A GAMELESS COUNTRY. 
THE West Indian Archipelago, 
with its four islands and num- 
berless islets, is called the 
gameless country, because in a re- 
gion of more than 100,000 square 
miles there are no Monkeys, Bears, 
Raccoons, Wild Hogs, Jaguars, Pumas, 
Panthers, Lynxes, Wild Cats, Foxes, 
Wolves, or Jackals. There is not even a 
Woodchuck to be dug out of the many 
caves. Dogs and Cats, too, are un- 
known, and this lack of household pets 
seems to have driven the aborigines to 
expedients, for in a book called "Ogil- 
vy's Voyages" there is a story told of a 
San Domingo native who kept a tame 
Manatee or Sea Cow that made its 
headquarters in an artificial pond, and 
was so well trained that when called by 
its name it would come out of the 
water, go to a neighbor's house and 
after receiving food return to the pond, 
accompanied by boys who seemed to 
charm it by singing, and it often car- 
ried two children on its back. Its in- 
stinct was wonderful. It was once 
struck by a pike in the hand of a Span- 
iard and after that always refused to 
come out of the water when there was 
a clothed man near. 
Manatees are often seen northwest 
of Cuba in shoals, sporting about the 
reefs like Sea Lions. They are cun- 
ning creatures and can dodge the har- 
poon with more success than any other 
aquatic animal. The largest land ani- 
mal of this strange territory is a huge 
Rat, measuring eighteen inches in 
length without the tail. With this ex- 
ception, it is claimed, Cuba, Jamaica, 
San Domingo, and Porto Rico have no 
land animals. 
SNOWFLAKES. 
Out of the bosoin of the air, 
Out of the cloud folds of its garments 
shaken, 
Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
Over the harvest fields forsaken, 
Silent, and soft, and slow, 
Descends the snow. 
Even as our cloudy fancies take 
Suddenly shape in some divine expres- 
sion, 
Even as the troubled heart doth make 
In the white countenance confession, 
The troubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 
This is the poem of the air, 
Slowly in silent syllables recorded; 
This is the secret of despair, 
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 
— Longfellow. 
229 
