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Page 66
[Illustration: A SCHOOL OF PORPOISES.]
A very familiar spectacle at sea is a school of porpoises--or
"porpusses," as the sailors call them. As soon as a school catches
sight of a ship, they immediately make a frantic rush for it, as if
their life depended upon giving it a speedy welcome. After diving under
the vessel a few times to inspect it and try its speed, they take their
station under the bows, just ahead, and proceed to cut up every antic
that a fish is capable of. They jump, turn over, play "leap-frog" and
"tag" in the most approved fashion. Their favorite antic is to dive a
few feet and then come to the surface, showing their backs in a half
circle, and then, making a sound like a long-drawn sigh, disappear
again. Sailors call them "sea-clowns," and never allow them to be
harmed.
They are met with in schools of from two or three to thousands. They
often get embayed in the inlets and shallow rivers which their
curiosity leads them to investigate. A porpoise once came into the
Harlem River and wandered up and down for a week seeking a way out. One
day he suddenly made his appearance amid some bathers and scattered
them by his gambols.
When they change their feeding-places, the sea is covered for acres
with a tumultuous multitude of these "sea-clowns," all swimming along
in the same direction.
When one of these droves is going against the wind (or to windward),
their plungings throw up little jets of water, which, being multiplied
by thousands of fish, present a very curious appearance.
THE WILD WIND.
BY CLARA W. RAYMOND.
Oh, the wind came howling at our house-door,
Like a maddened fiend set free;
He pushed and struggled with gasp and roar,
For an angry wind was he!
He dashed snow-wreaths at our window-panes,
The casements rattled and creaked;
Then up he climbed to the chimney tops,
And down through the flues he shrieked.
He found Jack's sled by the garden fence,
And tumbled it down in his spite;
And heaped the snow till he covered it up,
And hid it from poor Jack's sight.
He tore down the lattice and broke the house
Ned built for the birds last week;
And he bent the branches and bowed the trees,
Then rushed off fresh wrath to wreak.
And oh! how he frightened poor little Nell,
And made her tremble and weep,
Till mother came up and soothed the wee maid,
And lulled her with songs to sleep!
Her tiny hand nestled, content and still,
In her mother's, so soft and warm;
While with magical power of low, sweet tones
The mother-love hushed the storm.
THE MAGICIAN AND HIS BEE.
BY P.F.
It was a spelling bee. The magician had never had one, but he thought
it was better late than never, and so he sent word around that he would
have his bee just outside of the town, on the green grass. Everybody
came, because they had to. When the magician said they must do a thing,
there was no help for it. So they all marched in a long procession, the
magician at the head with his dictionary open at the "bee" page. Every
now and then he turned around and waved his wand, so as to keep the
musicians in good time. The cock-of-the-walk led the band and he played
on his own bill, which had holes in it, like a flute. The rabbit beat
the drum, and the pig blew the horn, while old Mother Clink, who was
mustered in to make up the quartette, was obliged to play on the
coffee-mill, because she understood no other instrument.
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