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The next ball was hit away. This being the over, and Crawford a very much slower bowler then Ferris, it gave Phil a chance to regain his confidence; after this he stopped capitally, picking up and throwing in clean.

"Splendid!" said Crawford, delightedly, as the last bat left the wickets; "beats Wilman higher'n a kite." To a certain extent he shared the credit. "He ought to be on our eleven," he said to Ferris, as they walked away waiting for their innings.

"What will we do with Wilman? Qurlett will have to fix that though, but it doesn't make much difference, as there are no matches for us to play."

"If there is a match and Wilman is put off, I don't see what he will have to growl about? He was put on in Johnson's place because he was the best; we want the best fellows we can get."

"That's nothing, you know what he is as well as I do. He'll be sure to get his back up; if he does, there will be a row. Wilman looks at the other fellow now whenever he meets him like a cross dog. I think they must have had some words already."

"Blair does'nt care two cents for him."

"I can see that, but that won't do him any good."

"Won't it? Do you know I think he can lick Wilman if they don't clinch."

"O no,” replied Ferris, shaking his head, "Wilman's ever so much heavier."

"Well, perhaps he can't, but he is'nt afraid of him." You see our hero had secured a staunch champion already.

That night Phil went to bed almost too tired to sleep; he was lying in a half doze thinking over the events of the day, and, naturally enough, rather gratified at the turn they had taken with respect to himself, when he thought he felt the bed-clothes move, the lights were all out and the room perfectly quiet, his bed-fellow was sleeping soundly. He must have been asleep, he thought, for it was evidently late; however, he directed all his attention to the foot of the bed, remaining perfectly still; again the clothes moved, and this time he felt a hand cautiously thrust under and touch his foot. There it stopped a moment, then another hand came on to play its part, and he felt them both at work fastening a string around his toe. His mind was made up in an instant. Waiting until the joker had tied it once, and before it was properly secured, he turned over with a sonorous yawn and drew the

foot well up towards his body. The hands were withdrawn like a shot, and a dead silence following, again he tried, but Phil moved restlessly.

The joker gave it up, trusting that what he had done would prove secure, and as Phil saw him moving off through the gloom after a minute's rest he hastily slipped his hand down, removed the string and tied it firmly to the bed-post. It was hardly secured, and still in his hand, when he felt a tug, then another. Smiling blandly, he composed himself for a comfortable nap, and left the would-be practical joker vainly endeavoring to pull down a bedstead with a bit of twine.

On awakening in the morning, and remembering the tying arrangement, he looked at the bed-post to see if the string was still there, but it had been removed; the boy, whoever it was, evidently being afraid to carry out his original intentions.

He told Crawford, the first opportunity, and being too good a joke to be lost, it was speedily known throughout the school, raising Phil another peg in the estimation of the boys, who were ever ready to admire anything that was, to use their vernacular, cute; they endorsed their sentiments by voting him a regular brick. Of course all this flattered him, when he heard it, as he did shortly after, and indirectly had a tendency towards upsetting all his good resolves.


(To be continued.)


AMONG the tufted clover
That waft sweet odors over
Across the river,

The wings of noisy plover
As o'er the field they hover

In the light quiver.

Where the boughs interlacing
With delicate green tracing

The calm stream shadow,
A bridge of rustic timber
With many a leafy climber
Leads to the meadow.

By the gate leaning over
As waiting for her lover

A maid is staying:

Her eyes with her hand shading
From hope to sorrow fading
With his delaying.

She knows not that the rushes
And over-hanging bushes

A dead face cover;
And that the placid river
Will never, never give her
Her one true lover.



PROFESSOR TYNDALL has given us the fullest information

on this subject in a volume of the International Scientific Series. We propose, in a series of short papers, to give the substance of this interesting volume.

No. 1.-Clouds, Rain, and Rivers.

Every occurrence in Nature is preceded by other occurrences which are its causes, and succeeded by others which are its effects. The human mind is not satisfied with observing and studying any natural occurrence alone, but takes pleasure in connecting every natural fact with what has gone before it, and with what is to come after it.

Thus, when we enter upon the study of rivers and glaciers, our interest will be greatly augmented by taking into account not only their actual appearances, but also their causes and effects.

Let us trace a river to its source. Beginning where it empties itself into the sea, and following it backwards, we find it from time to time joined by tributaries which swell its waters. The river of course becomes smaller as these tributaries are passed. It shrinks first to a brook, then to a stream; this again divides itself into a number of smaller streamlets, ending in mere threads of water. These constitute the source of the river, and are usually found among hills.

Thus the Severn has its source in the Welsh mountains; the Thames in the Cotswold Hills; the Danube in the hills of the Black Forest; the Rhine and the Rhone in the Alps; the Ganges in the Himalaya Mountains; the Euphrates near Mount Ararat; the Garonne in the Pyrenees; the Elbe in the Giant Mountains of Bohemia; the Missouri in the Rocky Mountains, and the Amazon in the Andes of Peru.

But it is quite plain that we have not yet reached the real beginning of the rivers. Whence do the earliest streams derive their water? A brief residence among the mountains would prove to you that they are fed by rains. In dry weather you would find the streams feeble, sometimes indeed quite dried up. In wet weather you would see them foaming torrents. In general these streams lose themselves as little threads of water upon the hill sides; but sometimes you may trace a river to a definite spring. The river Albula in Switzerland, for instance, rushes at its origin in considerable volume from a mountain side. But you very soon assure yourself that such springs are also fed by rain, which has percolated through the rocks or soil, and which, through some orifice that it has found or formed, comes to the light of day.

But we cannot end here. Whence comes the rain which forms the mountain streams? Observation enables you to answer the question. Rain does not come from a clear sky. It comes from clouds. But what are clouds? Is there nothing you are acquainted with which they resemble? You discover at once a likeness between them and the condensed steam of a locomotive. At every puff of the engine a cloud is projected into the air. Watch the cloud sharply: you notice that it first forms at a little distance from the top of the funnel. Give close attention and you will sometimes see a perfectly clear space between the funnel and the cloud. Through that clear space the thing which makes the cloud must pass. What, then, is this thing which at one moment is transparent and invisible, and at the next moment visible as a dense opaque cloud?

It is the steam or vapour of water from the boiler. Within the boiler this steam is transparent and invisible; but to keep it in this invisible state a heat would be required as great as that within the boiler. When the vapour mingles with the cold air above the hot funnel it ceases to be vapour. Every bit of steam shrinks, when chilled, to a much more minute particle of water. The liquid particles thus produced form a kind of water-dust of exceeding fineness, which floats in the air, and is called a cloud.

Watch the cloud-banner from the funnel of a running locomotive; you see it growing gradually less dense. It finally melts away altogether, and if you continue your observations you will not fail to notice that the speed of its disappearance depends upon the character of the day. In humid weather the cloud hangs long

and lazily in the air; in dry weather it is rapidly licked up. What has become of it? It has been reconverted into true invisible vapour.

The drier the air, and the hotter the air, the greater is the amount of cloud which can be thus dissolved in it. When the cloud first forms, its quantity is far greater than the air is able to maintain in an invisible state. But as the cloud mixes gradually with a larger mass of air it is more and more dissolved, and finally passes altogether from the condition of a finely divided liquid into that of transparent vapour or gas.

Make the lid of a kettle air-tight, and permit the steam to issue from the pipe; a cloud is precipitated in all respects similar to that issuing from the funnel of the locomotive.

Permit the steam as it issues from the pipe to pass through the flame of a spirit-lamp, the cloud is instantly dissolved by the heat, and is not again precipitated. With a special boiler and a special nozzle the experiment may be made more striking, but not more instructive, than with the kettle.

Look to your bedroom windows when the weather is very cold outside; they sometimes stream with water derived from the condensation of the aqueous vapour from your own lungs. The windows of railway carriages in winter show this condensation in a striking manner. Pour cold water into a dry drinking-glass on a summer's day: the outside surface of the glass becomes instantly dimmed by the precipitation of moisture. On a warm day you notice no vapour in front of your mouth, but on a cold day you form there a little cloud derived from the condensation of the aqueous vapour from the lungs.

You may notice in a ball-room that as long as the door and windows are kept closed, and the room remains hot, the air remains clear; but when the doors or windows are opened a dimness is visible, caused by the precipitation to fog of the aqueous vapour of the ball-room. If the weather be intensely cold the entrance of fresh air may even cause snow to fall. This has been observed in Russian ball-rooms; and also in the subterranean stables at Erzeroom, when the doors are opened and the cold morning air is permitted to enter.

Even on the driest day this vapour is never absent from our atmosphere. The vapour diffused through the air of this room may be congealed to hoar frost in your presence. This is done by filling a vessel with a mixture of pounded ice and salt, which is colder than the ice itself, and which, therefore, condenses and freezes the aqueous vapour. The surface of the vessel is finally coated with a frozen fur, so thick that it may be scraped away and

formed into a snow-ball.

To produce the cloud, in the case of the locomotive and the kettle, heat is neccessary. By heating the water we first convert it into steam, and then by chilling the steam we convert it into

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