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 Your reason for being lost is that you are traveling around in a circle. There is an open field somewhere not far distant, but you cannot find it. Here is a simple rule. Pick out a tree in the direction that you think is home and go to it. Then pick out another in the same direction and go to that. Then look back at the first tree and pick out a third in line with these two and go to that. Then keep going in this way, always looking back to your two last trees to keep your direction. This will enable you to travel in a straight line, and before you know it, you are out of the woods. But the animals do not have to do this way. They just know. A fox hound will follow a fox all day long, winding in and out. At night he may be many miles from home, but he does not have to wander about to find his home. He just points his nose toward his master's house and travels for home as fast as his legs will carry him.

A friend of mine was once hopelessly lost in the Rockies. He drove his horse for hours toward what he thought was camp, but did not

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 find it. Finally he gave the wise horse his head and he started off in a direction which the hunter thought would land them still further from camp. But not so. The faithful animal soon trotted into camp to the great astonishment of his rider.

Even such stupid things as fishes seem to possess this instinct. The herring which are hatched in some pond or river along the coast will go hundreds of miles to sea ranging about until they are fully grown. Then when it is their turn to spawn, they will turn their noses toward the old spawning bed and come swarming up the stream or river until they nearly choke it. The great silver salmon of the streams in Alaska always return to the old spawning bed each season. When these fish went to sea they were merely minnows. But they come back as full-grown salmon, many of them weighing twenty or thirty pounds, yet they have not forgotten the place where they were hatched.

The seals, which are also born along the islands of the Alaskan coast, can always find the

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 way home. In the summer they will swim far to seaward, following the cold currents southward, but when the call of nature comes, they obey it and find their way back to the home rookeries.

Who can say by what instinct a little bird no larger than a butternut finds his way across a continent, braving wind and storms, always sure of his direction and never lost? The bluebirds will say good-bye in the autumn when the last dead leaf has fallen. But the same brave little fellow will say hullo again in the spring. He is just as bright and beautiful as he was when he went away and even more so, for now he brings the hope of spring with him and then he foretold the winter.

The King Gander who leads the great flock southward each year needs neither compass nor map. I presume, though, that he follows the watercourses, and most of them lead southward, but even so, he still needs a good compass to guide him in storms or in fogs. He travels just as well in the darkest night as by daylight, because the home instinct guides him.

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 I have purposely kept the best example of the homing instinct until the last. That is the homing pigeon, the beautiful, brave bird whose heart is always singing "home, home," whose one instinct is the home cote.

The other day the government released one of those wonderful birds in Chicago. The mayor of that city placed a message for President Harding in the tube upon the bird's leg. Fourteen hours later the message had been delivered at the White House and the faithful messenger was pecking grain in the home cote, the average mileage being forty-five miles per hour, which is fast for so long a flight. These swift messengers will deliver a message within fifty or sixty miles, flying at the rate of a mile a minute.

No one can estimate how many lives of soldiers these birds saved during the great war. One faithful pigeon, with his leg shot off, but still hale and hearty, is wearing a Croix de Guerre as a token of faithful service. A part of the regiment with which he was detailed to fight was cut off in the Argonne Forest. It

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 was known as the Lost Battalion. For five days the men battled against terrible odds. Their food and water gave out and finally their ammunition as well. They had dug into a sandy bank. Their friends thought them all dead. So both Germans and their own troops were shelling the side hill. Men tried to get word to their base line, but they were all killed in the attempt. As a last resort, four pigeons were released one after another, and all met the same fate. Finally, the last pigeon was thrown into the air, but a bullet struck him before he was ten feet away. He reeled and fluttered and seemed about to fall. But he sensed the call of his mate and the nest, the home cote. With a mighty effort he summoned all his remaining strength and flew away. Half an hour later he delivered the message to the commanding general and the Lost Battalion was saved through the heroism of a homing pigeon.

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the only real rock-a-bye baby I know of is the young oriole as it swings to and fro in its wonderful horsehair nest at the end of an elm bough. The gray squirrel, in the autumn or winter, is also something of a rock-a-bye baby as he swings in his leaf nest in the fork of a high tree. But I think the Mother Goose rhymes must have referred to the oriole.

For several years Sunbeam and Sweetheart, a pair of Baltimore orioles, have swung their wonderful nest from an elm-tree in my dooryard, so I am very well acquainted with them and we are on the best of terms. I usually help them a bit in nest-building time and that is perhaps why we are such good friends.

Over two hundred years ago Lord Baltimore, an Englishman, wished to establish a colony for himself and his friends in the new world. He first selected Newfoundland, but

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 for his colony that cold and bleak country was a great failure. So he finally went to Maryland, Virginia, to look about for a new place for his colony. He was sick and discouraged. But when he beheld the birds in the forests of Maryland he decided at once that he would move his colony there. Especially was he attracted by our little hangbird. The bright color of this little fellow and his blithe song so cheered him that he changed the colors of his house to Orange and Black, the color of the oriole. So he adopted the bird's color, and the bird now bears his name—a fair exchange.

Sunbeam, the male oriole, is the most punctual little chap that I know of in birdland. I have kept a calendar of his spring arrival for many years. On the morning of the seventh of May, be it sunshiny or rainy, I always look for him, and he rarely disappoints me. I am convinced from the fact that he arrives so punctually that he must keep a bird calendar of his own. He is ever the same little Sunbeam, and my heart always warms when I see him. A flash of fire across the lawn, and a blithe, chat-

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 tering flood of song pouring out behind. He is so full of song that he has to sing even when flying, just as the bobolink does.

Sunbeam guards the old elm tree very jealously until Sweetheart comes. He is something of an aristocrat and he does not want too many vulgar birds building in his own particular tree. Sweetheart is coming north more leisurely, traveling with a large flock of female orioles. Sunbeam does not do anything about their house until she arrives. I suppose he thinks that she might upset all his plans if he did. So he just amuses himself with scrapping with cock robin and the bluebird, and singing and winging hither and thither.

I am always glad when Sweetheart arrives and they can get to nest building. Of all the birds in North America they are the most skillful nest-builders. Sunbeam sometimes helps with the nest, but Sweetheart is the master builder. It is she who selects the graceful bough on the elm where they will hang the nest. It is usually a small branch perhaps half an inch in diameter, one that will swing freely

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 when the wind blows. Their favorite weaving material is horsehair. This is very strong and the best possible thing that they can use. But sometimes it is hard to find and they have to use milkweed fiber and also fiber from elmbark. I used to place strong thread and silk where they could find it. Once I placed a lot of gaily colored worsted for them and they had the gayest sort of a nest. This beautiful little home is about seven inches deep and held to the branch by countless threads. At the bottom it is large, to make room for the nest. At the top it is nearly closed, to hide Sweetheart as she sits upon the eggs.

The weaving in this nest is wonderful. It is so close that rain cannot penetrate it, and yet it gives a free circulation for the air. No malicious bird like the starling or cuckoo can prey upon this home. I have never known but one Baltimore oriole nest to come to grief, and that was blown down by a terrible wind. Even then the branch on which it was hung broke and fell to the ground.

As soon as the nest is ready, Sweetheart lays

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 from four to six light-colored eggs splashed with dark markings. Then for two weeks she spends most of her time in the nest while Sunbeam has to feed her with caterpillars and grubs. The orioles are a great help to man, as they eat countless destructive worms and grubs which hurt the trees and shrubs.

A French naturalist has estimated that if the birds were all to disappear man could live on the earth only nine years, for without the birds, the plants, trees and vegetables would disappear. They would be eaten up by the worms and bugs. Then the cattle and sheep would not have any feed and they would all die. So man himself would have to live upon fish, which would be very bad for him.

When the young orioles were finally hatched, Sunbeam and Sweetheart would spend nearly the whole day carrying them worms and bugs. But even then Sunbeam would still find time to sing.

The young orioles never leave the nest until they can fly, so they are rarely caught by cats. Such good care do these songsters take of

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 themselves that I have never seen a dead oriole. After the young orioles had become nearly grown it was a gay company that flitted about the old elm. Sunbeam still sang some, but he was very busy looking out for his family and keeping the young birds out of danger. The oriole is one of the last of the song-birds to come north, and he is one of the first to go back south, so we have to make the most of him while we have him. Faithful little Bluebird is one of the first to come and the last to go, which shows how much he loves us. With Oriole it is quite different. He is a gay little fellow. He loves the sunshine and the flowers, so in September when the flowers have faded and the birds have ceased to sing, he gathers his family together and they all fly away to Maryland. We never see them go, so perhaps they leave in the night, or very early in the morning. All we know is that some morning we miss them from the dooryard and we are sad because of their going. But we always wish them good luck and look forward to their return the seventh of next May. The empty nest still

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 swings on the slim bough and we have the memory of their beauty and joy to cheer us in the cold winter.

So here's luck to you, Sunbeam and Sweetheart, as you fly away southward. May you escape the pot-hunters in the large cities on the way, the ignorant men and boys who hunt song-birds for a bird pie. May you escape every danger by the way and come back to us again next spring as gay coated and sweet of song as ever.

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old drumming log near which Ruff was hatched was down in the pasture behind the old farmhouse where I lived as a boy. It was about half a mile from the house, but on clear spring mornings when the wind was right I often heard the old cock partridge drumming. The sound that this wary bird makes is so loud that one can hear it a long ways off.

I presume my young reader may not know what it is that the cock partridge does when he drums, so I will tell him. Perhaps he has thought that he had a real drum on which he whacked, but that is not the case. In the early spring at mating time the cock partridge finds an old fallen log, one that is clear from brush and moss, and he calls this his own particular drumming log, and woe to any other cock partridge who might try to drum on it.

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 Ruff's father first began drumming about the middle of April. This was to call a mate. When the lady partridge hears a cock drumming she knows that he is calling in partridge language for her to come to him and be his mate.

The cock partridge often has to drum for several days before he gets his mate, for the lady partridges are coquettish and have to be wooed just like the rest of the sex. When the cock partridge drums he stands erect on his log, swells his breast out to its full capacity and with his strong wings beats a loud tattoo on his breast and sides. At first his wings strike slowly, but finally he beats so fast that you could not see the wings, just a great mass of flying feathers. At last the lady partridge comes at his call and he jumps down from his log and runs to greet her. Then they are very friendly for several days, looking about for a good place for the nest and courting. They usually find a spot under a fallen tree top and Mrs. Partridge lays about a dozen eggs. When the eggs are all laid she begins sitting.

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 The eggs will hatch within two or three weeks. When they are finally hatched it is a very lively brood of chicks which she presents to the old cock partridge. The same day that they are hatched they leave the nest, and run about, and begin feeding on plant lice which are so small one can hardly see them. These will be very well for several weeks, but they finally graduate from plant lice and go to eating grubs. When a partridge chick is two weeks old it looks for all the world like a brown leghorn chick of the same age. I have often seen the old partridge and her chicks in the woods. They are very hard to catch. I have several times caught them, but it was only after a long chase. When these chicks are young, through the day they will follow their mother about picking plant lice, but each night the wise old bird finds a safe place under a log, or some thick brush and broods them under her wings just as a hen will her chickens.

There are many dangers in the great woods, so the mother bird has to sleep with one eye open, as they say. The fox may come prowl-d

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 ing about. He would gobble up the whole brood, mother and all, if he could find them. The raccoon is just as bad, only he is more clumsy and easier to avoid. Then hawks and owls are on the lookout for partridges, but they will be more apt to get them when they are larger and roost in the trees at night.

When the chicks are small, there are often very heavy rains, and if the mother is brooding them in a low place sometimes they are drowned, or they get chilled, and die. A little later on they are liable to have grubs in the head, and these are also fatal. Sometimes in July they will all become very stupid and will stand about and not care to eat. Then their mother knows they need medicine and she will lead them away to some very bad tasting berries and make them eat a lot of them. After this they feel better.

When Ruff's brothers and sisters were half grown I used to see them in the blackberry bushes along the edge of the woods. There had been twelve eggs and all hatched, but by this time there were but nine in the brood. The

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 rains had killed two, and one had died from ticks. In October I saw them again in the beech woods, where I had gone for nuts. The partridges had also gone there for nuts and they had grown considerably since I saw them in the blackberry bushes. They were now nearly as large as their mother. When they flew one after another they made a great noise with their whirring wings.

In November the partridges all act very strangely, and this is called the mad moon for the partridges. Then it is that the brood breaks up and each partridge goes his own way. Partridges will often fly close to the houses during the mad moon. It was during the mad moon that I caught Ruff in my hands. This was a very remarkable thing, as the partridge is the shyest of birds. I was on my way to school and I found him lying on the ground under a telephone wire. He was not dead but stunned. He had been flying about in the foolish way that partridges have when the mad moon is on and had not noticed the wire. Bang he went into it and fell to the ground. I came

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 along just in time to pick him up. I took him home and put him in an old chicken coop after nailing wire netting over the front of it so he could not get out.

He was very wild and shy. We kept him for nearly a month, but I do not think he would ever have been tamed. He would finally eat his corn or oats when no one was looking. When we came to see him he would go in the farthest corner of his coop and crouch down as though scared to death. My father said we could not tame him and we finally decided to let him go. The whole family came out to see him off. After some difficulty I caught him and took him struggling to the back yard. Here I set him down on the snow. For a few seconds he crouched as though uncertain. Then he ran a few steps to get a good start and with a roar of wings he was off. The last I saw of him he was sailing away toward the spruce woods and the old drumming log.

I do not know what became of him. If he escaped the owls, the hawks, the wildcat and the hunters, perhaps he reared his own brood of

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 chicks the next spring. But one thing was certain, we never saw him again. He had gone hack to the wild where he belonged. Some of the wild creatures can he tamed, but the partridge usually remains wild all his days, so the great woods is the place for him.

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is one thing to have bright eyes, or seeing eyes, and quite another to see with them. A boy or girl may have the keenest kind of eyesight and yet miss half that goes on in field and woods. This is both because they do not know how to see and also because they do not know where to look for the wonders and mysteries of nature.

The animals and birds have a way of blending with the landscape that is baffling to any but trained eyes. This is very necessary for them, as they depend upon this fact to shield them from their enemies.

From the moment that the first bluebird perches upon the top of the old elm and announces that spring is coming, until he flies away in the autumn, there is always something interesting to see in field and forest.

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 But the wonders of nature do not cease even then, for the winter also has its woodland secrets, many of which are most interesting.

It is a very pleasant pastime to keep a bird calendar and notice each new arrival. This keeps one always on the lookout, and before you know it, you have gained a great deal of knowledge about our little feathered friends.

Most of the common song-birds can be observed in villages or near houses, as the birds seem to consider themselves the friends of man.

For the thrushes and the bobolink one will have to go further afield, but he will be well rewarded for his pains.

An old apple orchard is also a good place to observe birds and there are several species to be found there which do not frequent the village street. Barns and bridges likewise attract swallows and fly-catchers. It is a very easy task to identify seventy-five of the more common species of birds between March first and the middle of May without going far afield.

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 After identifying each species, it is well to note the difference between the markings of the male and the female. As a general rule, the male bird is more gorgeous than the female. In the human species, the female wears all the fine feathers, but not so with the birds where the males wear the fine feathers and also do all the singing.

Many of the birds may be told simply by their flight when they are so far distant that one can barely see them. Thus it is that the woodpeckers gallop, the hawks sail, the swallows skim and dart. So it is often a very slight thing that gives the clue to the identity of the bird.

It is very pleasant to know all the bird songs. Here a single note will often betray the bird, although he may be hidden away in the deepest thicket.

Squirrels are harder to discern among the tree tops than are birds, for their neutral-tinted coats blend readily with bark and foliage. The squirrel has acquired the trick of keeping perfectly still if he knows you are searching for

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 him and that makes him much harder to discover.

A rabbit is also hard to see because he is brown in summer and autumn and white in winter, so he fades into the landscape perfectly.

This is nature's special care for him, for he is the most hunted little creature in the great woods.

Partridge, quail, and woodcock also call for a trained eye in order to get a good view of these shy birds. But if you were to start out to locate them you might tramp for half a day without seeing them.

The same rule of bright eyes applies to the fishes and other creatures in the water. One boy can spot a pickerel in the pickerel grass where another will look for several minutes before he sees it, even after it has been pointed out to him.

Hiding by this simple means is a fine art and all the wild creatures have it to perfection.

Usually the mouths of the burrows of foxes, rabbits, and woodchucks are carefully hidden, although the woodchuck is not so particular as

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 the others. The chipmunk is very foxy about his burrow. He will dig his burrow under the roots of an old tree and make a second door coming out under a root or under a convenient sod. Then he will carefully close up his first door, and use only the second.

If you wish to see things in the woods, the very best way is to sit perfectly still and let the wild kindred come to you. If you go blundering along looking for them, there are ten chances to one that they will see you first and when you do appear, they will be cleverly hidden so you will not see them at all. So go into the woods and sit down under a tall tree and look and listen.

If it is in the squirrel country and in the autumn, presently you will hear the squirrels dropping down maple seeds, or perhaps nuts. Soon you will see a quiver along the limb, and Mr. Squirrel will run the length of the limb, and jump to another perch.

You may hear a soft pitter-patter in the dead leaves and a rabbit will come hopping shyly along. Or even a cock partridge may strut

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 into view. These are rare sights, but there are countless shy curious little birds who will come flying from tree to tree to inspect you. They are half afraid, yet very curious. You are a stranger in their woods and they want to know who you are and what you are doing.

Boys often call the crows about by imitating their calls. Thus they can often call dozens of these shy rogues into the tree tops above them.

The barking and scolding of the red squirrel may be imitated by placing jmur lips on the back of your hand and blowing and sucking rapidly. In this way, one can also imitate the squeak of the field-mouse.

In the winter time, there is not so much to see, but the telltale tracks that the wood folk leave in the new snow are most interesting. I have often read strange tragedies in the new snow. Stories that were just as plain to my trained eyes as though I had seen the action.

Thus the bright eyes seeking after woodcraft, soon learn to tell the two-by-two track of the squirrel, the I shaped track of the rabbit, the businesslike straightaway track

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 of the fox, the scraggly track of the partridge, and the tiny lace-like track of the wood-mouse.

The winter sounds that you may hear when the weather is clear and warm are also interesting. Two or three species of woodpeckers winter with us, and their clear nasal "snip" is often heard, as well as their "rat-a-tat-tat," whacking upon dead limbs. The call of a jay or cawing of crows often breaks the winter stillness, while at night, the barking of a fox or the hooting of an owl gives an eerie sound between the moaning of the wind and the creaking of great branches upon the leafless trees.

Thus each season has its pictures and its sounds. It only remains for us to see and hear them. It is a great art to possess the seeing eye, and a boy who can see things afield is always admired by his fellows.

To see the wild kindred and to know them when you see them; to love them and protect them, these are among the great blessings of boyhood. So keep your eyes open, boys and girls, for all are learning woodcraft in these

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 days of Boy Scouts and Camp-fire Girls. Keep your eyes open and your hearts as well and you will be richly rewarded for your study of the great book of nature.

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was what its name implies, a lonely lake up in Labrador, which is certainly a lonely country. It was the summer breeding ground of the Gray Squadron. It had been the summer quarters for the Canada wild goose for untold ages, but at the time of our story, their numbers had somewhat diminished, so there were about a hundred geese upon the lake. It was beautifully situated with woods upon one side and open country on the other. Feed was always abundant, and it was far from the haunts of men. Of course there were the natural enemies such as mink and the fox to combat, also the elements, but altogether it was an ideal breeding place.

The Gray Squadron had come back to the lake the April before with its ranks badly de-

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 pleted. On the way south, in the autumn they had lost nearly a score of their numbers by running into a hunting party, when the flock was flying low. The pot-hunters along the Carolina coast where they had wintered had taken twice as many more, so that it was barely a score of these splendid birds that had come back in April.

If the hunters only appreciated the fact that when they bag one wild goose in the spring, out of season, they rob the flock of a full brood, they would think before they shoot. But it is the way of the prodigal American to waste much more than he uses.

The Gray Squadron had spent a profitable summer and its number was now recruited to one hundred and four members, made up of ten new broods and about a dozen old birds.

Hitherto the flock had been led on the southward flight by an old gray veteran, but his last autumn experience had put him in bad with the ganders who led each of the individual flocks. These birds were a sort of cabinet or heads of departments for the leader. So it

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 had happened that on the day of which I write, the last day of November, there had been tumult and turmoil around the lake all day long. This had been over the leadership of the flock for the pending flight.

The old leader was certainly out of the question. This had been demonstrated when one of the under ganders had thrashed him so soundly that he was now nursing a broken wing and a bruised and bleeding head, in the reeds along one of the inlets of the lake. After the old leader had been disposed of, there had been other battles for the leadership, not so furious as the first, but still strenuous. In the wild it is the strongest that always dominates and leads, so a mammoth gander who had always bullied the old leader made himself commodore of the Gray Squadron and his rivals assented. Now in the gathering twilight he was making ready to lead the flight southward. On a dozen sand spits along the lake, as many small flocks were assembled ready for the word to fall in.

The start was preceded by a great squawk-

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 ing and calling of the leaders one to another, but only four or five old ganders had yet taken to the air. Finally even these descended and took their places, each at the head of his particular brood. For five minutes perfect silence reigned. Then the leader of the flock arose in air and circled away to the north. At the head of the lake it formed into the wedge shape with the old gander at the point and five geese on either leg. Slowly this apex flock circled down one side of the lake and up the other. There was no command or call: "Fall in, Company B," but at a certain point, another flock arose in air and joined itself to the right leg of the flock. The next flock joined upon the left side as quickly and as perfectly as trained soldiers. So on the flock went circling the lake until the entire one hundred and four geese had been formed into one great squadron, as symmetrical and perfect a V as had been the first small flock. Then their leader turned the point to the southward and they were off for the autumn migration to the winter quarters along the Carolina coast. They rose easily to an alti-

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 tude of about three hundred feet. This was well up out of shotgun reach. True, occasional ambitious hunters would take a shot at them at this altitude, but no harm was done. It was a magnificent sight, as the Gray Squadron swept away southward, flying with strong, even strokes, the most wonderful flying machine in nature.

As long as the daylight lasted, they flew rather silently, but when darkness settled down they talked to each other, or at least that was what it sounded like. One might have heard low, sleepy squawks all along the line. These came at regular intervals and were signal sounds to keep the flock together and flying at a uniform altitude. The great danger in flying at night is that they might get to flying too low and collide with church steeples or other high and dangerous obstructions. But usually their sense of approaching obstacles would save them from a disaster of the kind; still such things have happened.

My reader may wonder how, in perfect darkness, without a compass or chart, the admiral

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 could hold the Gray Squadron so perfectly to its course. I am not sure. It is probably done by several powers which man does not possess. A sort of homing instinct. A sense of direction which does not depend upon compass or map. The air currents probably also help, but I think it is more instinct than anything else.

If one could have trained an opera glass upon the Flying Squadron as it cleaved the Labrador sky on that November twilight, it would have disclosed a wonderful sight. One hundred and four of the largest American game birds, with the exception of the wild turkey, each holding his place perfectly in the wedge-shape formation, flying about a rod apart, with strong, steady wing strokes, each with his long black neck stretched out in front of him like a race-horse, showing plainly the white crescent at the throat and with the legs drawn up well under to escape the rush of the wind. Such was this bird cyclone of the sky cleaving the twilight air at the rate of fifty-five or sixty miles an hour. Far beneath, the Lab-

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 rador wilderness floated rapidly by, field, forests, lakes and rivers, all seeming to flow northward like a mighty moving picture. For the first hour, or until twilight fell, there was very little civilization to be seen, then straggling fishing villages and an occasional country road came into view. At last the town back of the only good harbor that the desolate country possessed was past and the flock was winging over Newfoundland. By midnight they were well into New Brunswick and nearing the Maine State line. As the flying V crossed the international boundary between the United States and Canada a long streak of bright light was seen upon the earth beneath. It was a train upon the Maine Shore line. For a while the train and the flock went parallel; the Flying Squadron was much too fast for the express, and it was soon left far behind. On down the Maine coast they sped. Here they ran into a strong south wind and a snow squall, but it did not deter this wonderful flying machine. It swept on, not quite so fast, but still going strong at forty miles an hour. By daylight,

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 the flock crossed Casco Bay and Portland harbor.

Early risers on the islands heard the wild exultant slogan of the water fowl, "Honk, honk, honk." They rubbed their sleepy eyes and looked upward. For thirty seconds, or perhaps a minute, they could follow the flying V as it swept on toward the New Hampshire line. By eight o'clock the Squadron turned inland and all alighted upon a small woodscreened lake. Here they fed and rested during the day. As good luck would have it, no hunter discovered them, so they recuperated, and by night were as fresh as they had been the night before. Once again the leader of the flock rose in air and circled about the lake, picking up in turn each of the small flocks until the great formation had been again secured. Then he headed his splendid flying machine back toward the sea and it came rushing on down the New Hampshire coast. By eight o'clock it had passed into Massachusetts. On down the Massachusetts coast they flew, passing over Boston harbor by ten o'clock. They

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 cut the Cape just as the present canal does and headed straight for Narragansett Bay. Providence and Newport did not see them, but late pedestrians might have heard the faint wild cry far above if they had been upon the street to listen.

Then they turned westward along the Connecticut coast. At the western end of Long Island they headed for the New Jersey coast. Three o'clock found them passing above Atlantic City heading for Delaware Bay. In the early morning hours just at sunrise, they stopped for an hour to feed and rest in the bay, then they took wing again and sped on. The homing instinct was growing stronger and stronger each hour in the mind of the old leader. Ordinarily he might have rested for another night in southern Delaware, but this was the land of duck hunters and the flock sensed its danger. They now mounted to a greater height than they had thus far maintained, perhaps half a mile, where they were well out of danger.

Chesapeake Bay was crossed and they

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 glimpsed Washington without even knowing, for to the Flying Squadron all cities looked alike.

On down the Virginia coast the flying wedge swept. All through the forenoon they flew steadily. By noon they again stopped for an hour near the Carolina boundary to rest and feed. But it was only a brief stop. The winter quarters had not been reached yet, so the commodore still led them on. By the middle of the afternoon the flock wheeled at the mouth of one of the rivers that flows from North Carolina into the Atlantic Ocean and headed for a large island twenty miles to sea. Here, half an hour later, they came to their long journey's end.

The Flying Squadron was not spent, but tired. It could have taken to the air again and flown another thousand miles if necessary, but they had reached their winter quarters and so they rested, well content.

The Flying Squadron had covered something like two thousand miles in two and a half days, so why not rest?

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 There in the warm islands of the Atlantic we will leave them until the first of April, when we may again hear the stirring slogan of the Canadian wild goose as the flying wedge again cleaves the spring sky on its way northward. And when it does pass, I, for one, if I am fortunate enough to hear it, will take off my hat and wish them all good luck on the northward flight.

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the normal country boy, keen eyed, strong of limb, and full of the zest of living, every season of the year is the best season ever.

When the fifteenth of April comes, and he digs some angleworms and takes his fish-pole and goes away to the little alder-fringed trout brook, to renew his acquaintance with the Kingfisher, he thinks that spring is the best time of year. When summer comes with her full tide of life and he goes away to the pasture to pick wild strawberries, or blueberries, he votes for summer-time. When autumn comes and the nuts hang ripe on chestnut and butternut tree and he vies with the squirrels for the ripe nuts, he declares for autumn. But when winter comes with its skating and coasting, its fresh invigorating winds, with snowballing and snow forts, he is quite sure that winter is the best season of the year.

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 Wise little philosopher that he is, he takes life very much as he finds it and squeezes out a full cup of joy from each passing season.

So long as he is just a boy, it does not matter what the wind or weather bring.

To scuff in the dead leaves, and kick up great clouds of them while their sweet sad scent fills the nostrils, is a deep satisfaction, but boyhood's joys are more dramatic. This is more of a girl's pastime. To go away for a day's hard work in the chestnut or butternut grove, or even to gather beechnuts, is more to his liking.

It is dizzy work climbing the high chestnuts and then holding on with one hand, while with the other one pulls off the hard-sticking burrs. The first frosts help some, but if one would be ahead of the squirrels he will have to use a pole. The beechnuts stick so hard that the best method is to saw off a convenient limb, and then strip it leisurely.

How the squirrels run up and down the trees, barking and scolding as you work. This applies especially to the red squirrel. The

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 gray takes it as a matter of course, or at least he never says anything, but the red squirrel considers he owns the whole woods. Chippy, too, is quite disturbed, but he does not scold as the red squirrel does. You may have sawed off the very limb from which he was filling his winter pantry, but he will find another.

Out on the cranberry bog, the sour, red berries are very plentiful.

The gray moss gives under the feet as one moves from hillock to hillock. There is always just enough excitement about it to keep up the interest. There are legends that certain places in the bog are treacherous. Just the right spot might let one in out of sight. I have never known of any one being lost in that way on our own particular bog, but there is the legend.

Still more exciting than these harmless frolics in the autumn woods was raccoon hunting, in which the boys always joined in my boyhood.

With the faithful coon dog on a leash, and with lanterns, the start was made. There were always shadows enough to make it rather scary,

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 and the hooting and laughing of the owls gave an added thrill. We skirted all the cornfields before letting the dog go. That was our best chance to find a fresh coon track.

Our excuse for hunting the raccoon was that he raided the hen-coops, scooped out the insides of the pumpkins, and did considerable damage to other vegetables. Of course, Mr. Raccoon had to live, but we did not think of that.

If we were lucky enough to tree a coon, then the fun began. He had to be either shaken or frightened out of the tree, or perhaps the tree had to be cut down. A very wasteful performance, as one good tree is worth many coonskins, or even Mr. Raccoon himself, delicious as he is, baked with sweet potatoes and served in the most approved manner.

If we were unlucky and did not start a coon, we made the best of it by going to a near-by cornfield and picking some corn that was still in the milk. This we would roast around a blazing campfire, where we would stay until the small hours of the morning, eating roast corn and ripe apples and telling stories.

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 What a grown-up feeling it gives a boy to let himself in at the back door at two o'clock in the morning, after a coon hunt, only the boy knows.

There is a special halo that surrounds Thanksgiving day in the country. With what zest the normal country boy enters into this glad festal day.

He does not like picking chickens and turkeys, but he does his part at that fussy work.

There is more fun in cracking the nuts, and getting the largest, reddest apples and polishing them to make them shine and selecting the largest bunches of grapes from the storehouse. Then to put in the last two hours before dinner in just loafing about, smelling the tantalizing odors.

Going away to the great woods to cut the Christmas tree does not really come under the pleasures of autumn, but I always associate that sacred duty with this season of the year. If it is a green Christmas and the day is warm, it may still look quite like autumn, but more frequently there is snow on the ground.

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 You always know that particular tree for the Christmas tree the moment you set eyes On it. Perhaps you have been looking for an hour.

Some of the trees which you inspect are too tall and some too short. Some are crooked while others do not branch enough.

There is always a special look to the Christmas tree, that no other tree has. It is preferably a spruce or hemlock. A pine is too sticky and it sheds its needles badly, so Mother has decreed against it, because it litters up the house.

The Christmas tree must be just tall enough to stand erect in the living-room, and it must be conical in shape, large at the bottom, and with a fine point at the top. It must have a great many small limbs to hang presents on.

I used to wonder, as I chopped the Christmas tree down, if it knew it was going to be the Christmas tree as it grew. If so, did that fact discourage it, or was it joy enough just to be a Christmas tree?

I often wondered if the trees ever got to

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An Act to be administered by the Minister for Home Affairs, and for related purposes

Note: An electronic version of this Act is available on the Federal Register of Legislation (https://www.legislation.gov.au/)

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 talking in tree language, just as they do when the wind whispers softly in their branches. Perhaps one would say, "Ho, I am going to be the Christmas tree. I am going up to the house and help celebrate the glad day when I am tall enough."

"A fine stunt that is," another would retort, a crooked little tree which could never serve in that capacity. "You will be cut down for your pains. You will die and that will be the end of you."

"Oh, well, I don't care," the future Christmas tree would reply, softly sighing in all its needles. "I will have had one glad time. And they will keep me for a long time just to look at and talk about me for months and tell how beautiful I was."

The boy never feels quite so much the man in after years as he does the day he drags home the Christmas tree and all his smaller brothers and sisters run shouting to greet him. He is bringing home the woods, its fragrance and its sentient life, its mystery and its peace, to beautify the home for a brief season.

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 So here's to you, brave little Christmas tree, giving your own fragrant life for the joy of others.

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was a clear, crisp clay about the middle of September. The sky was clear as though Dame Nature had swept it with a broom. The air was fragrant with ripe fruit and dead leaves. The lap of Mother Nature was filled to overflowing with the good things of earth. Well she had redeemed the promises of spring and summer. It was a day to make the heart glad and one to remember when the snow lay white on the fields.

It was the day of the crow convention. The forty-fifth division of the Crow's Association of North America were having their annual convention in Farmer Brown's sugar orchard. I presume that every black rogue of them thought the day had been made especially for him.

Ever since early morning crow scouts had been flying across the country assembling the

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 clan. And since about noon they had been gathering at the sugar bush. You could see them coming by twos and threes, flying leisurely, as is the way of crows. The sugar orchard, which was a large grove of several hundred rock maples, was splendidly adapted for such a gathering. The leaves were still thick enough on the trees to afford a screen for the proceedings. This grove was set apart from the rest of the woods, so that, by placing half a dozen sentries on the outskirts of the grove, they could be sure that they would not be surprised by any hunters. Not that any hunter would ever want to shoot a crow to eat, "eating crow" being a proverb referring to anything that is very unpalatable. But crows are such rascals that hunters often go out of their way to shoot them.

By three o'clock in the afternoon they had all assembled. The trees for an acre were black with them, old crows and young crows, shiny black crows and rusty crows, crows just hatched that spring, and crows who could boast a score of years at least. Most of them were

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 rather quiet. Occasionally a young crow would try his voice, though he was usually reprimanded rather severely by his elders. The orders were to keep quiet, but when the meeting had once been opened it was hard to keep quiet. There were usually many exciting things to discuss.

Sometimes they disagreed and had to express their minds forcefully. Then, too, they occasionally had to express themselves with one accord, just as a crowd of boys do when they give three cheers.

When the scouts had reported that they could see no more crows coming across the fields, the meeting was opened by the president, a very dignified black old crow, who was supposed to be the wisest crow in the clan. One reason for his wisdom was that he had been captured by a farmer when he was young. He had lived for several months with the farmer's family so he had learned many of their ways. He had also acquired several words of their speech which he often quoted, to the great admiration of his fellows. In short, he was what

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 you might call an educated crow. He knew not only all that the rest of the crows did but he had a sort of crow college education besides. Thus he was able to tell the clan what the farmer would do under certain provocation. He knew traps, poison, scarecrows and firearms, so he Was a most valuable president and leader. The clan knew this and they held him in great esteem.

When it was time to open the convention, the old crow mounted to the top of a very high maple, where he was plainly seen by all the clan, and addressed them in crow language.

"It gives me great pleasure, Crow ladies and gentlemen," he said, "to call this convention to order. It is the tenth convention that I have presided over since I took the leadership of the clan. You certainly have prospered under my leadership."

"Caw, caw, caw," came from every hand. This meant, "Yes, yes, yes, we have," in crow language.

The old crow stood a little straighter on his perch and continued. "I have certainly saved

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 many of your scalps, for I have taught you the wisdom of men. If you are to fight men, you must know their ways and their thoughts as well as their language. You bet." This latter phrase was given in English by the president to the great astonishment of the young crows and the delight of the older ones. A caw of approval ran like a ripple through the maples.

"Yes, I have led you wisely, but there are still several things that I want to call your attention to. The most important of these is the robbing of birds' nests in the villages close to the houses. It must stop at once."

"How can we live if we don't rob birds' nests?" croaked a rusty old crow. "I have to have bird's eggs in the early spring to keep my coat black."

"It don't keep it very black, grandpa," sneered a sleek fellow close to the president.

"Wait until you are as old as I am," croaked grandpa. "I don't believe you will have even a tail feather left."

"Silence, silence," cawed the chairman. "Don't quarrel and don't interrupt me. I re-

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 peat what I have already said. The robbing of birds' nests in the villages must cease at once, or something will happen that will make this clan look like a blackbird's funeral. Listen to me. The other day I was roosting in the old pine close to the house where I used to live. I occasionally go there and listen to the talk. I can often pick up valuable information.

"Billy Brown was telling Mr. Brown that there was talk of putting a bounty on us crows, because we killed so many young birds. Do you know what that means?"

"No, no, no, tell us, tell us," cawed a dozen crows at once.

"Of course you don't know. Most of you don't know anything." The old crow stopped and preened his feathers complacently. Finally he continued, "Well, I will tell you. It means that the men will say that for every crow that is shot or captured in any way they will give one of the shiny pieces that they call money. It is a magic disk that you can get anything with. I found one in the road one day. If that happens, all the boys in the country will

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 be after us with their guns. Not only that, but they will poison us and trap us, until there aren't a dozen crows left in this mighty clan."

The chairman looked around in triumph to see if his words had made their proper impression. They certainly had. They had created consternation in the clan. All was excitement. A chorus of wild caws arose. Old crows craned their necks anxiously and looked hard at the president. Such consternation had never been known in the maple grove.

Finally the commotion subsided. "Wise leader?" asked a sleek crow near the chairman, "what do you suggest? How would you ward off such a calamity? We will be guided by your wisdom. Such a calamity cannot be permitted. We are the scavengers of the country. What would become of all the dead horses and calves and other carrion that men are too lazy to bury if it was not for us? Why, the whole countryside would be filled with stench. Men ought to think of that."

"They ought to think of many things which they do not," said the president. "What I

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 would suggest is this. That we make a rule not to rob a bird's nest in sight of a house. That is the only safe way."

"Oh, my coat," piped grandpa. "I shall be as rusty as a rusty blackbird. No lady crow will ever look at me again. I was thinking seriously of taking a mate next spring and raising a fine brood."

This announcement was greeted by a great caw of derision from the lady crows, all of whom looked disdainfully at the old fellow.

"We won't worry any about your coat or your mate," said the chairman sternly. "You are rustier than any blackbird now, and there isn't a lady crow in the convention who would so much as look at you."

"Caw, caw, caw," chorused all the female crows. "He's a back number. He's a rusty old gent. We don't want him."

"You see how it is. You had better make the best of it."

At these stern words from the chairman who looked at the old chap in his most disdainful

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 manner the grandpa subsided and was very quiet during the rest of the meeting.

"It will cut off a large part of our nest robbing," said a dignified crow. "Most of the song-birds are in the villages or near the houses of men."

"That is so," agreed the chairman, "but there will still be good picking. There are the bobolinks in the meadows and the thrushes along the edge of the woods and scores of small birds that nest in the fields.

"It can't be helped. We have got to consider the clan as a whole. We are very important birds and our numbers must be maintained."

This announcement was greeted with a chorus of approval.

"Now," continued the chairman, "I am going to prescribe a very severe penalty. Any crow who is found robbing a bird's nest in sight of the abode of men must suffer the severest penalty that we ever inflict. He will have his eyes picked out by the clan. You all know that means starvation. So beware."

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 At this announcement a deep silence fell upon the clan. It was certainly a very serious matter.

"Now," said the president, "we will listen to the report of the chairman on membership. Let us see if we are holding our own."

A sleek, dignified crow, who was also something of a leader, took a commanding position where he could be both seen and heard, and made his report.

"Last year at this convention we reported five hundred and sixty members. I am glad to announce that to-day we have five hundred and ninety members, not including several crows who are absent. Some of our scouts are visiting other conventions."

"Caw, caw, caw. Good, good, good," resounded from every quarter. "Long live this clan. Caw, caw, hurrah, hurrah."

"I am able to make this final report," continued the chairman, "although nearly a hundred of our members lost their lives in the great freeze last winter when we were frozen in under the crust."

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 "That certainly was a sad event," remarked the president during the quiet which succeeded this terrible announcement. "It shows that the clan should be careful about digging in when there is liable to be a great freeze. For my part I would rather take my chances in the top of a pine or hemlock. You must all be more careful this coming winter.

"Hawks, owls and hunters have taken their usual toll from our ranks, but, thanks to our loyal mother crows, we have made our numbers good. I call for three cheers for the mother crows of this convention."

"Caw, caw, caw," resounded through the maple grove. At this the lady crows looked very happy and well satisfied.

"Nearly four hundred young crows were hatched this spring," continued the chairman, "of which nearly two hundred are here to-day. That is a good per cent. to survive."

"Good, good, good," chorused the clan.

"There is one fact that I wish to call attention to and to suggest a remedy. That is that so many of our old crows are blind in the right

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 eye. It comes, of course, from the fact that when we put our heads under our left wings on a cold night and go to sleep, we do not quite cover the right side of the head with the wing. Or if we do, in sleep we get careless and it becomes uncovered.

"Here is the cure for the evil. Always be sure that the head is fully covered when you go to sleep. Also occasionally change and put your head under the other wing."

"We can't, we can't, we have always slept in that way," protested several young crows.

"Yes, you can," contradicted the chairman. "You can get used to anything. It is a great handicap being able to see out of only one eye. It gives our enemies a chance to steal up on us. We all need two good eyes."

"We do, we do," cawed the clan.

"So take all pains in this matter," continued the chairman.

"Another thing that we should look out for is the fact that men are laying poison for us. Always inspect your food carefully before you eat it. I think this is all to-day. I con-

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 gratulate the clan on making so good a showing and I wish it a happy and prosperous year."

"It is a fine report," cawed the old leader from his perch in the tall maple. "I certainly hope we will have a good year. We will if my wisdom is heeded."

"Sure, sure," cawed his fellows.

"Now," said the chairman, "I will call for the report from the chairman on foraging. This is a veiy important report."

A rather rakish looking crow, whose wings had sometime been riddled with shot, flopped up to a commanding position and began his report.

"I am happy to announce," he said, "that the outlook is very good for this autumn. I can report three dead horses and two cows, which are buried so shallowly that we can easily get at them."

"Good, good," chorused the clan.

"In addition to that, there are a dozen calves and as many sheep."

He then proceeded to give the location of

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 each of these finds and delegated crows in certain sections to feed upon these caches.

"There are twenty cornfields within a mile of this grove where the corn has not yet been taken in. That is good feeding. Also there will be much scattering shelled corn after the shocks are drawn in. There are likewise many rye and barley fields and two bean patches where the beans shelled badly in the field. All this means good feeding for this autumn.

"I wish to ask you all to take pains to locate all the forage that you can for winter eating. That is when we go short. The winter is the rub. All the orchards must be visited and the apples that still stick to the trees noted. Haystacks near to the buildings accord good picking in the early morning before men are up.

"It is the early crow that gets his breakfast without having the farmer get him. So get up early and look out for yourselves. I think that finishes my report."

At the inviting picture of good feeding which this wise old crow had prepared, the clan fairly made the maple grove ring with their

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 lusty cawing. So much so that Mr. Brown and his son who were working in a distant field heard them plainly.

"What a racket the crows are making in the grove," said young Tom. "If we weren't so busy, I would go up and shoot a few."

"It is the annual gathering," returned his father. "They have it every year. What are two or three crows out of five hundred? You had better stick to getting in the corn. They have taken enough of it already."

"I was down at the house roosting in the old pine listening for wisdom," said the president when the cawing had ceased, "and I heard Mr. Brown say that women were very important this year. They were voting, or something of the kind. I do not know just what that means, but I guess we had better follow in their lead. So we will have a few words from our senior mother, Mrs. Black Night, who is so much revered by this clan."

"Good, good," chorused the convention.

Mrs. Black Night flopped up close to the shining chairman with a coquettish air and

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 craned her neck and said, "I am very happy that we have at last been recognized. We are the important members of the crow family."

"No, no," cawed several stern old male crows.

"Don't interrupt her," said the chairman. "Let her have her say. That is the way Mr. Brown does down at the house. Why, when Mrs. Brown gets to cawing, he can't so much as clear his throat."

"I repeat," said Mrs. Black Night with an injured air, "that we are the important members of this clan. We lay the eggs and hatch them and then look out for the young crows while you males are loafing about the country. If it wasn't for us the clan would disappear in a very few years. So we should be given our share of praise. We are good mothers. We have the good of the clan at heart and I am glad to say we do our work well."

"You do, you do," chorused the convention.

"I am not a speech-maker like our wise chairman or like Mrs. Brown, so wishing the clan good luck I will close." She retired to

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 her first perch amid a great cawing from the convention.

"I think this concludes the business of the day," continued the president. "I am very glad that we have had such a good meeting. Now remember all my words of wisdom and farewell until we meet again next year."

With these words from the sagacious leader the convention was closed. A few wise old heads lingered to talk over the affairs of Crowland and to make suggestions for the coming winter. But most of the clan were very eager to inspect the good feeding that had been reported by the chairman on foraging. So they flocked out of the maple grove by scores, some flying this way and some that, each eager to beat his fellow to the good feed.

In five minutes' time where there had been five hundred and ninety crows there were only a dozen or so. These, too, finally took wing and the maple grove was deserted. Thus ended this memorable convention of Division Forty-five and the black rascals all went back to their stealing and scavenger work, useful

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 in some ways, but very destructive in others. It is to be hoped that they will observe the warning of their leader not to rob birds' nests close to houses. But it is hard to teach old crows new tricks and I am afraid that we will often be awakened next spring by the cries of the song-birds when these black rascals rob their nests of both eggs and fledglings.

But such is the life of the out-of-doors. The larger prey on the smaller, and only the strongest and wisest survive.

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No. 19, 2023

An Act to be administered by the Minister for Home Affairs, and for related purposes

[Assented to 15 June 2023]

The Parliament of Australia enacts:

1 Short title

This Act is the Home Affairs Act 2023. No. 19, 2023

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not many of the little furred friends of field and forest almost as wise as man, some of them would go hungry during the winter months, even if they did not die from starvation.

Man understands that certain times of year are for seed time and harvest. Accordingly he plants his crops in the spring, tends them in the summer and in the autumn gathers in grain, vegetables, and fruit, and stores them away for use in the cold winter months. So the wild creatures, while they do not have to plant and water crops, yet they gather the bounty of Mother Nature into their pantries and granaries in the autumn so that they, too, may be fed in the cold months.

If you do not already know, you never could guess how the beaver feeds himself during the long winter. Mr. and Mrs. Beaver and all the

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 kit beavers are bark eaters. In the late autumn the beaver repairs his dam, making it secure for winter, so that he will be sure of high water when the great freeze comes. After the dam has been attended to, Mr. Beaver puts in his winter supply of food. For this purpose he goes up-stream above his dam and cuts cords and cords of small trees, poplar, maple, alder, and other kinds. He always selects the kind of a tree that furnishes tender juicy bark. These trees he cuts up into logs about three feet long. These he floats down his lake and secures them in a large pile close to the dam.

Finally the great freeze comes and Mr. Beaver is frozen under the ice for the whole winter long, but his woodpile, on which he depends for bark, is also frozen under. So when he is hungry he simply goes to his woodpile and selects a stick. This he drags up into his house, which is situated on an island above the water line.

Here secure in their mud house, Mr. and Mrs. Beaver and all the kit beavers can eat their bark whenever they are hungry. The

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 freeze which locked him under the ice has also frozen the mud house until it is as strong as though made of the strongest wood. This is very important, for the bear or the wildcat may try to break in. But when this house is frozen up they will find it burglar proof.

The muskrat, who is the little cousin of the beaver, also provides against the winter months. He makes his house of the roots and plants which he is in the habit of eating during the summer. Then, when the winter comes, he begins eating his house. He has made the house much larger than he really needs, so it does not matter if he does eat a part of it during the first of the winter. He is always sure to have a room or two left in which to live in the spring.

All the little field-mice who live in the grass roots under the snow have plentifully provided against the long winter. Every few feet in their runways under the ground they have builded a pantry. In these pantries are grass and weed seeds, and grain—all the things that make up a mouse larder. The fox often digs

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 down under the snow to try and catch Mr. Mouse, but his runway is so long and winding that Mr. Fox does not often get him.

The chipmunk is also a wise little chap. He has made himself a winter sitting-room with a pantry near it, under the roots of an old beechnut tree at the edge of the woods. So when winter comes, all Chippy has to do is to sleep and eat. Thus eating and sleeping he dreams the winter away, warm and snug.

Even the insects such as the honey bees and the ants take thought for the future. We would not think that small creatures such as these would have this knowledge, but they do. Mother Nature has given all of her little creatures knowledge enough in each case to take care of themselves.

A beehive is one of the most interesting houses that I know of. The sky-scraper in the great city may hold a thousand people perhaps, but this little white house on Bee Street holds from five to ten thousand inhabitants, all ruled over by a queen. She is a most remarkable queen too. During the season while she is lay-

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 ing, she produces two or three thousand eggs each day. This is to keep the life of the hive going, for the old bees are always dying. The life of a bee is only about a month and a half. So the young bees have to be continually hatched.

But the greatest wisdom of the bee is shown in his ability to know that the winter will be long and cold. He also knows that all the flowers from which he gathers honey will be gone in the winter, so if he is not to die then he must lay up honey for the winter use.

Thus from the time that the first apple blossom comes in the early spring until the last goldenrod fades in the autumn, the bees are busy gathering honey. It is the lady bees that do all the work. The male bees are called drones and they do not gather honey. There are usually several hundred in each hive. When they get too lazy, the lady bees sting them and kill them. This is the way they are punished for their lack of prudence.

Perhaps you have wondered where there are half a dozen hives in a row how each bee knows

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 which is his hive and where to go. This is the way:

There are very wise sentries stationed at the door of each hive and if a bee attempts to go into another beehive the sentry stings him and kills him. This is a terrible penalty, so the bees are careful to go into their own houses.

The ants also are very prudent. If you will notice an ant hill in the summer-time, you will find that the ants are very busy running to and fro laying up their winter store of food.

The ant hill is a small republic and is ruled over by wise ants, just as our country is ruled over by our president. So you see the bees and the ants had the first kingdom and the first republic. In this particular they were ahead of man.

Thus it is all through the wild life Mother Nature has given wisdom and foresight that often puts to shame the wisdom of man. Of course there are foolish animals just as there are foolish people. These sometimes neglect to provide against the coming of winter but

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 they always have to pay the price, so usually they are very careful.

It would be well for man if in many ways he would copy the wisdom and the foresight of his wild kindred. Thus he would escape the day of want, and the passing months would always find him with his pantry-shelves and his bins full. Then he would not mind, though the winds howled and the storms beat, for his house would be well fortified against hunger and cold.

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is a mighty hunter. For his size and weight, he is probably the most successful hunter in the carnivorous kingdom. There are many reasons for this. In the first place, he is very fleet of foot and has great stealth in stalking quarry. So whether it is a straightaway run for life, or a sudden spring after long waiting, he is equally well equipped. His nose, hearing, and eyesight are of the best, and his wits have no betters in the domain of wild creatures, so all these things help to make Red Fox the mighty hunter.

Then, his kind have been hunters ever since the first fox stalked the first rabbit, so it is bred in the bone. His hunting is also varied.

Some carnivorous animals stick to a few easy victims, but not so with Red Fox hunting.

On moonlight nights, he may be seen in the meadows hunting field-mice.

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 This is the time when the mice come out of their runways to play and it is also the time for Red Fox's best hunting in the meadows.

When Mr. Fox is desperate, he will dig under two feet of snow, then into the frozen grass roots, and pull the field-mouse out of his hiding-place. I have often seen the dead grass which came from the mouse runway on the top of the snow in winter-time.

Such wary birds as the partridge have to match their wits against those of Red Fox. He will stalk the mother partridge while she broods a bevy of young under the top of a fallen tree and gobble up the whole brood if he can. Or perhaps in winter on a very cold night he will dig the partridge out from under a foot of snow where the poor bird has taken refuge to keep from freezing.

On moonlight nights in midwinter, the rabbits in the rabbit warren like to play tag. They will spend hours chasing one another up and down in the laurel and small spruces. But often while they play a dark sinister form with two yellow eyes stands under a bush watching.

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 At just the right moment when the play is at its height, there is a sudden rush and the rabbits flee in every direction. For a few seconds there is a desperate race for life. Out and in they twist, then there is a pathetic cry for all the world like the cry of a baby. This is when Red Fox's deadly jaws close upon the back of the unfortunate cottontail.

One shake of his head and the trick is done. Then he throws the dead rabbit over his back and trots off home to his burrow and perhaps a litter of young foxes.

In the early spring, he may steal down to the edge of a river or lake and swim for twenty rods with the tip of his nose just showing, being careful not to make ripples. At last he reaches his victim and a duck will suddenly disappear under the water. When it comes up it will be dead and firmly held in the jaws of Red Fox.

The hen-coop Red Fox also raids most successfully and this is often the cause of his undoing. The particular Red Fox of my story had made several raids on the hen-coops in the

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 village a mile from the mountain where he lived and this caused the Valley Fox Hunter's Association to swear vengeance against him and to plan a hunt that should bring his red pelt to their club rooms.

So as it often happens, the hunter had to take his turn and be hunted, not by his natural enemies of which he has few, but by man, the most cunning of all the foes of the wild kindred.

It was a clear crisp morning in early November. There was just enough sting in the air to make it as bracing as old wine. Along all the runways beside the streams and in the low places, a hard white frost had gemmed and adorned the weeds and grasses. All this wonderful lace work would disappear as soon as the sun was an hour high, but now it was very beautiful. Red Fox had gone that morning early on a specially daring raid in the village. The Valley Fox Club had cut in behind him quite by accident and put the pack upon his fresh track. Not that they knew he was in the village, for it was a mere coincidence. Just a

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 bit of hard luck on the part of Red Fox that any good hunter is liable to experience. So it happened that when Red Fox started to back track to his lair on the mountainside, he met the pack in full cry.

He at once knew what this meant. He had watched too many fox hunts from his lookout at the mountain-top not to understand. He knew full well that along the road between himself and the mountain and in all the likely runways men were posted with their deadly thunder-sticks. Dogs he did not much fear, but the men with these deadly weapons were different. He knew if he was to keep his hide that day he must not try to double back to the mountain at that stage of the game. Instead, he must lead the pack far across the country away from the mountain. Then the men would follow, hoping to get a shot at him on some of the crossroads. Hours later, it might be safe for him to try to double back to the mountain.

So Red Fox turned reluctantly, for he hated the idea of this long, hard chase and led the

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 pack at his best pace further and further from his native lair, where he knew was the only lasting safety.

It was a thrilling sight to the fox hunters as they sighted the chase on several occasions too far away for a shot; the Red Fox, his brush held high, belly to earth, galloping easily across the open country, the deep-throated pack in full cry a score of rods behind.

But Red Fox did not intend to use only his fleet legs. He also used his fox cunning. Once he stopped on a cliff and made a figure 8 of his track. ITe then jumped six or eight feet to a shelf and left the ledge by a series of great jumps. It was a maze of fox cunning that would have puzzled many a pack. It would have puzzled this pack also, had it not been for old Bugler, the leader. When this veteran hound ran into the tangle as he led the pack, he ranged a minute this way and that, then held his head high for a few moments and simply by his great nose and his knowledge of fox cunning took the trail above the ledge and all of Red Fox's planning went for naught.

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 When the hunters next sighted the chase Red Fox was only fifteen rods ahead.

He then tried running in a brook for a score of rods, but this merely served to wet his coat, while old Bugler picked up the fresh trail on the other side without the slightest difficulty. From this futile attempt to discomfort the pack, he tried the railroad track, running for several rods upon a rail where he would leave little scent, and then springing into some bushes down a steep bank, but this also gained him little advantage.

For another hour, the chase led across the open country, but it was getting more desperate with each mile passed. Red Fox was lolling, his tongue out, although the chase was only two hours old, and his brush had begun to droop, a sure sign that he was tired.

This open country running was clearly not his kind of a game, especially with old Bugler leading the pack, so he took to cover whenever it offered. This would have worked out well and might have given him some advantage, had he not been playing in bad luck. Once he

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 doubled back on the opposite edge of the woods from that in which he entered. The last dog in the pack saw him as he came out of the woods on the other side and sounded the alarm, so the entire pack turned, left the trail and cut across his large loop and were off for another straightaway with the fox leading by only eight rods. This so encouraged the pack that they redoubled their efforts and Red Fox had a hard time of it to beat them to the next cover barely five rods ahead. Here he was more successful and he emerged ten rods ahead, but this advantage was overcome as he was getting tired and they were soon upon his heels again, not over a hundred feet away. Something must be done and that quickly. In spite of himself, Red Fox had been heading gradually back toward his beloved mountain. He might meet a man with his thunder-stick any minute. They would hear the pack and know he was just ahead of them. They were all converging upon him. His case was desperate. At this point in the chase, a clump of spruce half a mile away was sighted. There might even be a hunter wait-

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 ing in that woods for him but it was his only chance, so he took it. Just as he entered the cover, a bright idea came to him. If he could jump his enemy Black Blanket, another Red Fox, he might double-cross him and put the pack on his trail. He owed Black Blanket many a grudge and this might be a way to pay him off. Red Fox knew that his enemy often lay in this cover during the forenoon. He even knew the spot where he usually was to be found, so he headed straight for it.

It was a very dense clump of low spruces, almost impenetrable. To his great joy, Red Fox scented his enemy as he neared the lair. He sprang straight into it and with an angry snarl at his adversary, crossed Black Blanket's own trail which he had just made. This strategy gave Red Fox new courage so he sprinted away at a good pace. There was now just an even chance that the pack would take his enemy's trail in place of his own. A few minutes later to his great joy, he heard the pack in full cry on the trail of Black Blanket. His yellow eyes gleamed with satisfaction

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 as he heard the pack in full cry after his enemy.

But the entire pack was not fooled. Old Bugler did not even notice the other track. He was after Red Fox and he knew his trail from that of all other foxes, so he took the track at the X and came after Red Fox at full cry.

As soon as Red Fox saw this, he knew that his doom was sealed. He had played his last and highest card and had lost. Bugler would catch him within a mile or two and then it would be a broken back for him. But he was a red fox and he would die game. No red fox ever gave up as long as he had the breath of life in him lie would even fight the great fox hound. He would at least leave his mark on the hound's hide. They should have something to remember him by. Just at that moment, he crossed the railroad track again and then like a flash remembered the deep cut. He had nearly been caught there himself one day by a passing train, and he had saved himself by springing to a shelf on one side in the middle of the cut. He could see the smoke from the

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 Great Thunderer far across the plains. If he could reach the cut and get upon that shelf, the Great Thunderer might save him. He put the last ounce of his strength into the race and reached the cut three rods ahead of the hound. Down the cut he raced straight toward the oncoming train. He could hear it thundering and rumbling. If he was not in time, it would crush him. He had seen one of his brothers horribly mangled by a train. But what did it matter? That would be no worse than old Bugler's deadly jaws, so he raced on. The train was barely three hundred feet away. It was thundering, snorting and hissing, the very demon of death.

Bugler was crying the cry of the pack at his heels. He gathered all his remaining strength and reached the ledge. Once he sj'rang and missed but he was up and tried again. The second time he missed, but still another spring he had left in him. This time with all the strength of desperation, he sprang and reached the ledge and safety, just as the train thundered by.

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 He lay down on the ledge panting and sobbing from exhaustion. The monster roared by, then when the smoke had cleared. Red Fox raised his head and looked anxiously for his pursuer.

At first he could not discover him, but he finally made out his head fifty feet away and further on, his mangled body.

Red Fox sprang lightly down from his ledge and warily approached the dead hound. For several seconds he stood looking at him. Then with a yawn of great weariness and perhaps also of satisfaction, he trotted away through the cut toward his beloved mountain.

He had beaten Valley Fox Club at their own game and was well content.

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Section 2 2 Commencement

(1) Each provision of this Act specified in column 1 of the table commences, or is taken to have commenced, in accordance with column 2 of the table. Any other statement in column 2 has effect according to its terms. Note: This table relates only to the provisions of this Act as originally enacted. It will not be amended to deal with any later amendments of this Act.

(2) Any information in column 3 of the table is not part of this Act. Information may be inserted in this column, or information in it may be edited, in any published version of this Act.

3 Binding the Crown

This Act binds the Crown in each of its capacities.

4 Definitions

In this Act:

acquisition of property has the same meaning as in paragraph 51(xxxi) of the Constitution.

just terms has the same meaning as in paragraph 51(xxxi) of the Constitution.

land means Block 26, Section 44 in the Division of Yarralumla, as delineated on Deposited Plan Number 10486 in the Office of the Registrar of Titles at Canberra in the Australian Capital Territory.

relevant lease means any lease owned or held in respect of the land at the commencement of this Act. 2

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is born in February down under the ground in the dark, in his mother's winter parlor. But before I tell you more of Johnny Bear and his sister, I shall have to tell you something of his mother, so you will know just how she happened to be living underground.

All through the summer months the old bear is roaming about the fields and woods. During July and August she lives on blueberries, blackberries, and any other berries that she can find. She will stand in front of a blueberry bush and swoop off the berries with her long tongue in a very lively manner. In the autumn she changes her diet to nuts and roots. She occasionally varies this with a young pig or sheep if she can find these delicacies.

Something tells her that the winter will be long and hard, and that she must lay up lots

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 of fat, so she eats and eats until her ribs are covered with fat.

By the time the first snows come she is almost as fat as a pig. Also about this time she feels very sleepy. She tries to stay awake, but spite of all she can do, the drowsiness steals upon her. This means that she is getting ready for her long winter sleep. So she searches about for a place to make her winter parlor.

She usually finds just the right spot under the top of a fallen spruce or pine tree. Here she digs under and burrows about until she has made a large hole where she snuggles down and finally the deep snow comes and covers her all over with warm white blankets.

She is so completely covered up that if you were to go very close to her winter parlor you would not know that a bear was there at all.

The only evidence that she was sleeping there would be a small hole in the snow. This is melted by her breath as she lies asleep. This is the bear's chimney, and the only opening in her parlor. While she is still partly asleep Jolinny Bear and his sister are born.

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 The old bear almost always has twins. Once in a great while there are three little bears, but two is the usual number.

These little bears are very helpless little fellows and you would not think by their looks that they would ever be full-grown bears.

They are hairless and blind for several days. But they do not mind, for it is so dark down in this underground parlor that they could not see there if they had the best of eyes.

For the first month or six weeks they spend all their time nursing the mother bear and sleeping. Sleeping and eating make all young creatures grow rapidly. So it is with the young bears. When the old bear finally brings them forth into the great wide world in April, they are quite respectable little bears, as large as a small cat.

The very first lesson that they are taught, and this is the first lesson that all the woodland babies are taught, is to mind. All the woodland babies mind much better than children do. This is because their mothers are very strict. If mother bear told Johnny and his sister to

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 stay under a fallen tree out of sight while she went for food and they disobeyed her, she would box their ears most severely. This is a very necessary thing as there are many dangers in the great woods and the little creatures must mind their mothers if they do not want to come to harm. So strict obedience is the first law of the wild family.

The raccoon, who is the smallest of all the bear family, and who is often called the Little Brother to the Bear, is also a winter sleeper.

His winter parlor, however, is in quite a different place from that of Johnny Bear. When Mr. Raccoon feels the winter drowsiness coming upon him, he looks about in the woods until he finds a hollow stump about fifteen feet high. He climbs up this old hollow stump and inspects it. If it is hollow for several feet down inside, he concludes it is all right.

When it gets so cold and the snow is so deep that he does not want to venture outside, he will take possession of his tree and there he will sleep most of the winter through.

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 Chucky, the woodchuck, is another winter sleeper. All summer long he will store up fat, eating the farmer's beans, and other vegetables, until in the autumn he is just a ball of fat.

He goes to bed quite early in the autumn and we do not see him again until spring.

The smallest of all the winter sleepers is the chipmunk. Mr. Chipmunk is a very wise little chap. He has stored up a good supply of nuts and grain under the roots of an old tree. So while the wind howls outside and the snows fall, he eats and sleeps the long winter through.

Most of the reptiles and also the toads and frogs are winter sleepers. It is a very common thing to find in the late autumn a wood frog already sleeping in his bed of leaves. Mr. Wood Frog, who has a spotted, tan-colored coat, will find a place in a hollow where the leaves are deep. Here he will make himself a fine bed by wriggling down under the dead leaves. Finally the winds will cover him completely and with his head bent forward on his breast, and his hands folded on his knees, he

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 will sleep the winter away. As he sits there he looks very mueh as though he were saying his prayers. Perhaps he is saying frog prayers. Who knows?

Once when a boy I found a striped snake in a hollow tree in the winter time. He was frozen quite stiff. As he had his head slightly bent forward, it made a good crook and I called him my snake cane. I was rather careful, however, not to lean too heavily on him as I knew he was quite brittle in that frozen state. I carried him home and set him up behind the stove, without thinking of what might happen.

Half an hour later I heard a scream from my small sister. Mr. Snake had thawed out and was crawling slowly around the room. He was probably greatly astonished and was trying to make out where he was and what was happening.

One of the first things that the toads and frogs do after coming out of their winter sleep is to put on a perfectly new suit of clothes.

This they do by pulling off the old skin. There is a new skin under it, so without much

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 trouble Mrs. Frog and Mrs. Toad are provided with the very latest spring styles. Fortunately for them, however, the styles do not change, so they are all right (if the suit is new).

So you see this winter sleep is simply a wise provision of nature by means of which many of the wild creatures who could not live and procure food outside in the cold, sleep the winter away and come out again in the spring ready for the new life, none the worse for their long winter's sleep. These creatures are called hibernators, which means winter sleepers.

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was an ordinary white-tailed Virginia deer, so he was really not red at all, but the reddish brown in his case was so much brighter than in the ordinary Virginia deer that I have elected to call him Red Buck.

He had been dropped five years before our story, early in May, in a dark spruce thicket, near the top of the Hoosac Mountains in western Massachusetts. He had been a wonderful fawn to look upon had there been any one but his dam to see him. He was so tall and rangy that he might have passed for a month old fawn at birth. But all who were there to see him were his dam and a white throat sparrow.

The sparrow, feeling that something out of the ordinary had happened, caroled away in the dark thicket with all his might, then flew away to find his mate and tell her. The delivery of Red Buck had been such a strain on

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 his dam who was only a two-year-old that she lay very quiet in the dark thicket for several days recuperating her strength. Even at the end of that time when she at last went forth to browse, she left Red Buck hidden in the dark thicket. She knew full well that if his sire, old Six Pointer, saw so promising a male fawn as Red Buck, he would promptly kill him, fearing a rival in the future, so she kept her wonderful fawn hidden away from all hostile eyes.

So, for the first month, the dark spruce thicket had been the fawn's only world. When he at last ventured forth with his mother, he was much astonished to see how large the world was and how many strange things there were in it. His life had been much like that of any fawn of the New England forest up to about the first of July, then something happened that quite changed the tenor of his life. His mother, while attempting to jump a six-foot brush fence, caught her fore leg between the two top poles and broke it.

The farmer, on whose farm they had been

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