed a similar instance in Brazil, that can not better be told than in his own words: "In the course of our walk, I chanced to verify a fact relating to the habit of a large hairy spider, belonging to the genus Mygale, in a manner worth recording. The species was Mygale avicularia, or one very closely allied to it; the spider was nearly two inches in length of body, but the legs expanded seven inches, and the entire body and head were covered with coarse gray and reddish hairs. I was attracted by a movement of the monster on a tree-trunk; it was close beneath a deep crevice in the tree, across which was stretched a dense white web. The lower part of the web was broken, and two small birds-finches-were entangled in the pieces. One of them was quite dead. I drove away the spider and took the birds, but the second one soon died. . . . I found the circumstance to be quite a novelty to the residents hereabout," who were far from being afraid of the spider, allowing their children to tie a string about the body of the giant Mygale and lead it about as one would a cat or dog. They called them "Aranhas carangueijeiras," or "Crab Spiders."

A very curious hunter, if so we may call it, is seen in the Peripatus--a caterpillar-shaped insect, found in Panama, at the Cape of Good Hope, and in other countries. They are sluggish, though possessing seventeen legs, each provided with a pair of short claws for clinging. They are mainly vegetable eaters, but they have a wonderful web

making arrangement, by which they are enabled to check the advance of an enemy at a moment's notice. From glands secreted near the mouth, they eject at the slightest warning myriads of fine threads of a

sticky secretion, that cross and recross each other like liquid darts in the air, crystallizing immediately and forming a complete web in front of the caterpillar. This web solidifies about any unfortunate insect, securing it by almost invisible bands, until the unwieldy Peripatus, when disposed, breaks in and dines upon it. The web is often thrown out when the animal is touched or alarmed, and as it is acid and bitter it must be an effective defense, and fatal to many insects and small animals.

Gathering fruit can scarcely be called trapping, and yet there is a stratagem attributed to that "walking bunch of tooth-picks" called the hedgehog, which may properly have a place in this article. It seems that fruit is frequently found in the hedgehog's sleeping apartment, and its presence there is explained in this remarkable way: It is known that hedgehogs often climb walls, and run off upon low boughs, and instead of scrambling down in the same manner, they boldly make the leap from the top to the ground, sometimes ten or twelve feet. They coil into a ball in the air, strike upon their armor of spines, and bound away unharmed. In taking this jump, they have been seen to strike upon fallen fruit, which, thus impaled upon their spines, was carried away by them; and this has given rise to the opinion that in some such way they may have stored their winter homes.

A LARGE, home-like room. A few cases of books line the walls, the furniture is somewhat threadbare, and the carpet decidedly the worse for wear; a long table strewn with school-books, slates, and pencil-ends occupies the foreground, and a student lamp sheds its mild light over the inky table-cover. The fire-place is black and dreary, and the only really cheerful object in the room is the face of a girl of sixteen, with dark hair and blue eyes, who sits busily engaged in painting. A bright smile lights her thoughtful face as her hand moves rapidly yet carefully, working out the details of her design.

Another girl, twelve years old, kneels on a chair, resting her head on her hands and her elbows on the table. Her bright hair falling over her face partly conceals her troubled look; but one can see that her forehead is contracted by a frown and her eyes glisten with hardly suppressed tears. She pushes her book away from her and drums impatiently on the table. The elder girl continues her painting, singing softly to herself, and pays no attention to the various signs of vexation displayed by her little sister. At last she looks up and says, rather quickly:

"Well, Katie, what is it?"

This question is a great relief to Katie, as it gives her an opportunity to vent her injured feelings.

"You know what it is, just as well as I do, Alice. All the girls are going back to school this year, and I just long to go! I can't study alone; no one will ever hear my lessons or take any interest in them. I shall fall far behind the other girls, and you know I was at the head nearly all last winter. Oh, dear, why can't I go back?"

Then Katie's tears overflowed and trickled down upon the tattered arithmetic over which she had been puzzling.

Alice well knew how hard it was for the ambitious little girl to be withdrawn from school for a whole year and left to her own devices, without the society of her beloved "girls"; so that when she spoke, it was quite gently and as though to appeal to Katie's reason and common sense, which had been somewhat clouded by her disappointment. "Birdie," said Alice, laying down her brush, you know perfectly well that it is impossible for VOL. XII. 34.

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you to go back to school,—at least, for this term. You know that Papa has been unfortunate in business, and we all must make some sacrifices to help him, and the little mother. I know it's very hard for you to give up your school, but then you are only a little girl, and one year does n't make so much difference. You can work faithfully by yourself, and make up for lost time next winter. We all will help you as much as we can. I do feel sorry for you, but, since we must make sacrifices, why not make them cheerfully? They're so much nicer that way.”

Katie, or, as her sister calls her, Birdie, has slipped down from her chair during Alice's little lecture, and she now stands beside her sister, who puts one arm around her, and, looking up from her half-finished drawing into Birdie's face, says:

"Well, little one, what do you think of it?" And Birdie, whose tears are almost dry, and who is already ashamed of her outburst, answers:

"I think it's lovely, Alice, and I do hope they will give you a prize. They ought to, I'm sure."

A large publishing house had offered three prizes in money for the three best original designs for Christmas-cards received in answer to their announcement; and for one of these prizes Alice Browning was working. It seemed almost impossible to make any novel or appropriate design, and Alice had taken up the matter at first, simply with a view to amusing herself, and thinking that it would be good practice. She had little hope that she could produce anything sufficiently good to really enter into the prize competition. But growing interested in her work, as was her custom (for she was an earnest little maid), Alice expended all her ingenuity and much patient skill upon the elaboration of her subject. As she possessed a good degree of imagination and considerable talent for drawing figures, her efforts were really very successful. Her elder brother and sister, seeing how much taste and cleverness her drawing displayed, urged her to send it in on the day appointed for judging the cards and awarding the prizes.

As Alice worked, she could not help building many bright castles in the air, though she worried much over what she considered her faulty drawing.

Alice was right when she said that many sacrifices must be made, because of the family's heavy losses; and Katie, feeling the truth of this, made a resolute, though not invariably successful effort to show a bright and happy face to her care-worn father. She had, indeed, some shining examples before her. First, there was her Mother, who tried to make home all the brighter after her husband's misfortunes; and big brother Charlie (the clever man of the family), who gave up, in his quiet way, his most cherished plans, and set to work with a will, down-town; and sister Annie, who countermanded her orders for new dresses, and betook herself instead to making over her old ones and those of her sisters. (Annie's merry voice, her busy fingers, and her fair musical talent did much toward making the family circle jollier). Then there was sister Alice's outwardly willing giving up of her painting lessons (which was not accomplished, however, without many inward struggles); and last, but not least, the bluff light-heartedness of her younger brothers, Phil and Harry, who considered it beneath their dignity as boys and as twins to give way to useless repinings and grumbling.

Three days after Alice's conversation with her younger sister, the Christmas-card was finished, carefully sealed up by Charlie, and carried to its destination by Alice. She had worked over her drawing with such care that every little, well-known defect stood out prominently in her memory, and she parted with it with many misgivings. She must wait three weeks to hear the result, and long before the time was up, Alice had quite given up any hope that she would ever hear of her design again.

But it was otherwise decreed; and one day Alice received a letter from the publishers, notifying her that on account of the originality displayed in her work and its conscientious treatment, her design had taken the second prize in the Christmascard competition, and inclosing a check for one hundred and fifty dollars, the amount of the prize.

If you have ever earned any money yourself, you will be able to imagine Alice's feelings when she opened that envelope and read the brief, businesslike note. I am sure that no girl was ever happier than she was at that moment, and certainly no family was ever prouder than Alice's family when they heard of her success. Mr. Browning's face wore a brighter look than it had had for many weeks. Annie said! "I knew you would get it, Alice; I'm so glad!" and Katie and the twins gave boisterous expression to their satisfaction. Charlie read the letter aloud, to the delight of the whole family, and Alice was indeed the heroine of the hour, for

the Brownings were a family who took a generous and unselfish pride in one another's accomplishments, and were always ready to rejoice heartily over every small triumph won by any member of the household. Alice's achievement seemed to them so "splendid," that it was some days before the excitement subsided.

Of course, her best friend must at once be told of her good fortune; and so the following afternoon Alice, who had scarcely been able to eat or sleep for happiness, posted off to tell Helen Martin about the prize. Helen, who had taken a great interest in the whole affair, was at home, and an animated conversation, of course, ensued. Alice explained about the letter, the check, the delight of the family, and her surprise, all in a breath; and Helen, interrupting frequently to say, lovely!" or "I'm so glad, Alice dear!" finally exclaimed, when the account was finished, "Well, Alice, what shall you do with the money?"

"How

"Devote it to the cause of art, and take painting lessons of Mr. Torrington,” replied Alice. "He is a perfect teacher, you know, only I could n't afford the lessons, and so had to give up all idea of studying, which was very hard. Now I can have as many lessons as I like; is n't it lovely? It seems terribly selfish, I know, to devote the money to myself, but perhaps some of it will be left over for other things; and I do so long to paint! Is it very selfish in me?" asked Alice, wistfully.

"No, indeed, I should say," answered Helen. "You have earned the money yourself. You gave up your lessons this winter so willingly that you ought to have some reward; and I don't think you could spend the prize money more wisely. sides, you will improve famously under Mr. Torrington, and then you can earn more money by your painting."

Be

The two girls could have spent much more time talking about the prize and other matters of interest, but it began to grow late; and when Alice ran down the steps at the elevated station, the lamps had already begun to glimmer down the dark vista of the street. As she hurried on through the crowd, she could hardly keep from dancing, under the exhilarating effects of good spirits and frosty air.

On her way home, Alice stopped for a moment at a street corner, her attention arrested by something that she saw there. It was nothing very extraordinary, either.

A wretched-looking woman, pale and bonnetless, her shoes worn through to the sidewalk, her hair falling untidily down her back, and her gaunt form barely covered by her tattered garments, stood holding in her arms a child as pale as herself, with a deformed body and thin, pinched face.

Both the woman and child were looking with longing eyes at the fruits displayed upon the stand of a street vender, which was lighted up by a flaring lamp. A girl, almost as miserably dressed as the woman, in clothes once gaudy but now dirty and ragged, came shuffling by. She stopped at the vender's stand and bought an orange; turning, she saw the woman and the sick child with wistful eyes fixed on the bright golden fruit, and, as if from a sudden impulse, the girl thrust the orange into the woman's thin, grimy hand, and then, without waiting for any word of thanks, hurried away. Indeed, the woman was so astonished by the unexpected act of kindness, that she only stood and watched the girl's retreating figure with a look of vague surprise and wonder on her face, and then walked slowly away in the opposite direction.

When Alice saw that little act of unselfishness done by one poor person to another still poorer, her face grew suddenly grave, then a smile stole over it, the smile that always accompanies a generous impulse; and when she reached her hoine she looked both thoughtful and determined.

According to her custom, Mrs. Browning was resting before dinner, on her sofa in a favorite corner of the cozy, homelike parlor. The cheerful blaze of the open fire was the only light in the dim room, and Alice was glad to find her mother alone. They often had pleasant talks together in the twilight, and it was evident that this evening Alice had something on her mind to say. She drew her chair up to the fire, and sat warming her hands before it and looking into its glowing depths.

"Well, dear," said her mother, "what have you decided to do with your money?"

"That's just what I wished to talk to you about," replied Alice. "May I do just what I please with it, Mother?"

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Why not, Alice? You have earned it and the honor, too. You gave a great deal of time and work to your drawing, and you certainly ought to spend your money just as you please. Buy whatever you wish with it, or, if you would prefer to lay aside your first earnings, do so; only, whatever you do, think carefully first, and expend your little fortune wisely. It will be a good experience for you in the future, if you ever make any more money, as I sincerely hope you will. You know you wished very much to take lessons in painting, this winter; perhaps that would be as wise a use for your money as any other. What do you think?"

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'Mamma," said Alice, as though following out

"Mind, my dear? No, indeed!" replied the mother. "But I don't like to have you do that it's too great a sacrifice. You need the money yourself for many things. I wish you to think over the matter, and not be too hasty in your decision."

"It's not too great a sacrifice," said Alice, firmly. "I will think it over, but I am sure I shall not change my mind."

"Come here, Alice," said Mrs. Browning; and she drew her tall daughter down to her. "I am even more proud of you now than when you told me you had won the prize! I do not like to take advantage of your generous impulse, but I feel sure that you are in earnest and that you will not regret your choice."

And so it was decided; for Alice was a girl who, having once made up her mind, rarely turned aside from her purpose; and Birdie went back to school, the happiest little girl imaginable. Mr. Browning did not at once return the money to Alice-not merely because he could not, but because she had expressed herself willing to make the sacrifice and give up a cherished plan for her sister; and he wished her self-denial to work out its own results upon her character.

When at last better times came-which was not for many a long month - Alice resumed her painting, working with that patience and faithfulness which are the evidence of a real love for art. Meanwhile she had no cause to repent her self-sacrifice, and I do not think she did. Birdie's bright face and the good reports of her teachers were an ample reward, aside from the proud and loving looks of both her parents, the cordial approbation and admiration of Annie and Charlie, and the two hearty kisses from the demonstrative twins, who pronounced Alice a "trump " and a "daisy."