THE RHINOCEROS HORNBILL. 
A curious fact in natural history is the par- 
tiality of the rhinoceros hornbill (Buceros rhi- 
noceros) for the fruit of the Strychnos nux 
vomica, from whence strychnine is obtained. 
The S¢rychnos is a forest tree which flourishes 
in the province of Ganjam, in the Madras Pres- 
idency, and has a majestic and imposing ap- 
pearance, bearing clusters of vivid green and 
golden-colored fruit. In the pulp of these fruits 
are imbedded the seeds trom which the poison, 
strychnine, is extracted, and the fruit and seeds 
are the favorite food of that grotesque huge- 
billed bird the rhinoceros hornbill. Wherever 
a ux vomica tree is in fruit numbers of these 
birds will be seen congregated uttering their 
harsh screaming notes and fighting for the 
spoil. It is difficult to account for the tact, but 
these birds seem to thrive and fatten on a poison 
a very small portion of which is sufficient to 
kill man or beast. The Mahomedans, amongst 
whom the flesh of the hornbill is considered a 
great delicacy, say that the bird’s power of as- _ 
similating in its body the virulent poison im- 
parts to its flesh valuable medicinal and nutri- 
tive properties, and it is in consequence much 
sought after. It is no uncommon occurrence 
to take from the crop of a hornbill sufficient 
Nux vomica seeds to kill halfa dozen men, and 
though Europeans have a prejudice against 
eating the flesh, arguing that as the bird feeds 
on poisonous matter it must be poisonous, yet 
this is a fallacy, for a well-roasted hornbill is no 
unworthy addition to the sportsman’s jungle 
fare, and is excellent eating. 

DPE DEATH 
OF SUMMER. 
By FRANKLIN PIERCE CARRIGAN. 
Softly moan, thou bewailing winds, 
For Summer lies cold and white upon her bier ; 
The semblance of the loveliest time of year 
Still lurks within her saddened smiles, 
That penetrate the dimness of the autumn mist, 
And linger on the hills for miles, 
And gild the surface of the woodland aisles, 
That sweet September—sad-eyed maid !—has stooped and kissed. 
Hide thy luminous face, O, sun! 
Bid the clouds distill their azure seas of tears; 
More blessed was the life of her that hears 
The rain upon her coffin lid.. 
Bury her beneath the tall, redolent pines, 
Where early roses’ roots are hid 
Till they burst forth in bloom, by bright June bid ; 
Then bury her where creep the constant ivy vines. 
October, strew not there thy leaves! 
For their weight, tho’ light, might burden her fair breast; 
Quench thy hollow moans, oh! winds, and let her rest— 
Our love was such as few do know. 
The pines (how can they endure the winter’s blast ?) 
Will shield her from the cold and snow, 
The murm’rous winds in pity soft will blow, 
She'll sleep as all will sleep when weary life is past. 
