I generally fed them first, about twenty feet up the bank; but one morning I found one or two had followed me down to the residence of the stickleback family.  They met with a rude reception, however, and, to avoid making trouble, the next day I went to the willow first.  But no sooner had the bell begun to ring, than I saw a lot of ripples coming down, and in a second the two factions were in mortal combat.  The sticklebacks were fighting not only for breakfast, but for their nests, which were near by; and they made sad work of the poor minnows, who, though smart in some things, did not know when they were whipped, and so kept up the fight, though losing one of their number nearly every morning.  The bell now and then rang violently, but I fear it was only sounding an appeal from a voracious stickleback whose appetite had got the better of his rage.

So it went on every morning.  The minnows had learned what the bell meant, and though usually defeated in the fight, they in reality had their betters as servants to ring the bell and call them to meals.  Finally, they succeeded, by force of great numbers, in driving away their pugnacious little rivals, and the bell hung silent; for, strange to say, they knew what the sound meant, but I could never teach them to ring it, when they could rise and steal the worm from my hand without.  But I am inclined to think it was more laziness than inability to learn, as they afterward picked up readily some much more difficult tricks.  I taught them to leap from the water into my hand, and lie as if dead; and having arranged a slide of polished wood upon the bank, by placing worms upon it I soon had them leaping out and sliding down like so many boys coasting in the winter.  That they afterward did it for amusement I know, as I often watched them unobserved when there was nothing to attract but the fun of sliding.  This kind of amusement is not uncommon with many other animals, particularly seals, which delight in making “slides” on the icy shores.

[ILLUSTATION]

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH

BY MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.

  Old Granny Cricket’s rocking-chair,
    Creakety-creak, creakety-creak!—­
  Back and forth, and here and there,
    Squeakety-squeak, squeakety-squeak!—­
  On the hearth-stone, every night,
    Rocks and rocks in the cheery light. 
  Little old woman, dressed in black,
    With spindling arms and a crooked back,
  She sits with a cap on her wise old head,
    And her eyes are fixed on the embers red;
  She does not sing, she does not speak,
    But the rocking-chair goes creakety-creak!

  Cheerily sounds the rocking-chair,
    Creakety-creak, creakety-creak!—­
  While it swings in the firelight there,
    Squeakety-squeak, squeakety-squeak! 
  Old Granny Cricket, rocking, rocking,
    Knits and knits on a long black stocking. 
  No matter how swiftly her fingers fly,
    She never can keep her family,
  With their legs so long from foot to knee,
    Stockinged as well as they ought to be;
  That’s why, at night, week after week,
    Her rocking-chair goes squeakety-squeak!