290 



RECREA TION. 



It seems the muskrats are as great a 

 plague to the beaver as they are to our 

 mill-owners; for they continually pierce 

 the dams with their burrows. The beavers 

 seem to realize this, and Mr. Hofer tells me 

 they kill a muskrat whenever they get a 

 chance. The Brewer's blackbirds in the 

 pond are busy with their young, just now. 

 They are noisy, resentful birds and never 

 fail to pursue and mob any hawk, raven, 



(To be continued.) 



muskrat, beaver or person who intrudes 

 near their nests. But the beaver has a sim- 

 ple way of dispersing the mob that I would 

 commend to the notice of our city authori- 

 ties. When annoyed by half a dozen of the 

 noisy birds he gives a flirt with his tail 

 that sends up a shower of spray on his tor- 

 mentors and drenches them so thoroughly 

 they are glad to go back to the brush and 

 mind their own business. 





THE LITTLE BREAKWATERS. 



MARGUERITE TRACY. 



A red flag was flying from the boat house 

 and the beach was almost deserted. The 

 only people in sight were Love, and a girl, 

 and a little old gentleman. 



Love had flung himself at the girl's feet 

 and was scooping up handfuls of sand 

 which he patted into neat little breakwaters, 

 all around. A stone's throw from them the 

 little old gentleman was also building 

 breakwaters; and as he was alone he built 

 them around himself. 



Out in the surf, far beyond them, some- 

 one was saving someone's else life. 



Love looked at the little old gentleman 

 and laughed. " Bless my heart if he isn't 

 building breakwaters like mine." 



" How perfectly absurd," the girl said; 

 and then she gazed out, far beyond them, to 

 the surf. 



" When you are 50," she went on, to 

 Love, " you will still be patting little 

 breakwaters around us, out of sand." 



" But I shall never be 50," said Love. 

 " I shall not grow old." 



The girl nodded solemnly. : ' That is 

 what I am beginning to see," she said. 

 " You will be like the little old gentleman, 

 when you do not grow old; and when I am 



50 1 shall be very tired of your break- 

 waters." 



" I can do something else," said Love. 



A stone's throw from them the little old 

 gentleman drew out his handkerchief and, 

 knotting it in the corners, put it on his 

 head and settled in the sand to sleep." 



' You can do that," said the girl. " When 

 I tire of your breakwaters you can go to 

 sleep." 



"This sea wind makes one drowsy," 

 Love confessed, and nestling in the sand 

 fell asleep. 



The girl knotted her handkerchief, put it 

 on his head, stepped across the little walls 

 of sand and went away. 



" I am very fond of him," she murmured, 

 " but I see too long a vista of his break- 

 waters." 



A stone's throw from each other Love 

 and the little old gentleman breathed in 

 cadence as she went out, far beyond them, 

 to the surf where someone had been saving 

 someone's else life. 



When a red flag is flying from the boat- 

 house and the beach is almost deserted 

 Love should find more valiant pastime than 

 in building little breakwaters of sand. 



