you never tell nobody that I said so, but between you and me I rather guess that if Kezier Winkle thinks she is a gwine to ketch Kier Bedott she is a leetle out of her reckonin'. But I was going to tell what husband said. He says to me, says he, "Silly," I says, says I, "What?" If I didn't say "What," when he said "Silly," he'd a kept on saying "Silly," from time to eternity. He always did, because, you know, he wanted me to pay particular attention, and I ginerally did; no woman was ever more attentive to her husband than what I was. Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly." Says I "What?" though I'd no idee what he was gwine to say, didn't know but what 'twas something about his sufferings, though he wa'n't apt to complain, but he frequently used to remark that he wouldn't wish his first enemy to suffer one minnit as he did all the time, but that can't be called grumblin'-think it can? Why, I've seen him in sitivations when you'd a thought no mortal could a helped grumblin', but he didn't. He and me went once in the dead o'winter in a one-hoss slay out to Boonville to see a sister o' hisen. You know the snow is amazin' deep in that section o' the kentry. Well, the hoss got stuck in one o' them are flambergasted snow-banks, and there we sot, onable to stir, and to cap all, while we was a sittin' there husband was took with a dretful crick in his back. Now that was what I call a perdickerment, don't you? Most men would a swore, but husband didn't. He only said, said he, "Consarn it." How did we get out, did you ask? Why we might a been sittin' there to this day, fur as I know, if there hadn't a happened to come along a mess o' men in a double team end they hysted us out. But I was gwine to tell you that observation o' hisen. Says he to me, says he, Silly" (I could see by the light o' the fire, there didn't happen to be no candle burnin', if I don't disremember, though my memory is sometimes ruther forgitful, but I know we wa'n't apt to burn candles exceptin' when we had company). I could see by the light of the fire that his mind was oncommon solemnized. Says he to me, says he, "Silly." Says I, "What?" He says to me, says he, We're all Poor critters!"- Widow Bedott Papers.

66

WHITE, GILBERT, an English clergyman and naturalist, borne at Selborne, Hampshire, July 18, 1720; died at Oxford, June 20, 1793. He received his education at Basingstoke, under the Rev. Thomas Warton, and at Oxford. He was a Fellow of Oriel College, and was made one of the senior proctors of the university in 1752. He soon fixed his residence in his native village, where he passed a quiet life in study, especially in close observation of nature. His principal work, The Natural History of Selborne (1789; new "edition with notes by Frank Buckland," 1875), is a model of its kind, of enduring interest; it was soon translated into German. It deals with a great variety of phenomena that came under the author's notice, and is in the form of letters. Thomas Brown's edition (1875) contains Observations on Various Parts of Nature and The Naturalist's Calendar, first published after the author's death. In 1876 appeared a volume of White's unpublished letters. "Who ever read without the most exquisite delight White's History of Selborne?" says Blackwood's. "It is, indeed, a Sabbath-book, with a whole library of sermons, nine-tenths of the Bampton Lectures included, and will make a Deist of an Atheist, of a Deist a Christian."

"A man the power of whose writings has immortalized an obscure village and a tortoise as long as the English language lives."

you never tell nobody that I said so, but between you and me I rather guess that if Kezier Winkle thinks she is a gwine to ketch Kier Bedott she is a leetle out of her reckonin'. But I was going to tell what husband said. He says to me, says he, "Silly," I says, says I, "What?" If I didn't say "What," when he said "Silly," he'd a kept on saying "Silly," from time to eternity. He always did, because, you know, he wanted me to pay particular attention, and I ginerally did; no woman was ever more attentive to her husband than what I was. Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly." Says I "What?" though I'd no idee what he was gwine to say, didn't know but what 'twas something about his sufferings, though he wa'n't apt to complain, but he frequently used to remark that he wouldn't wish his first enemy to suffer one minnit as he did all the time, but that can't be called grumblin'-think it can? Why, I've seen him in sitivations when you'd a thought no mortal could a helped grumblin', but he didn't. He and me went once in the dead o'winter in a one-hoss slay out to Boonville to see a sister o' hisen. You know the snow is amazin' deep in that section o' the kentry. Well, the hoss got stuck in one o' them are flambergasted snow-banks, and there we sot, onable to stir, and to cap all, while we was a sittin' there husband was took with a dretful crick in his back. Now that was what I call a perdickerment, don't you? Most men would a swore, but husband didn't. He only said, said he, "Consarn it." How did we get out, did you ask? Why we might a been sittin' there to this day, fur as I know, if there hadn't a happened to come along a mess o' men in a double team end they hysted us out. But I was gwine to tell you that observation o' hisen. Says he to me, says he, "Silly" (I could see by the light o' the fire, there didn't happen to be no candle burnin', if I don't disremember, though my memory is sometimes ruther forgitful, but I know we wa'n't apt to burn candles exceptin' when we had company). I could see by the light of the fire that his mind was oncommon solemnized. Says he to me, says he, "Silly." Says I, "What?" He says to me, says he, "We're all Poor critters!"- Widow Bedott Papers.

WHITE, GILBERT, an English clergyman and naturalist, borne at Selborne, Hampshire, July 18, 1720; died at Oxford, June 20, 1793. He received his education at Basingstoke, under the Rev. Thomas Warton, and at Oxford. He was a Fellow of Oriel College, and was made one of the senior proctors of the university in 1752. He soon fixed his residence in his native village, where he passed a quiet life in study, especially in close observation of nature. His principal work, The Natural History of Selborne (1789; new "edition with notes by Frank Buckland," 1875), is a model of its kind, of enduring interest; it was soon translated into German. It deals with a great variety of phenomena that came under the author's notice, and is in the form of letters. Thomas Brown's edition (1875) contains Observations on Various Parts of Nature and The Naturalist's Cal endar, first published after the author's death. In 1876 appeared a volume of White's unpublished letters. "Who ever read without the most exquisite delight White's History of Selborne?" says Blackwood's. "It is, indeed, a Sabbath-book, with a whole library of sermons, nine-tenths of the Bampton Lectures included, and will make a Deist of an Atheist, of a Deist a Christian."

"A man the power of whose writings has immortalized an obscure village and a tortoise as long as the English language lives."

THE HOUSE-MARTEN.

SELBORNE, November 20, 1773.

DEAR SIR: In obedience to your injunctions, I sit down to give you some account of the house-marten, or marlet; and, if my monography of this little domestic and familiar bird should happen to meet with your approbation, I may probably soon extend my inquiries to the rest of the British hirundines-the swallow, the swift, and the bank-marten.

A few house-martens begin to appear about the 16th of April; usually some few days later than the swallow. For some time after they appear, the hirundines in general pay no attention to the business of nidification, but play and sport about, either to recruit from the fatigue of their journey, if they do migrate at all, or else that their blood may recover its true tone and texture after it has been so long benumbed by the severities of winter. About the middle of May, if the weather be fine, the marten begins to think in earnest of providing a mansion for its family. The crust or shell of this nest seems to be formed of such dirt or loam as comes most readily to hand, and is tempered and wrought together with little bits of broken straws, to render it tough and tenacious. As this bird often builds against a perpendicular wall, without any projecting ledge under it, it requires its utmost efforts to get the first foundation firmly fixed, so that it may safely carry the superstructure. On this occasion the bird not only clings with its claws, but partly supports itself by strongly inclining its tail against the wall, making that a fulcrum; and, thus steadied, it works and plasters the materials into the face of the brick or stone. But then, that this work may not, while it is soft and green, pull itself down by its own weight, the provident architect has prudence and forbearance enough not to advance her work too fast; but, by building only in the morning, and by dedicating the rest of the day to food and amusement, gives it sufficient time to dry and harden. About half an inch seems to be a sufficient layer for a day. Thus careful workmen, when they build mud-walls (informed