American story. Next to prospecting and gambling, fighting in the war and travelling in Europe, being on the staff of a newspaper is the most romantic part for the American hero. They have become common enough among ourselves; it is surprising in how many recent novels they are to be found. If the young journalist is thereby tempted to believe himself a hero and to be puffed up, he may be recommended to re-read Mr. Gissing's "New Grub Street," or to peruse Schopenhauer's or Mr. George Meredith's opinions of his profession.

The pretty oracle whereby young girls try their fortunes in plucking flower-petals, recognises only seven classes of contingent lovers,—tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, gentleman, ploughboy, thief. Soldiers, sailors, gentlemen, ploughboys, and thieves we have already admitted into the heroic hierarchy. There remain tinkers and tailors. I cannot think of a tinker, but two tailors occur at once to the mind, Alton Locke and Evan Harrington. Tradition has been hard on the tailor. The laugh has never died out against the three tailors of Tooley Street, who began a petition with "We, the people of England." And, in spite of the tailor-hero in the old German ballad who cut the Devil's tail off, and that other who killed seven flies at one blow of his leathern flap and went a-knight-erranting with "Seven at one blow" for his device, an ancient saw reckons nine tailors to a man. Nor, I fear, do my modern instances altogether do away the slur. When a Christian Socialist wrote what the Germans call a Tendenzroman against the sweating-system, he was almost forced to choose a tailor for hero. Yet even so, Kingsley did not venture to make him a tailor pure and simple. The most Christian of Socialists could not carry the courage of his convictions to that length. So he made Alton Locke a tailor-poet. Now poets have been licensed lovers time out of mind, since Alain Chartier was paid for his poesy with a queen's

kiss,-nay, since Apollo had all the nine Muses at his heels. And as for Evan Harrington, his is a leading case for the incompatibility of tailoring and romance. For see how Rose Jocelyn felt about it. Jocelyn felt about it. Rose Jocelyn is one of the nicest girls in the galaxy of the girls of fiction. She was a lady in heart no less than by birth and breeding; independent in character, fearless in judgment, free from petty prejudice. She had been long and intimately acquainted with Evan Harrington, and was thoroughly in love with him. She knew him to be worthy in all respects, and that no calling could make him other than a gentleman. Yet when the first hint of his being a tailor reached her, there was a sharp twitch in her body as if she had been stung or struck. And when her maid was undressing her at night and talked, as I suppose maids will, of their young ladies' young gentlemen, Rose started off by asking her what was the nickname people gave to tailors, and was told they were called "snips." And Rose standing sideways to the glass, repeated the word to herself and then covered her face with her hands and shuddered. And mind you, there had been no warping in Evan's case. He never was a tailor till his mother's rather acrid probity made him one. He never sat cross-legged in his life. No more for the matter of that did the great Mel, the tailor, his father. Mel was as little of a tailor as might be, and was riding gallantly to hounds while the shop was going steadily to the dogs. It was admitted on all hands that Mel was a man of heroic proportions. And yet, because he was a tailor, the whole world laughed at him.

No, so long as the guinea stamp means so much even when the man is all gold, so long as a man's soul seems thus to get a smirch of trade on it, it is grievously to be feared that even democratic damsels will continue to prefer the duke to the dry-goodsman.

W. P. J.

A WHALE had been seen several times, spouting as it passed up and down the open channel opposite my native village on the coast of North Kent, and efforts had been made to drive the great creature into shallow water, so that it might be stranded and killed, but all to no purpose. At last, under the direction of a notable old sea-dog, who went by the name of Dick the Whaler, the feat was accomplished, to the great mortification of those who had tried but failed to do the business. Some of Dick's partisans and admirers, in order to commemorate the event, requested one of his friends who enjoyed the reputation of being a regular "dabster" at verse-making, to compose something worthy of the oc casion, in order still further to humble the pride of the other leader.

The poet was supplied with a bundle of quill pens, plenty of ink and paper, and, besides these, two large dumpy bottles of "ager mixter," so called. After two days had elapsed a deputation went to see what he had succeeded in producing. This was received by the wife, who told them that the work was proceeding well, but they must not "worrit him." On the fourth day she let them know that they could now come up for the verses. With all the gravity befitting the situation these were handed over that evening; the poet also contributing a tune which he had composed to suit them. They began as follows:

There cummed unto our coast a whale,
A very big whale indeed,
T'others couldn't catch un,
But we did,

Hip, hip, hip, hooray!

Our village was not critical, and the verses were sung and roared through

the quiet streets to the inspiriting accompaniment of a drum and a keybugle.

Whenever I hear of a stray visitant, some bird or other that is unusually uncommon, the first line of that absurd composition is apt to recur to my mind.

The night-crow, white-topped hern, or night-heron, we are told by a recognised authority of the present day, was recorded first in May, 1872; but it had been to my own knowledge shot frequently without the fact being noticed. Like the bittern it only reaches us to be shot. Early impressions are very lasting, and having been "bird-struck" even as a youngster, I remember as though it had only taken place yesterday, how old Craft brought in from the marshes, where he had shot it, the finest night-heron that had been seen by us. That was long before the year 1872.

As a rule old Craft was very communicative as to his luck, but on the particular afternoon to which I refer he stood before the bar of "The Royal Anchor," with his gun and a bunch of birds, in a decidedly glum state of mind. The worthy landlord chaffed him about it, asking what ailed him? Had he seen a wreck? Had he run out of "ager" medicine? Had his pigs cut their throats, swimming down the creek again? This last allusion referred to what was usually a dangerous topic to touch on, but as the questions were followed up by a glass of his "most pertickler" offered free of cost, and as the landlord usually was ready to purchase any fowl that old Craft wanted to sell, the reference to a tussle he had had, in night shirt and cap, with his cantankerous swine was allowed to pass.

"Now, then, Craft, what ails ye?" he was asked again, as he put down his glass.

66

Well, I shot and missed him," was the laconic, but vague reply.

"Sure-ly, ye ain't pulled on that 'ere new coyman, have ye?" The coyman referred to was the man in charge of the great duck-decoy.

"No, 'twas a bird; I never sin one like it afore."

This statement reaching the ears of the customers in the bar-parlour (birds concerned every one in various ways), out they walked to hear about it. "Wet up, Craft, an' yarn it off to us."

"I was comin' over the last ma'sh afore you gits to Stangate creek, when up gits a bird somethin' bigger 'an a coot, with white feathers a-hangin' down his back. I got a bit flustered, seein' as 'twas most onusual like, an' missed him."

""Twas a trick o' that ere furrin heathen o' a coyman, Craft," said the landlord, "you may depend on it. He'd catched one o' them 'ere cat-scratchin' coots, an' tied his missus's apernstrings roun' its neck."

"Ay," added one of his chums, "them 'ere heathens frum the shires is most fit to do any outlandish work. Josher here reckins as he'll pull a stroke-oar in coyman's boat afore long."

"'Twas only last week he went down to the long splash for to git a couple o' ducks; 'tis a good place for 'em, you know. Well, there waunt a sign o' one about above or below. He couldn't mek it out nohow, fur he'd niver missed seeing on 'em, if he didn't git 'em. It regl'ar dumbfounded Josher; and presently out from the reeds cums a couple o' ducks with white feathers in their beaks, cuttin' most owdacious capers on the water, tossin' their heads up, quackin' an' spinnin' about in most onairthly fashin. Josher watched 'em fur a time, then he shot 'em. That 'ere coyman, to keep t'others frum cummin to shoot there, though it waunt nowhere near the landmarks fur the coy,

had clipped their wings, put feathers in their beaks, an' turned 'em out there, to scare fowl away, the heathen! If he don't ha' done cutting them capers he'll find his coy raised, an' he wunt want it done more 'an once, we reckins. Depend on it, Craft, 'twas a coot that warmint had figgered up with apern-strings."

These remarks only made Craft feel indignant. "Had any on 'em sin him in specks? Had any on 'em sin him fed with a spoon, or led about by his little gal?" No one replying to these questions, he left his bunch of birds, seized his gun, and went out, stating in the most emphatic manner that, "He would hev the creeter, if 'twas in the ma'sh; if he raised the coy over it."

The

It

Perhaps I might as well explain what raising the coy means. ducks come into the decoy,- -or decoys as the case may be-from open waters early in the morning, leaving it to feed again as evening draws near. is when resting in the decoy that they are coaxed up one of the decoy-pipes and get captured. Extreme quiet must be maintained if the capture is to be a fortunate one, for it is absolutely necessary that the fowl should never leave the decoy-pond except of their own accord. To be frightened off a few times would ruin the working of it all, and heavy penalties are incurred by wilful disturbance. "To raise the coy" was the worst threat that any of the more daring spirits could venture on in the marshes, for the decoy was generally respected as sacred.

In from the marshes proudly walked Craft on the day after the conversation I have related, with the strange bird, its beautiful head-plumes lovingly arranged on the dark neck and shoulders.

Craft was triumphant; he marched to "The Royal Anchor" and showed his bird; the news spread, and thither all the choicest spirits flocked after him. What bird was it? No one knew, but it was universally set down as "a Frencher o' some sort." Then one of them suggested that the bird

should be shown to Mr. Grind, the lawyer, who was supposed to know everything. This was done, but he said that he had never seen such a handsome bird before, and did not in the least know what it was. Then as a last resource they sent for Dick the Whaler. He looked at it, turned his quid, rubbed his chin, and spoke: "If its feet was webbed-like, but they ain't, I should fancy 'twas one o' them 'ere pingin [penguin] things, fur some o' they outlandish things has topknots; but this 'ere is afore my recknin'." After this sage utterance the bird was given over to the care of the host; all settled down to make themselves comfortable, and Dick had to tell over again how the whale was beached. In the small hours two figures were seen going home a little unsteadily, full of whales, top-knot herns, and "mixter."

"Can you tell me where your fine raven was procured?" I asked a man who was walking up the street with one tucked under his arm like a rooster.

"The

"From Sussex," he replied. friend that sent him to me said that a few pairs lingered there yet."

This was some years ago. I fear they may have been rooted out by this time. This fine handsome bird is one of our wanderers; from the earliest time he has been an object of consideration, and all have credited him with superhuman intelligence, and regarded him as a bird of evil omen. This to a certain extent is not a matter of wonder, for he is one of Nature's scavengers, and where he thinks his services are required there he will be. He may now be considered as practically banished from England; though he would come again if folks would let him, but they will not; he is outlawed, and a price put on his head. In past times, when people threw objectionable matter into the streets, he, with the kites to help him, cleared all up. I have seen ducks and pigs doing the same thing; these creatures once did nearly all our

sanitary work, so far as the streets were concerned; but it did not keep the cholera from the place. It came, and the ravens came in advance of it; but why they did so remains a mystery that could never be accounted for by those of us who escaped that horrible visitation. It is not the least use trying to account for everything in the matter-of-fact manner in which things are usually disposed of at the present time. I have thought it all over, but to no purpose; I know only that when the scourge left the place the ravens were seen there no more.

With the fierce and hardy Scandi navian sea-rovers the raven was a bird of note, though for what purpose he was used by them we have no record left to tell us. It has been conjectured by those whose deep research into historical matters give their views great weight, that the ravens (of which two varieties existed then as now, the black and the black and white raven) were carried by these rovers in their war-ships, to be turned out when on their exploring and plundering expeditions. They watched the flight of the bird, and if it did not return, they sailed in the same direction, feeling certain that land of some kind must lie where the raven had made for. That fierce race of sea-kings evidently knew far more about the real nature of the bird than we do at the present time.

With the part the raven played some have associated the Greenland, Iceland and Norwegian falcons, the noble gyr-falcons, as they are called; but the raven is well known to have been an important factor, though a mysterious one, in all their high-handed proceedings. The pied raven belongs to the Faroe Isles, and is called after them.

If the Scandinavians were originally of Asiatic origin, the record of the raven's having been used by Noah no doubt must have been handed down to them. We have no authority for this theory, beyond the bare probability to which slight historical frag

ments point. In past times the bird no doubt owed his life in some measure to the belief that ancient members of his race fed the Prophet Elijah. Where the Bible formed the only literature of the household, and it was read and acted on in a literal manner, it is no wonder that this bird went free. Some of the quiet women of our coast, their types are now only seen in paintings-when they spoke were listened to with respect, for they would wrestle in spirit, as they called it, with the head of the house until he was full of it, and gave in. If it had "been shown to them," as they would say, that a certain thing should not be done, as a rule it was left alone by the men-folk.

The last ravens' nest which was harried, to my knowledge was upset by some one hired for the job, and not by the person one might have expected to do it. If it was supposed that ill luck would thus be diverted from the latter I cannot say. One thing is certain, the man that gave the order for the ravens' destruction has been dead for years, while the man who harried the nest is alive still and hearty, although nearly seventy years old. Last summer he climbed up one of the finest trees in the district, like a squirrel.

The late E. T. Booth, whose matchless collection, which he generously left for the public benefit, shows his ardent search for the beautiful feathered creatures that are to be found in our island, has a good word to say for the raven. Writing in 1876, after a visit to Perthshire, he observes: "Few, if any, of these ravens [referring to some he saw there] had been bred in the immediate neighbourhood, having in all probability crossed the hills from the northern countries or the western islands. At that time of year they were perfectly harmless on the ground, preying only on wounded game or hares, and, as they always left that quarter before breeding-season, their visits were beneficial rather than otherwise." And

again he says: "They were at all times so eager to make a meal off the dead game with which we baited our traps, that I have known between two and three hundred captured in a single season; not that we wished to destroy them, but positively they insisted on getting into the traps we were forced to keep set in order to check the increase of more destructive vermin."

I have quoted from this high authority because some, I know, have considered me a little one-sided and enthusiastic in pleading, as I still hope to do, for the preservation of some of the creatures in our country. Fortunately I do not stand alone in this. If ever a man studied the habits of birds impartially, it was E. T. Booth.

The raven has interested me at all times; not that my chances of studying him have been numerous, but I have made the most of those I had. That he admirably fills the place for which he was formed, no one that has seen him can doubt. He is, I think, the closest feeder of any bird I am acquainted with. "Waste not, want not" is evidently the principle he works upon. One might say of him as the negro said of the shark, "Him berry clean feeder, Sah."

That grand bird the cob, or great black-backed gull, whose wings extend five feet four inches, feeds on the same dead body at times as the raven, side by side, Odin's bird and the seavulture. This bird wanders; and it is a curious circumstance that the pure-looking sea-bird should be credited with far greater power for mischief than even the raven; yet such is the case. They go over the same kind of hunting-grounds, feed on the same kind of food, living and dead, and get trapped with the same baits. Owners of grouse-moors, I conclude, if they had their choice, would prefer to be visited by the ravens sooner than by the cobs. As the gull flaps along his keen eyes detect the dead and wounded birds left after shooting. Down he