Cephalothorax subovate, covered with fine, short, dense hairs, with a transverse groove between cephalic and thoracic portion, and with a deep impression in the middle of the upper surface of the latter.

Eyes eight, unequal in size, disposed thus ·.::.·; the four middle occupy a slight protuberance in front of the cephalothorax, whilst the lateral are the smallest, and situated on the side of its anterior part.

Falces articulated vertically, rather compressed, with a non-denticulated claw of moderate size at their extremity; the claw is received in a sheath at the lower end of the falces, the edges of the sheath being provided with some horny spines of unequal size. Maxillæ flat; the outer margins of both together form a card-like figure; their lower extremity is hairy; sternal lip between the maxillæ, elongate elliptical. Sternum ovate, covered with rather coarse hairs. Palpi of moderate length: the terminal joint is rather longer than the two preceding together, and armed with a minute non-pectinated claw.

Legs rather robust, tapering, very unequal in length, the two anterior being nearly equally long, but much longer than the two posterior: the fourth is longer than the third: each is armed with a pair of minute claws.

Abdomen club-shaped, anteriorly produced into a very long, thin, cylindrical process, which is twice bent, so that its basal half is leaning backwards on the back of the abdomen, whilst its terminal half is directed upwards and forwards, terminating in a slight cuneiform swelling: this singular appendage is covered with a leathery, fine hairy skin, like the lower parts of the abdomen. The cephalothorax being united with the abdomen at no great distance from the spinners, the anterior portion of the abdomen, with its appendage, is situated vertically above the thorax. The abdomen is nearly smooth above, and covered with very fine hairs below; it terminates in an obtuse point directed upwards.

Six spinners in a quadrangular group immediately before the vent: the anterior and posterior pair are of moderate size: the third pair is very short, and situated between the posterior spinners.

Two branchial opercula: tracheal opercula absent.

Dimensions.

Colour brownish yellow: extremities of the legs and of abdominal appendage and sternum blackish brown: upper parts of the abdomen yellow: two black bands round the femur of the first leg.

A single female specimen of this spider was obtained by the late M. Mouhot in the Lao Mountains of Cochin China. Its form is so extraordinary that we have not hesitated to refer it to a new genus, Cyphagogus.

DESCRIPTION BY M. LE COMTE DE CASTELNAU OF A NEW AND GIGANTIC CARABIDEOUS INSECT DISCOVERED BY M. MOUHOT IN LAOS.

(Communicated by the Count to the ‘Revue et Magasin de Zoologie.’ 1862. No. 8. Paris.)

Among the magnificent insects that M. Mouhot collected during the few months of his stay in Laos, the first place is claimed by the beautiful Carabus which forms the subject of this paper, and which I have named Mouhotia gloriosa after my unfortunate countryman.

This splendid insect is black, with a large border of flame-colour at the sides of the thorax and of the elytra; this is covered with longitudinal striæ, formed by a double row of punctures. The thorax is hollowed behind, smooth on the top, with the lateral border a brilliant coppery-red; it presents a small longitudinal stria in the middle of its disk, and the anterior angles are very prominent.

It much resembles Pasimachus and Emydopterus, but is distinguished from them; firstly, by the maxillary palpi, of which the last joint is broad, flat, angular on the inner side, and rounded at the end, this joint being a little longer than the one before it; secondly, by the labrum, which is wide, short, and indented on the exterior side; and thirdly, by the labial palpi, which have their last joint in the same form as the maxillary, but longer and hatchet-shaped. The mandibles are very strong, moderately arched, striated transversely, and with a strong tooth on the inner side; the jaws are also striated and obtuse at the ends. The head is similar to that of Pasimachus, the thorax is heart-shaped, the elytra oval, with angles towards the joints not strongly marked, convex, and a little serrated behind; the claws are powerful, with a strong tooth on the outer side of the middle of the tibiæ of the centre pair.

This insect is one of the most magnificent Carabidæ known, and is nearly two inches in length. The collection in the British Museum contains a fine specimen of it.

DESCRIPTIONS OF TWO NEW SPECIES OF LAND-SHELLS DISCOVERED BY M. MOUHOT IN THE INTERIOR OF CAMBODIA.

Helix cambojiensis.

Shell sinistral, deeply umbilicated, conoidly globose, rather inflated; upper portion of the whorls of a rich-toned transparent chestnut colour, edged at the satural margin with purple black; lower portion of the whorls white, turning to a delicate straw-colour by the overlying of a shining, transparent, horny epidermis, encircled below the periphery and around the umbilicus with two very decided, broad, rich purple black bands; whorls six, corrugately puckered throughout at the satural margin, the first four whorls very densely granosely wrinkle-striated in the direction of the lines of growth, the striæ gradually disappearing on the fifth whorl; aperture lunar-orbicular; lips simple, reflected partly round the umbilicus.

Out of two thousand species of Helix at present known, the only one of the same type as H. Mouhoti is the large H. Brookei, collected by Mr. Arthur Adams, in company with Sir Edward Belcher, on the mountains of Borneo, during the voyage of the ‘Samarang,’ and described by Mr. Arthur Adams in the ‘Zoology’ of that expedition. H. Mouhoti, of which Mr. Stevens has received a few specimens in various stages of growth, is even larger and more inflated than H. Brookei. In adult specimens the last whorl measures 6½ inches in circumference, 3 inches in diameter, and the shell is about 2 inches high. It differs from H. Brookei in being conspicuously, but not broadly, umbilicated, and in the mature lip not being in the least degree reflected at the margin. The lip itself (not the margin) is reflected at its junction with the body-whorl, partly round the umbilicus, as in the Nanina form of the genus. But the most striking feature of the species is the colouring. In H. Brookei the lower half of the whorls is of a uniform dark chestnut-colour; in H. Mouhoti it is pure white, turned to a bright straw colour by the overlying of a shining horny epidermis, encircled immediately below the periphery by a broad, rich, purple-black band, somewhat like the bands of the large Philippine Bulimus Reevei, but even broader and more defined on the white ground. The region of the umbilicus is also deeply and as definitely stained with the same purple-black colour. As in H. Brookei, all the specimens of H. Mouhoti are sinistral, or what is more commonly called reversed.

Bulimus cambojiensis.

This shell is either sinistral or dextral, cylindrically ovate, thick, stout and pupoid in the spire, bluish-white, tinged with a watery fawn-colour, and clouded throughout with oblique zigzag flames of the same colour, darker, but very undefined and washy; whorls seven, smooth, rather bulbous, faintly impressed concavely below the suture; aperture ovate, of rather moderate dimensions, overlaid in a very conspicuous manner across the body-whorl, and over a very thickly reflected lip, with a callous, opaque, milk-white deposit, which in the interior is stained with a beautifully iridescent violet-rose. This fine species, of which Mr. Stevens has received several specimens, measuring nearly 3 inches in length by 1½ inch in width, is a most characteristic example of a type of the Malayan province of the genus, represented by the old Bulimus citrinus of Brugnière; and it has been named after its well-authenticated place of habitation, because the species is, in all probability, confined to that locality. The islands adjacent to Cambodia have been pretty well ransacked; and we have nothing like it in species either from them or from the contiguous mainland of Siam on the west, or Cochin China on the east. This particular type of the genus appears, however, abundantly at the Moluccas, in B. citrinus; and at Mindanao, the southernmost of the Philippine Islands, in B. maculiferus. Like these two species, B. cambojiensis occurs with the shell convoluted either to the right or to the left. The shell is both larger and stouter than that of B. citrinus, differently painted, and especially characterized by its mouth of iridescent violet-rose, or what is now fashionably termed “Solferino” colour.

These descriptions are from the pen of Lovell Reeve, Esq., F.L.S., &c., and were communicated by him to ‘The Annals and Magazine of Natural History.’ See vol. vi. p. 203.

The annexed plate contains representations of several other new and interesting species of land shells discovered by M. Mouhot, and named by Dr. Pfeiffer, but which have yet to be described.

ATMOSPHERICAL OBSERVATIONS.

January.—The month of January at Bangkok is generally the coolest in the whole year. The thermometer generally ranges from 58° to 60° Fahr. in the morning. The wind is sometimes N. or N.E., and at others S.S.W. or S. The rainy season ends in the latter part of October; the water has fallen in the rivers, which have not overflowed since the middle of December; therefore at this time of the year one can walk along the banks, which are pleasant. The paths are visible and in a good state for travellers, and there is less danger, even in the interior of the country, of being attacked by jungle fever. There is often fog in the morning, but yet it is not unhealthy. The weather has been fine all the month, excepting one or two rainy days towards the middle.

February.—During this month the wind frequently blows from the N.E. or E., though sometimes from S.S.W. The weather is fresh, agreeable, and healthy. It is the month which the Buddhist pilgrims choose to visit Phrabat, where they imagine they can trace the prints of Buddha’s feet. It is the best time for crossing the jungles and the plains, for the banks are all raised high above the water and the earth is perfectly dry. If the wind blows from the S. for a few days, as it sometimes does, the heat becomes overwhelming for the time. There are also occasionally, as in January, two or three rainy days towards the middle of the month.

March.—This month is hotter and drier than the two preceding ones; there is less freshness. The wind blows generally from the E.N.E., S., or S.S.W., and often with great violence during the day: the Siamese call it Som Won (wind of the shuttlecock), of which game they are very fond, and one hears everywhere their noise mingled with cries of admiration from the people. Violent storms, accompanied by rain and thunder, generally mark the equinox; after that the weather becomes hot and dry. The thermometer sometimes rises as high as 93 in the middle of the day, but the nights are still pleasant.

April.—April is the hottest month of the year. The first part is generally dry, with E. or S. winds, but changes about the middle to N.E. and S.W. In the latter part of the month the excessive heat is tempered by some refreshing rains. Although the sun is very powerful during the day, the nights at Bangkok are cool. This month is not so healthy for Europeans as the three which precede it, and dysentery makes great ravages.

May.—This month is considered one of the most rainy of the year, though sometimes July and September are more so. The rain rarely lasts all day, and there are sometimes intervals of two or three fine days. In this month the people prepare their ground and sow their rice.

June.—During the whole of this month the wind blows constantly either from the S., W., or S.W. The jungles at this season are fatal to travellers, especially to Europeans, who would do wisely to avoid them and to pass this the rainy season at Bangkok, which is one of the healthiest of the tropical towns.

July.—In July sweet and refreshing breezes blow from the W. and S., but more rain falls than in June. There are sometimes very hot days, when the thermometer rises very high, but still in Siam this month is considered tolerably healthy.

August.—The same as July.

September.—This is a month of almost incessant rain, and it is very rare to have two or three consecutive fine days.

October.—Everything is inundated, some of the streets of Bangkok are transformed into canals, and the rivers everywhere overflow their banks. The first part of this month is as rainy as the preceding one.

November.—The Siamese now complain of the cold, but the Europeans rejoice in it, for the N.E. wind begins to blow. There are still some rainy days at the beginning of the month, and some hot ones. These transitions of temperature give rise to colds and catarrhs. At the end of the month the wind changes to the S.W.

December.—This is the best month to commence travelling on the rivers. Occasionally there is thunder and rain, but altogether it is considered a healthy month.

Louang Prabang (Laos).

TALE.

Translated from the Chinese by M. Henri Mouhot.

In a Chinese village lived two cousins, both orphans: the eldest, who was called Moû, was cunning and egotistical; the other, on the contrary, was goodness and simplicity itself; he was called A-lo-Sine. The time for ploughing the fields arrived: A-lo-Sine possessed a buffalo, while Moû had only a dog. An idea struck him, and he went to his cousin and said, “I bring you my dog; give me your buffalo: my dog will plough your field, which is not very large, and you will see that you will have very fine rice.”

A-lo-Sine consented, and worked so well with the dog that his rice was first-rate, while the field ploughed by the buffalo produced hardly anything.

Moû, then, full of spite, went by night into his cousin’s field, and set fire to it: A-lo-Sine saw the flames, and, unable to repress his despair, uttered piercing cries, and rolled in the field.

Some apes, who were marauding in a neighbouring field, witnessed this spectacle, and said to each other, “That must be a god, since the fire does not hurt him.” They accordingly drew near him, took him by the feet and arms, and carried him to the top of a mountain, where they laid him down, plunged in a deep sleep. The monkeys then piled up rice and delicious fruits, and bowls of gold and silver of extraordinary beauty and value, and then left him to return to the fields.

At last he awoke, and thought no more of his misfortune, seeing around him so many treasures: he gathered them all up, and returned to his hut, full of joy.

Moû, seeing him so happy, followed him, and, at the sight of the gold, “Heavens!” cried he; “my cousin as rich as a prince: give me something.”

“No,” replied A-lo-Sine, “I will not; for you are wicked, and you set fire to my field.”

Moû then went to his own field, and set fire to that also, and imitated all that his cousin had done: he wept, cried, and, like him, threw himself into the flames. Five monkeys, one of them a young one, who were feasting close by, drew near him, curious to see what he was about. “He is a god,” said they, also; “the flames have spared him. Let us carry him away.” No sooner said than done. Each monkey seized one an arm, the other a leg, and they set off.

They reached a neighbouring wood; but there the little monkey began to cry out, “I want to help to carry him also.” “But there is nothing of him to hold by,” said the mother. The little monkey, however, continued to cry, and at last seized Moû’s long tress of hair, and put himself at the head of the procession.

But this hurt Moû, and he tried to disengage his hair. The young monkey began to cry again. “Ah, you are angry; stay there, then,” said all the others, and they threw him into a prickly bush.

Moû had great trouble in extricating himself from his disagreeable position; and it was nearly evening when he reached home, all covered with blood.

“Well, cousin, have you also some gold and silver?” said A-lo-Sine, on seeing him. “Ah! I am thoroughly punished for the harm I did you,” replied Moû. “I bring back nothing but needles: call the women to take them out of me.”

TALE.

Translated from the Chinese by M. Henri Mouhot.

There lived formerly in a Chinese village an old couple who had no children; and one day the husband put himself in a violent passion with his wife for never having had any, and even beat her. The poor old woman rushed out of the house, crying, and ran a long way. A priest of Buddha met her accidentally, and asked her what had happened to her. “My husband was angry to-day, and beat me, because we had no children,” replied she. “Listen,” said the priest; “I will make you happy! Dig in this earth and knead it” (it was clay). The woman obeyed, and the priest then sat down, and with his fingers moulded nine little figures. “The first,” said he, “will have long ears and very quick hearing; the second, a piercing sight; the third, a skin so hard that he will not feel any blow; the fourth will stand fire without hurt; the fifth will have an enormous head, as hard as iron; the sixth, legs long enough to cross the deepest stream; the seventh, feet as large as those of an elephant, for walking in mire; the eighth, an immense stomach; and the ninth, a nose as long as a pipe, from which jets of water will issue at command. Now,” continued the priest, “go home, and every year eat one of these children.” The old woman bowed several times, professing her gratitude and happiness; then she returned home; but in her joy, instead of contenting herself with one child, she eat up all nine at once. Her stomach, which had begun to swell at once, grew every month bigger and bigger, and became frightful. The husband was beside himself with joy, and was very kind to his wife.

At last the day of delivery arrived: the father received the first child, and ran to wash him in the stream; but there came a second. “Another!” cried the father, and ran again to the river. Returning, he found a third, then a fourth. He opened his eyes and cried, “Really this is quite enough: what can we give them to eat?” But the whole nine made their appearance on the same day.

All were prodigies: they grew rapidly; never cried; eat enormously, and began to run about in two months. But the old man did not know what to call them all; and one day he complained to his wife that he could not distinguish them one from another, got in another passion, and struck her again. The old woman ran away, crying, again, and went to find the priest who had helped her before. “Why do you cry now?” said he. “My husband has so many children now that he does not know what names to give them.” “You are very foolish,” replied he, “not to be able to distinguish them by the gifts they possess. Call one ‘Quick-ear,’ another ‘Hard-head,’ and so on for the others.”

The old man had calmed down when his wife returned; but debts accumulated as the children grew up. At last they became strong and fearless.

One day a creditor came and asked for money. “I have none,” replied the old man. He persisted in this reply, and at last turned the creditor out of the house. A few days after, this man collected several of his friends, and went again to the old man, declaring he would seize one of the children, and whip him. “Quick-ear” had heard all, and “Piercing-eye” had mounted to the top of a tree and seen all that was going on. They decided that “Hard-skin” would be the best to go, and the creditor succeeded in binding him and taking him away. But every cane broke on his back, without hurting him: at last they took an immense cudgel, but this broke in the same way; and seeing that it was lost time to beat him, they let him go home.

But a few days after, the creditor came back, determined to kill one of the children with boiling water. “Quick-ear” heard the project, and “Invulnerable” was left at home, and consequently carried off. They threw him into a boiler full of water; and in about an hour, when they opened it, the child raised his head. “What, not yet dead!” cried the creditor, in a fury, and he made up a larger fire, but “Invulnerable” was still alive. They made it still hotter, but the next day their wood was exhausted, and they let him go free, saying that Buddha protected him. “This is very sad,” said the creditor; “I cannot get my money; I cannot get my money: I will write a letter to Heaven, to beg that fire may be sent down to burn the house of my debtor.” He did so accordingly; but “Quick-ear,” who heard the plot, warned “Fountain-nose,” who thereupon took care to water the roof. The thunderbolt fell, but glided from the roof to the ground. All the children joined their strength, and lifted it, chained it up, and placed it in the house.

“Is it possible,” cried the creditor, “that they are not all dead? I must throw one of them into the sea.” This time it was “Stilt-bird’s” turn. The boat in which they placed him had not gone far from the shore when a storm arose and upset it, and all the men were drowned, with the exception of “Stilt-bird,” who escaped, thanks to his long legs. However, his brothers feared for him, and sent “Big-head” to the shore, where he found him fishing, and having already caught so many fish that he did not know where to put them. Luckily “Big-head” had his hat, which they filled, and returned home with an immense load. “Large-feet” went to cut wood to fry it with; but “Great-stomach” eat it all up before his brothers had hardly had time to begin. “Weeping-eyes” began to cry, and an inundation ensued, in which many of the neighbours perished.

Meanwhile, all the children were out searching for food, and the mother was left at home alone. She, seeing the thunderbolt chained in a corner, unfastened it. Immediately it rose in the air, then, falling again, struck the poor woman, and killed her.

FABLE.

Translated from the Chinese by M. Henri Mouhot.

Firmness and presence of mind often make heroes of cowards, and rescue them from great dangers, while rashness is generally fatal.

In the midst of a thick and virgin forest, where everything seemed to slumber, an elephant began to utter doleful howlings, and a tiger replied by others still more dreadful, which froze all the other animals with terror. Monkeys, stags, and all the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, ran groaning to seek refuge at the tops of the trees, or in the depth of the woods, or in their dens. The elephant himself ran with all his speed, when on his way he met a hare, who stopped him, and said, “Why do you run thus, without aim and without reason?” “What! did you not hear the frightful roaring of the tiger? Would you advise me to stay here and be devoured?” “Stay here, and have no fear; I will answer for it that no harm happens to you,” said the hare; “only sit down, that I may jump on your back.” The elephant goodnaturedly approached and extended his four legs; then the hare jumped up, having first put into his mouth a piece of betel.

“Now, get up again,” said he, “and you will see that all will go well.” He then proceeded to give the elephant further counsel, and afterwards let out along his back a long stream of saliva, reddened by betel. Soon the tiger came up. “What are you coming to seek here?” said the hare, as the tiger stopped to look at them. “Do you not see that this elephant is not too much for me alone; and do you think I will share with you?” The tiger drew aside, behind a tree, to watch what passed. The hare then seized hold of the elephant’s ear, made him roar, and seemed perfectly master of his prey, and busy at his work. “Heavens! how strong he is!” said the tiger; but still he drew near. “Wait a minute, and I will come to you,” cried the hare, looking as though preparing to spring, and the tiger, struck with terror, turned and ran away. A chimpanzee, seeing him running away in such terror, burst out laughing. “What! you laugh at my misfortune?” cried the tiger. “I have just escaped from death, and you do not pity me.” “How so? I should like to see the beast who frightened you; take me to him.”

“What! to be devoured? no.”

“Do not be afraid; I will get on your back, and will not leave you: we will fasten our tails together, if you like; and thus united we shall run no risk!” The tiger was persuaded by these words, and they both returned to the elephant. The hare seemed still busy at his work: he had chewed a new piece of betel, and had made another stream, red as blood, on the elephant’s back. “You dare to come back!” cried he, in an angry tone, to the tiger. “You knew I had only just enough here for myself, and yet you want to carry away my prey from me; you deserve to be punished.”

At these words the elephant uttered a piercing cry; the hare made an enormous bound on his back; and the tiger, struck with terror, rushed precipitately away at full speed, saying to the chimpanzee, “Now, you see; you laughed at my fears, and we both narrowly escaped death.” But the chimpanzee did not hear; for in the tiger’s precipitate retreat he had fallen off his back, struck himself against a bamboo, and died, cursing his rashness with his last sigh.

THE HARE AND THE SNAIL.
FABLE.

Translated from the Chinese by M. Henri Mouhot.

Formerly, according to the Siamese, hares had thick ears; but a certain day one of these animals, having more legs than memory, met a snail dragging himself painfully along the ground, and in a moment of pride sought to humiliate him. “Why, little one, where are you going at this pace?” said he. “To the beautiful rice-fields of the next village.” “But, my poor fellow, you will be a long time reaching them. Why did not Nature furnish you with legs like mine? Confess you envy me. How long, now, do you think it would take me to get there?”

“Perhaps longer than it would take me, though you pity me so much,” replied the snail, coldly.

“You jest, do you not?”

“No.”

“Well, will you bet about it?”

“Willingly.”

“What will you bet?”

“Whatever you like.”

“Well, then, if you win you shall nibble my ears; for you cannot eat me; and if you lose I will eat you: will that suit you?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then set off; for I will give you a start.”

While the hare began to browse the snail set off at his slow pace, and went to his brother, who was a little way off, and to him he communicated a pass-word, which he in turn told to another, and so on along the whole line which the betters had to travel, so that it quickly reached the end.

Soon the hare, having satisfied his hunger, and feeling strong, set off, and flew over the ground, calling to the snail, whom he believed to be close by. “Ohé!” answered he, from a long way off. “Oh, he is already far on the way,” cried the hare, who set off again like an arrow. In a few minutes he stopped and called again: “Ohé,” answered a voice still farther on. “Really, he goes very quickly,” thought the hare, and he set off again. A quarter of an hour after, he stopped, quite out of breath. “Now,” said he, “I may rest; I must be far in advance; but I will call and see.” “Ohé! snail.” “Ohé!” replied a voice a long way on. “Oh! I must be quick; I shall lose my bet,” murmured the hare. He ran, and ran, and at last stopped, quite exhausted, only a few yards from the fields. “Snail,” cried he, faintly: “what! you are returning from the place? Unfortunate that I am, I have lost my bet;” and he made vain efforts to get up and escape, but, alas! his strength failed him, and the snail pitilessly gnawed his ears.

Since that day the hare always avoids damp places, for fear of meeting one of the creatures who punished him for his pride.

TALE.

Translated from the Chinese by M. Henri Mouhot.

There lived formerly in a small town in China a singular couple, of a description still met with, for the Chinese progress very slowly. The husband was noted for his folly, and the wife for her cunning. “Always remember,” she used constantly to say to her husband when he went out, “that all people with long noses, in the form of an eagle’s beak, and bending downwards, are good-for-nothings, beggars, cheats, and, worse still, bad paymasters, coiners of false money, false-swearers, and will go to hell; while people with small turned-up noses are good, and will go straight to heaven. Therefore, that you may not lose, sell only to these last; for, I repeat to you, the others are bad.”

Every day the husband went out, and passed from street to street, examining the passers-by, but never addressing any but those who had their heads raised to look at something, so that he very seldom sold anything.

One day, when he was observing noses as usual, he saw a man reading a placard which was placed very high. “That man will go straight to heaven,” thought he; “his nose is so much turned up. Will you buy some clothes, good man?” said he. “Clothes! you see I have some.” “But you appear to me the most honest man I ever saw” (“I never saw such a nose,” he added to himself); “and I should like to sell you a whole suit; my wife makes them herself.” “Well, what is the price?” “Of my wife?” “No; of the clothes.” “Two kóóu” (about ten francs). “But why do you come into this retired place to sell your clothes, when there are so many people elsewhere?” “Oh! I went to those places; but all the people had long, bent, and eagle-shaped noses, you see! and I only sell to snub-nosed people.” “I do not understand you; why will you not sell to people with long noses?” “My wife, who is a very clever woman, told me that all people with long, eagle-shaped noses are knaves.” “Really, your wife is very sharp, and I understand you now. Well, my friend, I will buy your clothes; but as I have no money with me, I will pay you to-morrow. You have only to come to my house; I live near here. You will see a hurdle covered with eggs, a flag at the end of a mast, and a little plantation of betel.” “Very well; that will do.”

The merchant went home to his wife, and told her he had sold to a man with a snub nose. “Where is the money?” said she. “I have not got it yet, but I shall be sure to have it to-morrow. I am to go where I see a hurdle covered with eggs, a flag on a mast, and a little betel plantation.” The next day the wife said, “Go for your money.” He went, but could not find the house; and after long searching he came home again. “Have you the money?” said the wife. “No, I could not find the house.” “Well, I will go myself to look for it. If I am not back in an hour, you will know that I am drowned.” After an hour, as his wife did not return, the man took the sieve with which he usually sifted his rice, and set off to the river, which he began to try to empty with it. A passer-by asked him what he was doing. “I am emptying the river,” replied he; “for my wife is drowned, and she had on her best yellow bonnet.” “Nonsense!” said the other; “I just met her walking with a man who had a snub nose.”

THE DAMIER, OR CAPE PIGEON.

Procellaria Capensis.

During a long voyage, when for months you have seen nothing but water and sky, the smallest novelty which appears and promises variety for the eye and the mind, though only for a few minutes, is joyfully welcome. Sometimes it may be a stormy petrel, flying like a swallow, skimming through the air in a hundred different directions, and seeming to play in that element; sometimes a ring-tail, which, with its piercing cry like that of a hawk, appears a messenger from the sun to bid the bold navigator welcome to the tropics, hovers for a few minutes over the ship, and then flies off with a jerk and disappears.

Sometimes are to be seen numerous blowers, who pass and repass the ship with bounds; or perhaps a whale, which almost stupefies you with the noise he makes as he displaces the water in rising to the surface to breathe: at another time it is some hungry shark, who, following in the wake of the ship, lets himself be caught by the bait thrown out to him, and which, when hoisted with great difficulty on deck, lashes it with his tail and looks formidable even after death; and this is a good take for the sailors, who divide the spoil and feast on it.

But of all the creatures dear and familiar to sailors, none rejoices him more than the faithful companion who, more than 3000 miles before he doubles the Cape of Good Hope or Cape Horn, appears to his sight, swims in the water, grazes a thousand times the hull or the rigging, pleases his eye by its parti-coloured plumage, and announces to him calm and tempest.

This bird, called by the French “Damier,” by the English the Cape Pigeon, and “Peintada” by the Portuguese, is the Cape Petrel, or Procellaria capensis of naturalists.

Gifted with great powers of flight, though less than other petrels, from morn till night, and often even a part of the latter when the moon is full, it is seen in the wake or alongside of the ship, describing in its flight, in which scarcely any movement is apparent, a thousand evolutions, sometimes touching the great waves which seem ready to overwhelm it, the moment after reappearing far above them, always wheeling about and careless of the storm.

The sight of this flight and of all these evolutions is most pleasing, and one involuntarily thinks of a graceful skater flying over the ice at his utmost speed, and seeking to attract admiration.

The whole life of this bird is perpetual movement, a constant chase after a scarce and insignificant prey. Unlike the swallow, who has his hours of pleasure and of amorous warbling, and nights of sleep in his warm nest, the Cape pigeon, pressed by hunger and by his ravenous appetite, only rests for a few minutes at a time at rare intervals during the day, in order to recruit his strength, and at night, rocked by the stormy wave, must find but little sleep.

Neither does the Cape pigeon know the delight of a peaceful retreat in a favourite spot sheltered by thick foliage or long reeds; and while most birds confine themselves to a limited district, where they are almost certain to be found at the same season, and to which they invariably return at the disappearance of the frosts which have chased them away for a time, this one, a sailor by nature, has for its domain an immense empire, namely the greatest part of the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans, and has to brave night and day, at one time an icy wind, and at another the rays of a burning sun.

But in a state of liberty nothing living is often unhappy, and the foreseeing Providence, who knows how to satisfy the wants of his creatures, also knows how to create joys for them, where we see nothing but trouble and misery. In like manner the industrious workman and the hardy traveller experience, perhaps, of all men the most lively joys; to them repose would be the greatest suffering.

Although inseparable companions of the sailor, it is not certainly for the pleasure of his society, nor for that afforded by the sight of the ship, that the petrels follow it, but for the certainty of finding in the scraps thrown overboard, as well as in the number of shells in the wake of the ship, food more abundant than he would discover elsewhere in the water. Nothing can equal their voracity but the quickness and vivacity with which they catch sight of the smallest prey and seize it even amidst a stormy sea. From a great distance, and long before the albatross, and the other descriptions of petrels which are often to be seen with the Cape pigeons, have remarked it, they see and pounce on it, and have generally swallowed it before the jealous rivals who follow them have been able to overtake them. The sense of smell does not here come in aid of that of sight, for they often pounce on a piece of wood or something of that description which falls from a vessel, and only abandon it when convinced by the touch that it is not fit for food. Their greediness is such that they will often let themselves be taken in dozens with hooks; no sooner are they on deck than they disgorge a thick liquid the colour of linseed oil.

When these birds rest on the sea and let themselves be tossed about by the waves, their appearance, dimensions, form, and colour of plumage strongly resemble our domestic pigeons, and hence the English seamen, struck with the similarity, have given them the name of Cape pigeons. Their size varies; the largest measuring more than 18 inches English from the beak to the tip of the tail, and rather more than a foot in circumference.

They are generally seen in great numbers only in stormy weather and in rather high latitudes. In the winter season—that is, during our June, July, and August—they follow the ships constantly between 23° S. lat. and 31° and 103° E. long.

Is it not a wonderful thing and worthy of admiration that the instinct with which this bold little navigator is endowed guides him safely through this vast space, where there is nothing to serve him as a landmark, enables him to rejoin his comrades if accidentally separated from them, and teaches him every year when the warm season returns to recognise and find the island or the solitary rock where he was born, and where in his turn he will bring up his young ones; while man, with his maps, his books, his nautical instruments, and in spite of all his long experience, has such difficulty in finding his way across the ocean? And yet we think that our intelligence raises us above the animals. This is what confounds and overwhelms the scholar when he seeks to fathom the great mysteries of creation.

THE ALBATROSS.