THE REFERENDUM 



455 



heel, and the edges of the leather notched 

 with a knife. Then the moccasin is taken off 

 and the spare leather if any, is cut off by 

 a straight square cut (Fig. 4.) and then while 

 the edges are still together another little slit 

 is made (Fig. 4), to fit the round of the heel; 

 but this is not cut through, there is left a lit- 

 tle two-pointed "sail." The seam is then 

 sewed up by an over-and-over stitch, which 

 is also pounded flat, when the moccasin is 

 ready for the strings. 



Four double slits are cut along each side, 

 and another in the middle of the tongue 



piece, as shown in Fig. 5, and a leather string 

 is run through, the ends crossing under the 

 slit in the tongue, and carried over to oppo- 

 site sides and passed ekher through a slit 

 cut there for the purpose, or passed under the 

 side string, as shown in Fig. 5, and the 

 moccasin is completed. 



There are no "rights" and "lefts," as the 

 moccasin after some wearing takes the form 

 of the foot. A tan leather makes the nicest 

 looking moccasin. 



The lumbermen in many places use a moc- 

 casin made this shape out of oil-tanned 

 leather which is nearly water proof. Some- 

 times a leather top is sewn around the upper 

 edge, the lacing string is dispensed with, and 

 the result is a "shoe-pack," laced like a com- 



mon shoe. But this is a "civilized" white 

 man's contrivance, and not an Indian's. The 

 Indians of Canada will take a moosehide 

 moccasin made this way, sew a top four 

 inches wide on, and fold the top around the 

 ankle and lash it in place with a string which 

 passes over the tongue of the moccasin and 

 through two little loops at each side at the 

 point where in our diagrams the final sewing 

 is done. This is their snowshoe moccasin; 

 but the moccasin here described, if made 

 large enough for several pairs of heavy socks, 

 is also used in winter for the same purpose. 



MASQUERADERS IN FEATHERS. 



BY C. M, STORY. 



How few people there are, after all, who 

 can name and identify ten or even five of 

 our most common birds at sight, and how 

 very few there are who can identify these 

 same birds by the call notes and love songs 

 which enliven our woods and gardens from 

 season to season. 



"To be able to name every bird on sight 

 or call," says John Burroughs, "is an impor- 

 tant part of ornithology, but to love the bird, 

 to relate it to your daily life and to divine its 

 character is much more important." 



Our most common birds have each such 

 distinctive characteristics that, after once 

 studying them in their natural environment, 

 we wonder that we could, hitherto, have re- 

 mained so blind to them. It is, unfortunately, 

 true that fine feathers do not always make 

 fine birds. Just as the gaudily dressed 

 sharper may impose upon the confidence of 

 the simple-minded countryman, so some of 

 our handsomely plumed birds are endowed 

 with a cunning, crafty nature which spends 

 itself in mischief, thievings and all kinds of 

 interference in the decorous and polite fam- 

 ily circles of their more plainly dressed 

 neighbors. 



I am going to show up a few of these 

 little mischief makers for the benefit of those 

 who see them only upon dress parade, so 

 to speak, as they flit quietly from branch 

 to branch, glinting their feathers gayly in 

 the sunlight. 



Be it said, however, in justice to birddom 

 that there are comparatively few of these 

 rascals and that even the most villainous 

 have their redeeming features. 



There is at least one bird with which we 

 must all have at least a bowing acquaint- 

 ance. Who has not noticed the big lonely 

 scare-crows flapping languidly in the corn 

 fields about the old homestead? And, after 

 all, how little the wise old crows seem to 

 fear these bundles of straw and old clothes. 

 If you are careful enough to succeed in get- 

 ing near to a flock of crows you cannot fail 

 to notice unmistakable signs of their cun- 

 ning natures. The flock may be observed 

 walking about upon the ground with all the 

 dignity of a barnyard assembly, as they 

 ravenously devour the corn which the farm 

 hands have so carefully sown, but are they 

 foolish enough, you wonder, to subject them- 

 selves to a possible surprise by man or beast? 

 No ! not a bit of it. Up in yonder dead chest- 

 nut tree, far out on the end of a scrawny 

 branch sits the sentinel. No matter how ex- 

 cellent may be the foraging in the field he 

 stays faithfully at his post. Shifting from 

 time to time, to relieve the monotony of his 

 vigil and better survey the entire landscape, 

 he punctuates the silence with a sort of muf- 

 fled squawk which carries reassurance to his 

 comrades. As the intruder appears, how- 



