"No, only asleep for the winter. The 

 warm room will revive them but they 

 may die after all. They will have 

 awakened out of season." 



"I wish I could put them back," said 

 Boy Will. 



"We will study them a little and then 

 we will see," returned his father as he 

 took up his penknife and pointed to 

 the folded legs, 



"Those big flat fore-legs are what do 

 all the mischief. They are like strong 

 little hands and have claws on them 

 and they are used for digging. The 

 main business of Sir Cricket is to bur 

 row and he works away with these 

 hands of his until he will have made a 

 number of underground passages. 

 And in his work he will cut off hun 

 dreds of new, tender roots that belong 

 to plants and shrubs. And that's the 

 mischief of him." 



"What do they eat?" 



"Why, little bugs; but they are 

 fierce, hungry creatures, and when they 

 meet a mole cricket that is weak and 

 defenseless they pounce on him and 

 eat him. They are no respecter of 

 relatives." 



"They don't deserve to live!" cried 

 Boy Will, with a stamp. 



"But we can give them their chances," 

 returned Mr. Rey. "Now look at this 

 one. There are two sets of wings. One 

 outside and one inside like grasshop 



pers, but much shorter. Here are two 

 delicate feelers, or antennae, bent back 

 ward, and two at the end of the body. 

 I suppose those are for the purpose of 

 dicovering any danger that might ap 

 proach them from behind while they 

 are busy at digging. The jaws are 

 toothed and horny, and so, all in all, 

 we may put Sir Cricket down in the 

 same order in which are the katydid, 

 grasshopper, field and house cricket, 

 cockroach, earwig and so on, which is 

 the order Orthoptera. Now come and 

 show me where you found them." 



Boy Will led the way where stood 

 his half-built snow-man, and Mr. Rey 

 with a stick felt about in the chamber 

 for the opening to another cavity to 

 the lodge. 



"Ah, here it is a warmer and a bet 

 ter one than the other because it is 

 deeper," and he slipped the two ob 

 jects in and stopped the doorway with 

 earth and snow. 



"Well, I declare!" said Mr. Mole 

 Cricket from under his horny skin, 

 "What do you think of that?" 



"Why," said his wife, "they've put 

 us in the cavern where we should have 

 been in the first place. What a mistake 

 it was to go to sleep in the nursery! 

 Now we shall be quite safe until spring." 



"Well, well, true enough!" returned 

 Sir Mole Cricket. And they both fell 

 asleep again. 



SNOW BIRDS. 



This poem, by Louis Honore Fre 

 chette, the laureate of Canada, is very 

 fine in the original, and holds the same 

 position in French-Canadian literature 

 that Bryant's "Lines to a Waterfowl" 

 occupies in American classics. It is one 

 of the poems that won for its author 

 the crown of the French academy and 

 the Grand Prix Monthyon of 2,000 

 livres. 



When the rude Equinox, with his cold 



train 

 From our horizons'driyes accustomed 



cheer, 

 Behold! a thousand winged sprites 



appear 



And flutter briskly round the frosty 

 plain. 



No seeds are anywhere, save sleety rain, 

 No leafage thick against the outlook 



drear; 

 Rough winds to wildly whip them far 



and near; 



God'5 heart alone to feel their every 

 pain. 



Dear little travelers through this icy 

 realm, 



Fear not the tempest shall you over 

 whelm; 



The glad spring buds within your 

 happy song. 



Go, whirl about the avalanche, and be, 



O birds of snow, unharmed, and so 



teach me: 



Whom God doth guard is stronger 

 than the strong. C. G. B. 



79 



