from some of my class-mates, and then from books on natural history, that the goose is not designed for the kind of life to which we subject it. That to her, as to nearly all the web-footed race, belong the airy plains, the waters of the wide rivers and extensive lakes. That she is made to fly and swim, and not merely to walk in the confined space of a few feet, where we enclose her. Her natural pasturage is found in the meadows of the Old and New World, for geese belong to the migrating species of birds. In Europe and America, wild geese avoid places where ice and frost reign, and go to pass the winter at the south. The crossing of the seas has no terrors for them. Joined together, to the number of fifty or sixty, they seem to try their wings before they set out. Their structure does not permit them to take their flight at the first stroke; but when once fairly on the wing, they quickly raise themselves, and divide in two ranks or lines, which join at one of their extremities in the form of a V. Their chief, placed at the point of the angle, cuts the air first, and when he is tired, he falls in the rear to rest himself,

and another takes his place without the flight being delayed for a moment. When they have found a place that suits them, they alight and pass the whole day in the fields and meadows. At sunset they betake themselves to a river or lake to pass the night. Little flocks come frequently to join the great band after the sun has set. They make known their arrival by piercing cries, to which others reply. This makes so great a clatter and commotion, one would suppose that thousands had there assembled."

"And what is remarkable," added my aunt, "is, that the half-wild, half-tamed geese do exactly the contrary, for they go to pass the worst season in places that are inhabited; is it not so, Augustus?"

"Yes, mother, on the banks of the Don, for example, the geese kept by the people of the neighbouring villages, on the first thaw, depart in flocks to go to the north, where they find immense lakes with green banks; at the first snow they return to spend the winter with their old masters.

"Every person stations himself at the door of his house, and with cries of joy,

welcomes the flock of geese, which come in such large numbers that they almost darken the setting sun. 'See my geese, is the general cry from every mouth, and they rejoice at the sight of their flocks, which are much more numerous than they were when they went away, because the faithful geese bring back with them their young ones, and the whole family alight in the poultry yard, where, the winter before, their parents had found constant care and plenty of food."

"Caroline, would you not say, that, after all, geese are not so very foolish?" asked my aunt.

"We do not regard enough," continued Augustus, without giving me time to reply "we do not regard enough the instinct of the species which we tame. The habit of looking at them without reflection, and with prejudices adopted and handed down from age to age, makes us indifferent to that which ought to excite our curiosity. Thus every one vaguely knows the story of the geese of the Capitol having warned the Romans of the approach of the Gauls; and that every year, the censor, in testimony of

the public gratitude for that which secured the safety of all, set apart a sum for the support of the geese, while the dogs were beaten, to punish them for their want of vigilance; yet no one is disposed to believe that the geese of the present day can be as good watch-keepers as the geese of Roman fame. But sportsmen well know that the goose has so quick an ear that she awakes at the slightest noise and sounds the alarm. She is always on her guard, so that in hunting wild geese it requires the greatest skill not to startle them. But we hardly think of their attaining that continued vigilance, by which the goose can be made a sure and faithful watch-keeper, but rather yield to the idea that nothing is so stupid as a goose."

CHAPTER V.

DICKY THE SECOND.

"COUSIN," said I, the moment Augustus was about to begin his story, "I cannot imagine how you, who have been surnamed the Just, should have made no remark on the injustice of the Romans. It surely was unjust to beat the descendants of the dogs who were set to guard the Capitol. Those poor animals ought not to be answerable for a want of vigilance in their parents."

"Neither were the descendants of the faithful guardians of the Capitol," replied Augustus, "worthy of the pension which the State allowed them. What reflections do you wish me to make on that subject, my little cousin? Human justice punishes the posterity of the criminal, and makes them feel the shame of a crime they have not committed, whatever may be their own merit. It rewards, on the other hand, the descendants of a great man, however unworthy they may be.