354 Junior Naturalist Monthly. 



Have you ever seen the fruit of the Jack-in-t he-pulpit? If not, 

 I wish you would look for the bright scarlet berries all packed to- 

 gether upon one stalk. This bit of color in the woods is as pretty as 

 any blossom. 



Keep a list of the wood plants that you know in seed-time. 



THE STORY OF A BOY, A HEN, AND SOME OTHER THINGS. 



James E, Rice. 



This is the story of a real, live boy and a big, good-natured, cinna- 

 mon-colored hen. Both lived on a farm. They were more fortunate 

 than many other boj^s and hens, because the boy's father and mother 

 believed that young folks should have pets of their own, and pets, 

 you know, usually receive good care. 



This story begins in the spring, when wild flowers were peeping 

 through their covering of leaves and nodding in the warm sunshine. 

 Bluebirds and robins were singing merrily in the trees. They were 

 looking about for a safe, cosy place to build their nests. Old Cinna- 

 mon, also had been searching for a place to "hide her nest," and 

 she had found it too, It was under the feed manger in a vacant 

 stall in the barn. 



Nearly every day old Cinnamon visited the nest, just as quietly 

 as could be, so that no one would see her, and laid a large, brown egg. 

 Then she flew off and cackled so loudly that the roosters crowed and 

 the turkeys gobbled and turned red in the face and strutted about, 

 as if trying to see which could make the most noise. They were all 

 happy, — it was such a glad springtime. 



Each day, the boy — the boy's name, did you say? Sure enough! 

 I have not told you! His real name was Thomas, but he was called 

 Tom, for short; so we shall call him Tom. Tom knew old Cinnamon 

 had a nest somewhere because he had heard her cackle. He searched 

 and he searched until he found it. Then every night he ran to the 

 nest as soon as he came from school, and took the egg into the house, 

 placing it carefully in a basket, where he kept all of old Cinnamon's 

 eggs. Each day, he turned the eggs because that was the way his 

 grandmother did and Tom had great confidence in his grandmother; 

 most children do, and they well may have. 



One night, Tom found old Cinnamon on the nest. This time she 

 did not fly away cackling, as was her usual custom when disturbed. 

 She actually stayed on the nest and scolded him a little, and when 

 he[tried to feel under her for the egg, she pecked his hand. Tom did 

 not mind this. , He knew that his pet had a kind disposition and 



