by the sailors to be the harbingers of 

 bad and stormy weather. Because of the 

 superstition of these marine men Wil- 

 son's Petrels have been given the name 

 of Devil's Birds, and it is because of the 

 sailor's belief that they are messengers 

 of the storm that they have received the 

 name of Stormy Petrels. They are not 

 noisy birds but during the day they will 

 occasionally utter low notes which sound 

 like the syllables weet, zveet, or at times 

 a low chirp which sounds like pe-iip. 



The nests of these birds are placed in 

 the crevices of rock formations or possi- 

 bly in piles of rock fragments. But a 



single white egg is laid. Sailors often 

 advance the absurd belief that the Petrels 

 never nest upon the land but carry the 

 single egg of the set under their wings 

 until it is hatched. The young are fed 

 by a process called regurgitation, or the 

 raising of the food given them by the 

 parents from their stomachs. The Wil- 

 son's Petrels are innocent birds and do 

 no harm. In fact, we may say that they 

 perform a good service by eating the 

 refuse food materials thrown from ships, 

 yet they are said to be often shot both by 

 sailors and passengers in order to break 

 the monotony of many days at sea. 



THE STORY OF THE ARBUTUS 



It was a dark, cheerless day late in 

 March, and the cold wind blowing caused 

 every passer-by to hug his coat more 

 closely about him and hurry on to shel- 

 ter. Spring had smiled and the trusty 

 robins had come, but to-day they huddled 

 sadly in corners or hopped disconsolately 

 over the lawns where the grass showed 

 faintly green through a thin covering of 

 snow. The rain fell slant-wise, partly 

 freezing where it fell, and it was hard to 

 believe that spring was really stirring in 

 the midst of all this cold and gloom. 

 But nature makes no mistakes and in 

 spite of ice and snow and cloudy skies, 

 there was an unmistakable message in 

 the very air — a whiff from the wonder- 

 ful store-house which was so soon to 

 open up its treasures. 



In a home where the firelight gleamed 

 brightly through the window, three chil- 

 dren pressed their faces against the 

 panes, like birds impatient to break their 

 cage. They, like the robins, had felt the 

 sun grow warmer, and had caught a 

 breath of the spring-time trembling sq 

 near. Now, the rain, as though mock- 

 ing them, dashed fitfully against the 

 ^lass, giving spiteful little clicks as bits 

 of ice fell with the drops. 



As the children stood there watching, 

 a young woman came round the corner 

 of the house on her way to the side door. 



Her shawl was very wet and the clay on 

 her shoes showed that she had walked 

 from the hills along the river. A warm 

 brown hood was tied under her chin and 

 she carried a basket on her arm. When 

 the children's mother opened the door, a 

 bright, cheerful face looked up at her 

 and a pleasant voice asked, "Will you buy 

 some Arbutus today, it is only five cents 

 a bunch?" "Yes," replied the mother, 

 "There is no flower so sweet and wild 

 and woodsy," and soon each little nose 

 was buried in a bunch of the fragrant 

 pink blossoms. As the woman dried her 

 wet clothes, the children's mother talked 

 with her, and learned whence she came 

 and why she sold the flowers. Later, 

 when the young woman had gone, as the 

 children sat round the crackling fire — 

 little Frank safe snuggled on his mother's 

 lap, the flowers in water on a table beside 

 them — a story grew out of the delicate 

 blossoms, and this is the story : 



Half way up the side of one of the hills 

 along the river, is a very poor little 

 house, and in it lives a very poor little 

 woman. When she first came to live 

 in the house she was not as she is now — 

 lame and bent and old. She could easily 

 gather the sticks for her fire, could tend 

 her small garden, and could walk to and 

 from the town for her bread and meat. 

 But as the winters went by, her hands 



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