The squirrel in the woods is as full of frolic and play as a kitten. One would think that it had not a care or anxiety of any kind to break in upon its play. And yet it has food to find, a family to bring up, a winter nest to make, and several stores of food to lay up ready for those occasional days when it wakes up from its long winter's sleep.

This winter sleep of the squirrel, and some other animals, is something very strange, which we do not thoroughly understand. With the first touch of winter's cold, they curl themselves up, and fall into a sleep which lasts until the return of spring. This sleep, or hibernation as it is properly called, is a very useful habit for the animals which are subject to it, because it enables them to live on at a time when their food is very often scarce. During this sleep their bodies scarcely waste away at all, and a few good meals, when they wake, soon put them right; whereas, if they were always running about, they would be almost incessantly hungry, and would probably die of starvation during the winter.

Some animals remain torpid throughout the winter, while others wake up occasionally, and enjoy a day's life every now and then in the midst of their long sleep. The common squirrel is one of the latter. Whenever there is a warm, mild day in winter, it wakes up, feeling very hungry, and turns out of its nest for a run. If it trusted to chance for a meal, it would have to return to its nest hungry. But during the autumn it has gathered large quant.i.ties of hazel-nuts, acorns, beech-nuts, and fir-cones, and has stored them away in various holes near its nest.

When, therefore, it has enjoyed one of its winter runs, it visits one of these store-houses, makes a hearty meal, and then returns to its nest to sleep for a few more days, or a few more weeks, until another warm day comes round.

The squirrel selects for his storehouses various holes in the trunk of the tree near his nest, which are often the deserted nests of some wood-p.e.c.k.e.r. Indeed, he is not always content to wait until the wood-p.e.c.k.e.r deserts her nest, especially as he relishes the taste of an egg. A writer in the _Standard_ describes how he saw a wood-p.e.c.k.e.r turned out of her house to make room for an impudent squirrel. The squirrel, descending backwards down a tree-trunk, suddenly found his hind legs in a hole. Probably he felt something sharp pecking at them, for he drew them out quickly, and rapidly climbed to a branch immediately above. A moment later a wood-p.e.c.k.e.r flew out of the hole.

The squirrel watched her out of sight, and then returned to the nest, and helped himself to an egg or two, which he carried up to his perch, and ate.

When these were disposed of, he descended once more to the wood-p.e.c.k.e.r's nest and waited for the return of the bird. The moment she appeared at the entrance to her nest, the squirrel flew at her like an angry cat.

The startled wood-p.e.c.k.e.r fled in fear, and the squirrel came forth triumphantly and went away for a short time. Whilst he was away the wood-p.e.c.k.e.r came again and looked into her nest. Something, however, probably a broken egg, displeased her, and she flew away again. Shortly afterwards her mate looked into the nest, but he, too, was dissatisfied, and flew away. Many times they returned to the nest, but always with the same result. At length they seemed to make up their minds that they could never make their home in that nest again, and they flew away to another part of the wood. The squirrel promptly took possession of the deserted nest, and when autumn came he turned it into a store-house for nuts.

W. A. ATKINSON.

THE GREAT PICTURE BOOK.

The world's a pleasant picture-book, Wherein my eyes may daily look, And see the things set there to please: Mountains and valleys, rocks and trees.

Soft rivers where the sunbeams play; The blue sky spread far, far away; Bright flowers that blossom at my feet, The tender gra.s.s, the ripened wheat.

Though I am young, I may grow wise When on this book I turn my eyes, And, as I look, with reverence see The pictures painted there for me.

'Tis G.o.d Who made this book so fair, Who gave the colours that are there; Who paints the daisies red and white, And in the sky sets stars at night.

FRANK ELLIS.

THE STORY OF SLATE.

Slates are not so much used in our schools as they were years ago, exercise-books being cheaper now. Still, there are some schools where the children have slates, and pocket-books are to be bought, containing a slate tablet, on which you can write notes, and rub them out afterwards to make fresh ones. Slates upon the roofs of houses are objects familiar to us all. Probably few, young or old, who have to do with slates, ever think what this substance is, and where it has come from. Yet slate is one of the most wonderful things in this world of ours.

Supposing the first question put to us was, 'What is slate?' our answer would be, 'It is simply a sort of dried mud.' If the second was, 'What is its place amongst the rocks of our earth?' we should say, 'Slate belongs to the Cambrian formation.' This is a big series of rocks, sometimes eighteen thousand feet thick. It contains in the middle what geologists call _flags_ and _grits_, but the larger part of it is slates. There is but one series of rocks more ancient than the Cambrian, and that is the one called the Laurentian, which is said not to be found in Britain.

'Cambrian,' some might say: there is a reason for that name, which of course is only another word for Welsh. Though, in their first order, these slaty rocks lie deep down, they have been lifted high up, and they show us some of the grandest scenery we have in this island. The hills and precipices of Wales, and the hollows where the mountain streams flow, tell of the shakings and twistings that the Cambrian rocks have gone through. Amongst them grow ferns and rare flowers, while many a tourist draws in new strength as he mounts them. Sometimes, high up, the rains and winds have made the rocks so bare that even mosses cannot live upon them, and in the clear sunlight the slates appear of various shades, from pink to deep blue.

One curious thing about slate is that the layers are often twisted or wrinkled. This has been caused, partly at least, by their being thrust up when half hardened, so as to cause a sort of fold or crease. This was chiefly done by the still harder granite.

It is wonderful to think of the succession of plants and animals that slate has had to do with; it was in existence when the coal forests were forming, and it must have been trodden by the strange creatures of other strata, which are now extinct, but of which relics are dug up. Another remarkable fact is that the slate-beds have had wonderful ups and downs over and over again during the earth's changes--being at one time under a deep sea, at another lifted to form hills, as we frequently see them now.

FROST-BITTEN IN THE RED SEA.

A strange accident happened a few years ago on board a large steamer in the Red Sea.

One of the a.s.sistant-stewards had occasion to go to the ship's ice-room to fetch something which had been forgotten when the day's provisions were given out in the morning.

The man was not missed for some time, and, when search was made, the poor fellow was found nearly frozen to death. Some one had thoughtlessly slammed the door of the refrigerator, which could only be opened from the outside.

The prisoner had a terrible experience, and after doing what he could to attract attention, had sunk exhausted on the floor.

Fortunately, the head steward noticed that the key of the ice-room was missing, and this led to the man's discovery. If he had not been found till the following day, he would probably have been the first man to be frozen to death in one of the hottest parts of the world.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 183._)

CHAPTER XXI.

With the return of Captain Knowlton the story seems to come to its natural end; but, although he had heard from Mr. Westlake all about my own adventures, there still remained, of course, a great deal to discuss.

When he was presented to Mrs. Westlake, she insisted that we should both dine in Grosvenor Gardens, and as it was difficult to refuse anything to one who had shown me such kindness, Captain Knowlton apologised for his travelling clothes and consented. Presently, when we were all sitting down together, Mrs. Westlake begged for Captain Knowlton's story. He leaned back in his arm-chair, beginning in an easy, conversational tone, as if he were telling us about a walk from one part of London to another.

'It was April when I left the Solent in the _Seagull_,' he said, 'making for Gibraltar, where I picked up two or three men of my old regiment, and cruised for a week or two in the Mediterranean. Early in May I sailed for Madeira, touched at the Canaries, then steamed south, crossed the line, and in due course reached Capetown. There the man who was to have accompanied me for the whole trip found a telegram to the effect that his father lay seriously ill in Vienna, so that I had to continue the voyage without him. A few days out from Capetown we got into very bad weather, which grew worse and worse until, in the middle of the roughest night I ever experienced, we were run down by a huge liner, which brutally went on her way, leaving us to our fate. The skipper wanted to be the last to leave the _Seagull_, but I sent him off with seven or eight of the crew, and, before the rest could get away, the ship went down under us. I found myself in the water, one moment lifted high on the crest of an enormous wave, the next sunk in the trough. I gave myself up for lost, when something was washed against my arm, and seizing it, to my great good fortune, I found that it was one of our life-rafts, which had served as a seat on the _Seagull's_ deck.

'The night was the blackest you can imagine; from the moment the ship foundered I saw nothing either of the boat's crew or of the men who had been left with me. For what seemed an endless time I clung to my raft, and I imagine that the tide must have carried me some distance from the scene of the wreck. As the night wore on--it seemed as if it would never pa.s.s--I grew weaker and weaker, but presently the sky became lighter, and just as I was telling myself that I might as well let go of the raft and bring things to an end, I saw a small schooner close by. After half an hour of terrible suspense, I began to think she was bearing down upon me, and, with such strength as I had left, I shouted. At last, thank Heaven, I succeeded in attracting attention; a line was thrown, and after some little trouble, more dead than alive, I was hauled on board.

'The schooner was a Spaniard bound for Valparaiso, but she had lost two men--washed overboard in the storm--and been a good deal knocked about.

In fact, I began to think that my end had only been postponed for a few hours. She had sprung a leak, the water seemed to be gaining, and after a short rest I took my turn at the pumps with the crew. However, we rode out the storm, and then, two or three days later, we lay becalmed for three weeks. She was, at the best, the slowest craft I have ever seen, and everything seemed to be dead against her. We were many miles out of our course, the stock of provisions--such as it was--and of water ran short, and although the captain seemed very little dissatisfied, I grew more and more hopeless.

'Naturally,' said Captain Knowlton, with a glance in my direction, 'I thought a good deal of Everard. I knew that there was no one but myself to provide for him, and that in any case I should be given up for lost.

Even if (as happily proved to be the case) our skipper succeeded in getting to land, he would be certain to report all the crew that were not in his boat as drowned--as, in fact, they all were except myself. I fumed and fretted to reach land, but that was all I could do, and when at last we got to Valparaiso, I lost no time in sending Mr. Windlesham a telegram.'

(_Concluded on page 194._)

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure in the North Sea and in China.

By H. C. MOORE, Author of 'Britons at Bay,' &c.

CHAPTER I.