A GAMELESS COUNTRY. 



THE West Indian Archipelago, 

 with its four islands and num- 

 berless islets, is called the 

 gameless country, because in a re- 

 gion of more than 1 00,000 square 

 miles there are no Monkeys, Bears, 

 Raccoons, Wild Hogs, Jaguars, Pumas, 

 Panthers, Lynxes, Wild Cats, Foxes, 

 Wolves, or Jackals. There is not even a 

 Woodchuck to be dug out of the many 

 caves. Dogs and Cats, too, are un- 

 known, and this lack of household pets 

 seems to have driven the aborigines to 

 expedients, for in a book called "Ogil- 

 vy's Voyages" there is a story told of a 

 San Domingo native who kept a tame 

 Manatee or Sea Cow that made its 

 headquarters in an artificial pond, and 

 was so well trained that when called by 

 its name it would come out of the 

 water, go to a neighbor's house and 



after receiving food return to the pond, 

 accompanied by boys who seemed to 

 charm it by singing, and it often car- 

 ried two children on its back. Its in- 

 stinct was wonderful. It was once 

 struck by a pike in the hand of a Span- 

 iard and after that always refused to 

 come out of the water when there was 

 a clothed man near. 



Manatees are often seen northwest 

 of Cuba in shoals, sporting about the 

 reefs like Sea Lions. They are cun- 

 ning creatures and can dodge the har- 

 poon with more success than any other 

 aquatic animal. The largest land ani- 

 mal of this strange territory is a huge 

 Rat, measuring eighteen inches in 

 length without the tail. With this ex- 

 ception, it is claimed, Cuba, Jamaica, 

 San Domingo, and Porto Rico have no 

 land animals. 



SNOWFLAKES. 



Out of the bosom of the air, 



Out of the cloud folds of its g-arments 

 shaken. 

 Over the woodlands brown and bare. 

 Over the harvest fields forsaken, 

 Silent, and soft, and slow, 

 Descends the snow. 



Even as our cloudy fancies take 



Suddenly shape in some divine expres- 

 sion, 

 Even as the troubled heart doth make 

 In the white countenance confession, 

 The troubled sky reveals 

 The grief it feels. 



This is the poem of the air, 



Slowly in silent syllables recorded; 

 This is the secret of despair, 



Long- in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 

 Now whispered and revealed 

 To wood and field. 



— Longfellow. 



