ing instinct that lies dormant in the heart of every human being, an instinct that is a survival from man in the hunter stage of his social development. Even as we can see much of what we, who now are so highly civilized, were at the first beginning of society, by the study of the savage races of our own time-so, too, we see in boyhood many of the instincts that we are apt to suppose have been eradicated in the course of many generations of comparative civilization. But these problem guessings are beside the mark. Let us rather keep to the plain paths of fact.

However the race may have progressed, it would seem as if boyhood had made but slight advance along the way of civilization since Plato estimated him more savage than other wild beasts. And yet, in those happy days of our own boyhood, before the law had virtually said to us "Thou shalt not birds' nest," we had a code of mercy, no less than a code of honor, of our own. Neither perhaps coincided with those of persons of the mature age that understands the ethics of boyhood so little; but they were fairly strict codes, and possibly as lofty as they had need to be in their ideals. That we always acted up to them would be to say that we were much more than human-which was not the case--but perhaps, we achieved them more nearly than the grown man fulfils the maxims of his faith. Boyhood has a most devout belief in its own creeds, such as few are able to keep in any creed in their years of fuller

reason.

After all, the law had no cause to concern itself with us, who were loyal collectors and scientific persons, according to our conceptions of what science meant. To take all the eggs of a nest was against our code of mercy, and that is more than is to be said of the grown man collector. We made it

a matter of pride to take a proportion of the eggs without causing the bird to desert, and this in itself was a useful working principle, for it implied a close knowledge of the habits and dispositions of birds in general and of the particular dispositions of different kinds. Thus we knew what birds were shy sitters and layers, easily to be frightened from their nests, and what others were more resolute. We could show finesse in dealing with their various degrees of timidity. And we grew to know what birds would continue to lay on, egg after egg (the eggs generally becoming lower in the scale of color), as we took them away, and what others would not do this. So we gained an insight that we should not have won if our code had permitted a ruthless snatching of a whole nestful. Of course one has to speak of boyhood only as one has found it, or as one remembers it. There are many tribes of boy, even of British boy, and they live under different codes, so that it may well be that the maxims governing one tribe are quite different from those obeyed by another.

One of the things that our code of mercy or of honor forbade without reserve was the killing of a parent bird sitting on its nest. This was curious, for it cannot be that we were much touched by the sacredness of the maternal duties; but we did no doubt have a feeling that any such act as the slaughter, or even the capture, of a parent bird while looking after its young or its eggs was an outrage on delicate and nice sentiments. It was taking an unfair advantage. It was not playing the game. Even when we did capture unawares, as often and inevitably happened, one of the birds that nest in holes-say a tit in the hole of a tree or a wheatear in a rabbit hole of the seaward sandhills-we contented ourselves with holding the panting frightened little wretch in a hot

hand for a minute or two while we examined its beauty, then let it go to get over its terrors and in course of time to come gallantly back to its home duties. To be sure, if it had not begun to sit when it was thus temporarily captured, it was not likely to return at all-far more likely to "desert" altogether-but if sitting had. begun, or still more if the young birds had hatched out, it took a good deal more than this to make most parents desert their progeny.

Neither did we regard it as being in the category of "things that are done," to kill the bird that we could capture. Young birds in a nest, it goes without saying, were sacred from us. Our consciences would have accused us of stark murder if we had done any of them to death. And in the same sanctity we held all such fledglings as had flown from the nest and yet were not winged with power enough to escape. If we could run or hunt the young bird down we would not kill it. It was always an unwritten maxim with us that the capture of any live thing was more to be desired, was a mark of higher merit in huntership, than mere brutal killing. On the general point, we regarded all birds, and indeed all animals other than domestic, as existing for the purpose that we should kill them, if we could not capture them. But to capture them was the higher aim, from every aspect. The young bird that we saw fluttering before us, therefore, in scarcely fledged flight, we would at first pursue with hats, with butterfly nets if we happened to have them, and so on; and if we should succeed in catching that bird, then the amount of love, of care, and of unwholesome food that we lavished on it when we had once got it caged was perfectly prodigious, and generally fatal. On the other hand, if we found the bird, although poorly fledged, too swift or too evasive for

us, then all our purpose quickly changed. From instruments of capture, such as hats and nets, we went to instruments intended to be lethal, such as catapults, blowpipes, and stones; and failing to capture we would, if possible, kill. Often and often there has been a discussion of tactics, one saying "I could shoot him now," and holding the catapult at the "Ready!" the other objecting "No, no, I think we can catch him." Then afterwards, if he should make good his escape, there would be much vituperation of the "I told you so" kind, and general regret, as over a failure of strategy: "Ah, we ought to have killed him." That was perhaps the strangest part of our procedure, in which much was strange, that the murderous intent could follow so swiftly on the intent to cherish with all the care and love that we knew, and vice versa. It has its parallel in much that we do in later life but, as in other instances, the latent savagery of civilized man appears here most clearly in the boy.

To what extent our present Wild Birds' Protection Act in its varied local application discourages the birds'nesting tendency innate in every boy, it would be hard to say, but certainly its discouragement is considerable. It is all part and parcel of a boy's savagery that although he has no national respect for the laws made by those of mature growth he has nevertheless a great fear of them, as of everything else that is unknown. He regards those laws as foolishness, but foolishness gifted with immeasurable power, and conceives them as meting out punishment not in any due proportion to the crime but according to absolute caprice, like his schoolmasters. One of the first lessons that a boy learns when he goes to school is that he need not expect justice to be his portion in the world. He may obtain mercy-in more than his due measure, or in less

but justice, no. That is a commodity for the copy-books or for the next world-not for this. So, in his fear of the great unknown power of the law, with which he is not so familiar as Bumble, he is much discouraged, doubtless, of his birds' nesting. And if the Wild Birds' Protection Act has done much in this direction, beyond question the compulsory attendance at 'Board school has done more; for it leaves but little time for birds' nesting. no matter how great be boyhood's zeal. However, we are always to remember that the law, even at its strictest. is against the pillage, only, of birds' nests. There is no law against looking for birds' nests, or even finding them. It is still permitted to boyhood to be a student of bird life, to watch birds going about their domestic business, if that will suffice the boy. Whether it will suffice is rather doubtful. It is doubtful because the modern boy is often forbidden the keen delight of acquiring, of forming a collection, of showing to his friends and coevals an egg that they have not in their collection-with all the joy that comes of causing secret breaches of the commandment against covetousness. It is possible to encourage in boyhood an added interest in the mere observation of birds about their nests by the aid of a snapshot camera. A collection of photographs of the nests of birds, with the old ones on the nest or feeding the young if possible, may conceivably take the place of the egg collection. But it costs more, both in money and patience.

The present has been in some ways a peculiarly good spring for the observation of nesting birds, whether with or without the camera, for the reason that the weather has been cold enough to retard the growth of the leafage which hides the nests, but at the same time its severity has also delayed the nesting beyond the normal

date. The foliage was late, later even than last spring, and it appears as if its lateness is having some effect on the habits of certain species, the thrushes especially showing an increasing tendency to build in evergreens. The nests of most other kinds, which have been less clever in adapting themselves to the conditions, have been unusually visible. The immigrant birds are always late of arrival when the weather remains cold, for the very great majority are insecteaters, and would find their larders badly furnished in a backward year.

Is the ordinary human boy human enough and methodical enough to take an interest in these dates of arrival? Will he be at the pains to record them? Is his record to be trusted when he is at the pains? The imagination of boyhood is so splendidly opulent that the record will not always carry conviction. Much must depend on the boy. But without the wish to deceive, he is so prone to a glorious self-deception that he is apt to see the rare hoopoe with his recording brains when the common or garden jay is the object presented to his optic retina. He lives much in a wonder-world of his own creation, expecting marvels so that he is bound to find them. That does not matter. It is not with what boy is going to teach us of the avine world that we need concern ourselves greatly; it is with what the avine world and his observation of it, is to teach him. That is what matters. It is a sad affair if the operation of the Wild Birds' Protection Act is of necessity to rob boyhood of its inducement to the study of the birds and other wild things. The birds more particularly seem to have been created for his enchantment. Is he to be robbed of all this by the prohibition to take from their nests even the one egg or two that are needed as specimens in a collection? We may hope not. At all

events, it is plainly impossible that the law can make such fine discriminations as to permit him this license which inevitably would be abused. It must be a question of all or none, for the Legislature. But perhaps it is not too much to hope that boyhood, after all, may find some zest in the study of the birds and the beasts without the intent to do them injury. It is asking much of him. It is asking him to lay aside those lethal instincts inherited from the hunter phase of man's development, of which he is plainly the exponent in the present state of our social culture. But perhaps it is not asking an impossibility. In any case, we who are no longer boys can help boyhood along this path of harmless interest by ourselves taking or at least assuming an interest in those studies. Boyhood does not reck much of the opinions of maturity, but it likes a friendly interest. It is to be said at the same time that it has the very keenest eye for estimating the genuine or the fictitious character of such interest. It behooves us therefore to be careful.

After all, it may be asked, is there any advantage to boyhood in these studies? To what, precisely, do they lead? To say that they lead directly to the earning of an income is beside the mark. It would be untrue, in nine cases out of ten, to say it. But they lead to the development of the mind and the attention; they lead to the formation of a habit of observaThe Cornhill Magazine.

tion that is always of value whether for the earning of an income or for other less sordid purposes; they lead. by strange barbaric bypaths, it may be, to a love of all God's creatures, and so, it is not too much to think, to a love of the God who made them all; they lay the foundation, at a time when the mind is plastic and receptive. of an appreciation of Nature that will be of unfailing interest through all the years of life.

To say this is to say much, and if we can help boyhood towards it, we are helping him to good things. All the "Nature studies" and so forth that are included in the curriculum of many modern schools are helpful. For one book on natural history and country subjects sold fifteen years ago, the dealers in such commodities tell us that they sell ten to-day. This is a sign of the times and a good sign, and there are many others; but, after all. we have to remember that since that too-long-ago period when we ourselves were boys there has been taken away from boyhood that inducement to add a new bird-skin to his collection, which made the strongest appeal to the primitive instincts which possessed us at that time. Boyhood has lost very much-we have to go back and revive the memories of a distant past to realize how much-and we have to do a very great deal for boyhood if we are to make good that loss in any measure worth considering.

Horace Hutchinson.

"We are nearing the river," said the hunter as he noticed an mbungutwa tree for the first time during the day's march.

"Yes," said Mtali, the native tracker. "I hear the voice of a riverbird." Just then they crossed the spoor of a buffalo. It was an enormous track,

nearly as big as a soup-plate, and the rain of a few days back had washed the edges in, showing it to be old. As they went on they noticed the same track, of various ages, crossing and recrossing; evidently the track of an old solitary bull, who for the last few weeks must have been grazing by day on the higher ground, and coming down nightly to drink at the river.

As the sun was getting low, they came to an enormous baobab tree with a patch of bare ground round it; a good camping-ground, as by the green reeds they knew the river must be close at hand. The tired carriers laid down their loads and set up the tent; Tayari, the cook, conjured up a fire in the twinkling of an eye, set three stones about it, to rest the pot on, and began to brew a most savory-smelling broth of a guinea-fowl, killed on the march, a handful of barley, and a few potatoes. At the critical juncture the hunter added pepper, salt, and sauce, with his own hand; some more stirring and it was served up; dough made of maize-flour, and a cup of cocoa, completed the meal. Then drawing up to the camp-fire and lighting his pipe, the hunter's thoughts went back to the spoor he had seen that day. "I should like to meet with that fellow," he said to himself.

Meanwhile, old Njati was forcing his way through the thick spear-grass for his evening drink, nibbling at any sufficiently tempting shoots he came across on the way. Having reached the bank, he stood for fully ten minutes, sniffing the air for any scent of danger; and when he had satisfied himself that all was clear, he cautiously made his way down into the river and took a long drink, raising his head at intervals to repeat the same precautions. After this, he turned round, waded out on to the bank again, and began slowly wending bis way up-stream, grazing off the fresh

green grass near the river, as that farther off was dead.

He had been doing this every night for some weeks now, visiting different parts of the river; and towards dawn, when the breeze changed to the north, he would go up-wind to the pastures away from the river which he favored during the daytime, and where there were certain mud-holes he knew about, as well as thick cover in which to lie up in the middle of the day. As he wandered along, he would frequently pause to listen and scent for danger, especially on entering and leaving the more crackly patches of stiff reed.

On one of these occasions he noticed a faint smell of smoke, which he recognized at once as the smell of a woodfire, and not that of burning grass. Strolling on, he presently became aware of a most offensive odor blended with the smoke, which he had seldom come across before, but had good cause to remember; it was the smell of that biped who had loose skin on his body, and whose cry, when disturbed, was, damn! damn! The grass had died and grown again, and the rains had come and gone eight times since he had seen one of these beings; and then it had made thunder come out of a stick and stung him in the shoulder. After that, when he was feeling unwell, it had followed him two whole days before he had got clear of it.

Now, of all the big jungle-folk the buffalo is the acutest, and of all the buffalo Njati was most full of guile. A young bull on recognizing this smeil would have turned round and stanpeded for about ten miles, when he would have felt tired, lain down, and forgotten all about it. Njati, however, knowing that man suffered from a kind of torpor during the night, and was then practically innocuous, pushed on up-wind, and after half a mile his