laboring most truly under an embarrassment of riches, the little fellow presents a most ludicrous appearance.

When menaced by foes, by which so defenceless and conspicuous an animal is sure to be surrounded in great numbers, the Hackee makes at once for his burrow, and is there secure from the attacks of nearly all enemies. One foe there is, however, that cares naught for the burrow, but follows the poor Hackee through all of its windings, and never fails to attain his sanguinary object. This remorseless foe is the stoat, or ermine, whose only penchant is the blood, and not the flesh, of his victim.

Early in November the Hackee moves into his winterquarters, excepting in occasional instances when the sun

shines with peculiar warmth, and is not seen again until the beginning of spring. The young, to the number of four or five, are produced in May, and there is generally a second brood some time in August. A rather pugnacious animal is the male Hackee, and during the combats which are frequently waged when several males meet, their tails have been known to snap asunder from the violence of their movements, for these members, it is undoubtedly true, are wonderfully brittle in their structure.

Pretty as he is, and graceful as are his movements, it hardly pays to keep the animal in a domesticated state, for his temper is very uncertain, and he is generally sullen even towards his keeper. But could he be induced to take to the life of a captive kindly and pleasantly, he would, by his cunning little ways, prove a most agreeable companion.

Some years ago an American writer of note had a pair of these animals which made their home in the foundation wall of her house. A row of wild cherry trees stood near the lawn in the rear of the building, which the little fellows were wont to visit many times daily, carrying off in their pouches quite a number at a time of the numerous cherry pits that lay scattered over the ground.

The season being dry, one morning early the person to whom reference has been made repaired to the lawn and poured a pitcher of water over some plants that grew near her porch, when one of these squirrels was observed to pass among them on his way to the trees. He paused from his journey, sat up on his haunches, took one of the wet leaves in his hands, pressed the sides together for a trough for the moisture, and holding it to his mouth drank from it the water in the most comical fashion imaginable. He then went to another and another, drinking from five or six leaves in all, while she stood watching near by. A large saucer filled with water was placed near the plants, which the little fellows quickly discovered, and both thereafter drank and washed regularly at the dish.

A practice of testing their knowledge of nuts was then made. When cracked hickory nuts were given them, they at once sat down and picked out of them the meats, which they eagerly devoured. Cracked nuts, it would seem, were deemed worthless for storage. But, on the contrary, when whole nuts were given, they tested them, evidently by weight, to see if they were sound. Sound nuts were promptly transported to their burrow, but the poor ones were dropped. They were never known to be mistaken in their judgment, for the rejected nuts on being cracked were always found to be worthless.

Although the food of the Hackee is mostly vegetal in character, yet, like his English relative, he is occasionally carnivorous in his appetite, for he has been detected in the cruel act of robbing birds' nests and devouring their callow young.

Some Squirrels are remarkable for their extreme agility in climbing trees, and in making extraordinary leaps from one bough to another or from some elevated spot to the earth. The Ground Squirrels, however, are intended to abide on the earth, and are seldom known to ascend trees to any great height. As they possess cheek-pouches, they are placed in a separate genus under the the name of Tamias, which is a Greek word, signifying a store-keeper, and are distinct from the others in being furnished with these appendages. Tamias striatus is the appellation by which the subject of our sketch is known to the books.

CANINE SAGACITY.

M

ANY

years ago, two decades or more, the writer was the possessor of a little dog-a French poodle by breed. A more knowing animal of his kind never lived. He was a pretty creature, with hair as white as driven snow, and manners the most agreeable. Great pride was taken in his appearance. That his dress should maintain its natural purity, he was weekly subjected to a warm-water bath. This task devolved upon a little brunette, for whom the canine had contracted a strong affection.

Frisky, for such was our pet's name, had never before coming into the family known what it was to receive a good washing. His first experience was as uninteresting as it was novel and strange. It was anything but pleasant to him, but the little fellow bore it like a martyr.

Such treatment, by the ordinary cur, would have been resented with snaps and snarls, but his was a gentle nature that knew no such untoward manifestations. But there was, all the same, an aversion to the bath, as looks only too plainly indicated. So pronounced was the dislike, that the very sight of water caused his delicate frame to shake like a child's with the cold.

Had not the greatest care been taken in the preparation of the bath, it might have been thought that the tremors that shook his by no means robust frame were induced by the water's chilliness or by its undue warmth. But this could not be the case, as the fluid was always tempered to the most sensitive touch.

But there came a time, however, when Frisky was determined to evade these kindnesses upon the part of his

mistress. He had pleaded immunity from them in pitying glances, but without avail. Something must be done, his looks would seem to say, as he lay cuddled up by the cosy kitchen fire. One could almost read the thoughts that were shaping themselves in his mind.

For three long years Frisky, who had been allowed to sleep at nights in the sitting-room, was accustomed, when morning broke, to visit the different members of the family in their respective dormitories, and have a lively, rollicking time. These visits were always looked forward to, and in no instance, during the whole of that period, were they ever intermitted. To have missed one of these exciting romps, would have been a keenly-felt deprivation. But that we were to be doomed to such disappointment and affliction, subsequent events only too clearly showed.

One Saturday morning, for it was always on the Jewish Sabbath that the bath was given, Frisky failed to make his accustomed calls. This was noticed by everyone, and no amount of comment was provoked. Loudly his name was spoken, but no response was elicited, and it soon became evident that the cunning little elf was beyond the reach of calling. Search was instituted, but to no effect. His absence was lamented, and it was feared some calamity had befallen him. A silence, like unto death, filled the house. There was weeping and wailing about, for Frisky was not.

But just as the shadows of night were deepening, and hope was dying out of the bosoms of all, the patter of little feet was heard upon the pavement leading to the back-door. The sounds were too familiar to be those of a stranger. All listened with breathless silence. "'Tis Frisky, 'tis Frisky," went up a chorus of voices, and we all rushed to the door to welcome the runaway back to the fold. Not a chiding word was spoken, not a look of reproof given, as with outstretched arms the culprit was received to our hearts. A more crestfallen, conscience-stricken being, however, could hardly be conceived to exist.