Tenants of a Season. 83 
ice. Heat once came to the conclusion that his Rotifers were 
dead ; but as it was too late to ask his friends to postpone their 
visit or to get fresh objects, he resolved to try the effects of gently 
thawing them before throwing the bottle away. With this object 
he placed the bottle on the hob of the fire-stove, but once more 
something happened to divert his attention, and the Rotifers were 
forgotten until the water containing them was in an almost boiling 
condition. Now, he thought if the frost had not killed them the 
boiling had ; but judge his astonishment when he examined some 
of the water under his microscope to find the Rotifers not only 
alive, but in a more active state than he had ever before wit- 
nessed them, and his friends, after all, enjoyed a first-rate evening. 
Every microscopist who has not already examined the real 
objects should lose no time in securing specimens and doing so, 
for it is by such examination alone that it is possible to fully 
realise the marvellous perfection which God has displayed in one 
of the smallest of His creatures. 
Tenants of a Season, 
LOWLY the hard hand of winter relaxes from the sleeping 
land. The purple buds are thick on all the trees. In 
the copses the woodbine and the briar are fretted with 
tufts of dainty foliage. ‘The white clusters of the sloe 
cling to bare black stems like the last trace of lingering 
winter. And although there is but scanty cover yet in wood and 
hedgerow, the birds even now in quiet nooks and unfrequented 
corners are beginning to build. Already the missel thrush has put 
the finishing touches to her great nest in the apple tree, where, 
without a leaf to hide it, it stands plain to all the world. In 
banks and walls robins have long been busy with their early 
broods. The magpie is lacing more sticks among the outworks of 
his citadel. The rookery is in an uproar with the hoarse clamour 
of its sable tenants. In many a budding elm the song thrush is 
singing to his mate on her nest in the thicket below. ‘The mellow 
whistle of the blackbird, the cheerful cadence of the chaffinch, 
and now and then on bright days the music of the lark tempt us 
to forget the lingering bitterness of the winter and dream of 
May-day flowers and summer sunshine. 
Most dexterous architects are these children of the air. The 
nests of some of them may seem by comparison rough and 
undecorated structures, built for use and with little claim to 
beauty. The jackdaw blocks the turret stairway with a pile of 
