ORNITHOLOGIST AND BOTANIST. 



THE ADVENT OF '91. 



BY MBS. S. E. ROESSLER, NEW HAVEN,CT. 



'91 is gladly welcomed by young and old. The 

 echo of Christmas chimes still lingers; the ever- 

 greens twined m honor of the Christ Child have 

 not yet faded; the waxen fruited mistletoe has 

 only just been taken from the door way ; and 

 St. Nicholas still shivers, as he shakes the snow 

 flakes from his robes and recalls his trip, amid 

 the icicles of '90. Old Winter's frosts glint and 

 crystalize; frolicsome youngsters skate and slide; 

 and lovers nestle in fur lined sleighs " just for 

 warmth's sake you know." Boreas is studding 

 Winter's crown with hail jewels, and each jewel 

 in seven-fold splendor greets the light of day. 



The light snow in wood-lands is embroidered 

 with prints of animal life, and amid the ever- 

 green boughs, masses of feathery snow weigh 

 the branches earth-ward. The gates of out- 

 doors are ever ajar, and those, who enter these 

 gates with a reverent and teachable spirit, reap 

 a rich reward. 



Come, friends, draw your chairs near the 

 hearthstone. Let us compare notes taken during 

 the summer's outings. Get your maps and trace 

 your routes through Nature's wild lands. Let 

 us see your collections of stones and shells; your 

 pressed flowers; your sketches by mountain or 

 sea shore; and those choice bits, immortalized 

 by the camera. Hark! Is that a cricket's chirp, 

 a cricket on the hearth? How Dickens has 

 woven this contented chirp into a Christmas 

 tale! Blessed sound! 



How the winds play hide and seek with storm 

 doors and shutters! Draw a little nearer and 

 partake of these russets and greenings. Crack 

 the walnuts; roast the chestnuts; and pop the 

 corn. Boil the syrup into a golden mass and 

 invite your sweetheart to help you in a real 

 candy pull. Winter in the country, with its 

 corn huskings and apple bees, is a season of joy. 



Such long winter evenings, also, for study! 

 How familiar one may become with gifted auth- 

 ors whose names are the pride of the intellectual 

 world. One can go with Stanley into the Dark 

 Continent, or become a stay-at-home traveler, 

 enjoying the quick trips of a Nellie Ely or an 

 Elizabeth Bisland, around the world. The 

 gates of knowledge are invitingly open. Free 



libraries almost coax one to enter and become 

 conversant with the thoughts of the century, and 

 picture galleries are throwing wide open their 

 doors. Our green houses have rooms devoted 

 to the tropics, where orchids and other plants 

 thrive and become acclimated. Our museums 

 exhibit petrified woods, mosses, etc.; geology 

 and paleontology tell secrets of by-gone ages; 

 taxidermy gives us object lessons in beauty of 

 plumage, and in the fineness of animal covering; 

 electricity has been harnessed; and Luna, her- 

 self, has condescended to reveal her wonders 

 to our inquiring gaze. In the Earth's depths is 

 Nature's labratory, where heat and light, suffic- 

 ient for many future ages, are ^ stored for man's 

 needs. It is, indeed, a glorious century of 

 progress and discovery. 



Do you cultivate a window-garden ? Does 

 it pay to watch petal after petal unfold, until a 

 carnation sheds fragrance through the room? 

 Does it pay to train the ivy, as spray after spray 

 developes? Does it pay to gather the petals 

 shed from your rose blooms and study plant life 

 in doors ? If you cultivate a window -garden, 

 you know whether the flowers make your life 

 any sweeter or your days go by any pleasanter. 

 I never notice a window beautified by Flora's 

 wand, but I can easily guess what sort of people 

 dwell within. Some goodness thrives there, for 

 the patient care needed for window-gardening 

 is a character developer, and almost always this 

 character is developing in the direction of right. 

 The very planting of a bulb has a refining 

 influence — an almost religious sentiment of 

 trusting and waiting is developed. When on a 

 foreign shore, how precious are those blooms 

 that remind us of the gardens and fields we 

 loved in early Hfe. Look, to-day, into the win- 

 dows of a Chinese laundry, and, methinks, the 

 sacred lily of the Celestials will be seen in leaf- 

 age or blossom. With a sort of homesickness, 

 no doubt, they arrange the stony bed and dream 

 of that far off land. 



How beautiful is the custom of planting trees, 

 "In memoriam." On many farms are trees, old 

 and gnarled, that were planted by loving hands. 

 Once while located near the White mountains, 

 two boys, brothers, were so pleased with the 

 boulders, forests, etc., that they set out two 



