his legs, and it was easy to see that they 

 were longer and more beautiful than 

 those he had had before. 



Then, before we could admire his slen- 

 der, graceful body, or fully realize the 

 wonderful change that had occurred in 

 him, he darted away before our aston- 

 ished eyes, not a black bug, but a beauti- 

 ful Dragon fly. 



"Hurrah !" we both shouted. The next 

 second we were rushing at top speed to 

 tell Auntie all about it ; just as though she 

 had not known all along what was going 

 to happen. 



She listened and then told us what we 

 did not know. 



How months before the mother Drag- 

 on-fly had dropped her tiny eggs in the 

 water, where they hatched out the black 



bugs, which were so unlike their mother 

 that she did not know them for her chil- 

 dren, and had no word to say to them 

 during the long hours she spent in skim- 

 ming over the water where they lived. 



These bugs were content at first to live 

 in the mud. But soon came the longing 

 for sun and air. And then followed the 

 wonderful transformation from an ugly 

 black bug to the beautiful dragon-fly. 



If you will go beside some pond in the 

 spring or early summer, and find among 

 the water grasses such a bug as I have 

 described, and will then watch long 

 enough you will see just what John and 

 I saw. Afterwards I am sure you will 

 agree with us that it is very wonderful 

 indeed. Louise Jamison. 



THE SOLITARY SANDPIPER. 



He is a curious little chap, the Solitary 

 Snipe, and we used to call him Tip- 

 up. He delights to "see-saw" and "teeter" 

 down a clay bank, with a tiny "peep-po," 

 "peep-po," just before he pokes in his 

 long, slender bill for food. 



He is very tough, and possesses as 

 many lives as the proverbial cat. I have 

 taken many a shot at him — fine sand-shot 

 at that — and from a gun with a record for 

 scattering, and I never succeeded in 

 knocking over but one Tip-up while on a 

 hunt for taxidermy specimens. I failed 

 to secure even this one, though he flopped 

 over in the water and floated down upon 

 the surface of the shallows toward where I 

 stood, knee-deep awaiting his coming. He 

 was as dead as any bird should have been 

 after such a peppering; yes, he was my 

 prize at last, or so I thought as I reached 

 out my hand to lift his limp-looking little 

 body from the water. He was only play- 

 ing possum after all. With a whirl of his 

 wings and a shrill "peep-po/' "peep-po," 

 he darted away and disappeared up stream 

 and out of sight beyond the alders. To 

 add to my disappointment a red-headed 

 woodpecker began to pound out a tan- 

 talizing tune upon the limb of a dead 

 hemlock. No sand-shot could reach that 

 fellow, desire him as much as I might. 



Then a bold kingfisher, with a shrill, 

 saucy scream, darted down before me, 

 grabbed a dace and sailed to a branch op- 

 posite to enjoy his feast, well knowing, 

 the rascal ! that I had an unloaded gun 

 and had fired my last shell. How he knew 

 this I am not able to say, but he did. 

 Wiser fellows in bird lore than I may be 

 able to explain this. I cannot. 



The Solitary Sandpiper is well named. 

 He is always at home wherever found, 

 and always travels alone, be it upon the 

 shelving rock-banks of a river or the 

 clay-banks of a rural stream. He pos- 

 sesses, after a fashion, the gift of the 

 chameleon and can moderately change 

 the color of his coat, or feathers, rather. 

 When he "teeters" along a blue clay bank 

 he looks blue, and when he "see-saws" 

 along brown or gray rocks he looks gray 

 or brown, as the case may be. 



The city boy who spends his vacation 

 in the rural parts and fishes for dace, red- 

 fins or sunfish, knows the Solitary Sand- 

 piper. To the country boy he is an old 

 acquaintance, for he has taken many a 

 shot, with stone or stick, at the spry little 

 Tip-up, who never fails to escape scot 

 free to "peep-po," "peep-po" at his sweet 

 content. H. S. Keller. 



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