how the work is proceeding, and then disap-ous rolling about is twofold; it accelerates the pear afresh and renew their labors. Some- hatching of the inclosed egg by the exposure times they dig rather too much on one side, to the sunbeams, and it forms a thin, hard, and then they appear sadly puzzled, running clay-like crust round the soft material in which round and round the bird, getting on it as if the egg reposes. to press it down with their weight, pulling it this way and that way; but they resume their work until the hole is large enough to allow the bird to sink into it. The time occupied in the transaction necessarily varies, according to the size of the buried object and the condition of the beetle; but on the average an ordinary finch, or a mouse, can be buried in the course of a day. When the task is completed a number of eggs are laid upon the buried animal, and then the beetles emerge, cover it with earth, and then fly away. The Egyptian Scarabaeus sinks a deep perpendicular hole in the ground, and having deposited an egg in a portion of soil, which she forms into a rude ball, begins a curious and laborious task. Seizing the ball between her hind-feet, she begins to roll it about in the hot sunshine, not taking it direct to the shaft which she has sunk, but remaining near the spot. Should rain come on she ceases to roll, or should the ball be made just before sunset she waits for the morning before recommencing her labor. The consequence of all this curi When the ball is sufficiently rolled it is taken to the hole, dropped down, and the earth filled in. The egg is very soon hatched, and from it proceeds a little white grub, which finds itself at once in the midst of food, and begins to eat vigorously. By the time it has devoured the whole of the contents of its cocoon-if the mere empty shell may be so called-it is ready for its change into the pupal form, and there lies in the earth until it again changes its form and becomes a perfect beetle. If the reader will refer to the plate, he will there see two of these beetles at work upon a ball, for it is not an unusual circumstance that two insects should propel the same ball. Also in the closing illustration may be seen the completed cocoon of this beetle, as well as an extraordinary cocoon of an insect called the Goliath. This specimen is in the British Museum, and is as large as a swan's egg. It is strengthened by a remarkable belt, which runs around its centre. A common house-fly is introduced into the drawing, in order to show the comparative size of the cocoon and the insect. In the illustration on the next page we have three excellent examples of wood-boring in- | closed egg a ceiling, which shall be the floor of sects. Passing by the Spirifer and Saperdawhich are curious looking creatures-we will describe only the dwelling constructed by the splendid South African Carpenter Bee, a woodborer of great power. In the centre of the drawing is seen a portion of a tunnel which is completely hollowed out, and divided into cells. This is the nest of the Carpenter Bee. When the insect has fixed upon a piece of wood which suits her purpose, usually the trunk or branch of a dead tree, an old post, or a piece of wooden railing, she bores a circular hole about an inch and a half in length, and large enough to permit her to pass. Suddenly she turns at an angle, and drives her tunnel parallel to the grain of the wood, and makes a burrow of several inches in length. None of the chips and fragments are wasted, but are carried aside and carefully stored up in some secure place, sheltered from the action of the wind. The tunnel having now been completed, the industrious insect seeks rest in change of employment, and sets off in search of honey and 'pollen. With these materials she makes a little heap at the bottom of the tunnel, and deposits an egg upon the food which she has so carefully stored. another cell. For this purpose she goes off to her store of chips, and fixes them in a ring above the heap of pollen, cementing them together with a glutinous substance, which is probably secreted by herself. A second ring is then placed inside the first, and in this manner the insect proceeds until she has made a nearly flat ceiling of concentric rings. The thickness of each ceiling is about equal to that of a penny. The number of cells is extremely variable, but on the average each tunnel contains seven or eight, and the insect certainly makes more than one tunnel. As each tunnel generally exceeds a foot in length, and the diameter is large enough to admit the passage of the widebodied insect who makes it, the amount of labor performed by the bee is truly wonderful. The jaws are the only boring instruments used, and though they are strong and sharp, they scarcely seem to be adequate to the work for which they are destined. In the illustration the upper part of one of these tunnels is shown, and in the two uppermost cells the egg has not been hatched. In the lower cells the young larva is given in order to show the attitude in which it passes its early life. When all is complete the entrance is Then she proceeds to construct above the in- closed. IT AUNT ESTHER'S STORY. T was four o'clock of a sultry August after- | Aunt Esther's pretty cottage was but a little way noon. The Marvel of Peru beneath my off, and I kept on bravely. And when I enwindow had but just unfolded its variegated tered the cool, still parlor, with its quaint old petals; and the sun-loving Portulacca, reveling furniture, where all was subdued and quiet in in the intense light and heat, opened its heart coloring, save two or three sunny pictures upon to the descending rays, and expanded itself un- the wall, and a tiny vase of exquisite flowers, I til the bed on which it lay was one dense mass was at once calmed and elevated by the atmosof gorgeous coloring. Not a breath stirred the phere of the place, and felt that "it was good maple leaves, and even the quivering aspen was for me to be there." for once hushed into complete repose. Drawing my lounge to a favorable position between the two windows, I threw myself upon it, and tried to lose in sleep the consciousness of heat and weariness. All my other resources had been long before exhausted. My favorite authors had ceased to charm; and my fingers, skilled in all manner of "fancy work," to-day had lost their wonted cunning. I tried to write, but the magnetic current between my thoughts and my pen was certainly not in working order. Now sleep also failed me, and in utter despair I arose, and gathering up my remaining energies, concentrated them upon the task of making as elaborate a toilet as the heat of the day would admit. I tried to cheat myself into the belief that all this restlessness, this incapacity for work or enjoyment, was occasioned by the oppressive heat. But my heart and my conscience taught me better. The truth was I had reached a crisis in my life. Hitherto I had trodden a smooth, well-beaten path, with but few windings and unmistakable landmarks. But now I had reached the angle of divergence, and before me stretched two paths, both new and untried. Which should I choose? It was the attempt to answer this momentous question that had so harassed and unnerved me. I could endure the whirl and tumult of my own thoughts no longer, and, hastily putting on a light bonnet and mantilla, I left the house. The scorching sunbeams beat upon my head with a fury that was almost overwhelming. But If old age could always wear the beauty and loveliness of Aunt Esther's well might the youngest and gayest pray to be old. I thought, as she extended her hand and with a beaming smile of welcome drew me to a low seat by her side, that I had never seen a lovelier picture. The calm, sweet face-the placid brow on which the soft white hair lay as caressingly as when it rivaled the raven's wing in hue and lustre-the dress of plain black silk-the kerchief of snowy lawn fastened by the tiniest of pearl broochesthe widow's cap which she had worn so long, and which she would wear in her coffin-the small hands meekly folded, save when she unconsciously toyed with the heavy wedding-ring -all were in perfect keeping. I sank to my seat at her feet with a deep sigh of satisfaction. "You are always so cool and quiet here, Aunt Esther," I said, as she removed my bonnet and smoothed back my moistened hair. I ought to say before I go on with my story that I called this dear friend Aunt by no right save that of affection. She had been the cherished friend of my mother, had watched over her death-bed, and I had called her by that familiar title from my earliest remembrance. "You are always so cool and quiet," I repeated. "Heat and feverishness and unrest never find their way inside your doors, Auntie." She smiled slightly as her cool head touched my burning cheek. "I am afraid you have brought them with you this time, Katie. Your hands burn me and your lips are parched with fever." "It is so hot," I replied, evasively. "I suppose it was imprudent for me to come out today." "It would have been more imprudent for you to have staid at home, Katie," she said, looking steadily into my face with her clear, searching eyes-" at home, with only your own unquiet thoughts for company. My dear child, you never needed your mother as you do now." "Oh, I know it!" I exclaimed, with a passionate burst of tears, as I buried my face in Aunt Esther's lap. "If she were only here, and would take this whole matter off my hands, and tell me just what to do!" Aunt Esther shook her head half sadly as she answered: "She could not do that if she were here, Katie. There are certain questions that every woman must decide for herself, and you are no automaton. Your own heart and your own judgment are your best guides after all. And your mother's God is your God." "Yes, but sometimes He seems a great way off-not as near to me as in my childhood. Talk to me, dear Auntie," I continued-"I have no other mother, and I come to you. Tell me what you think about this matter.' "My dear Katie, I can not do that," she answered. "You must go to your own heart for counsel. What does that say?" "Aunt Esther, I like John Millman a great deal better than I do Mr. Eldridge. There's no denying that. I have known him longer, and he is by far the most brilliant, and cultivated, and lovable of the two. But then-you'll think me very worldly, I am afraid, Aunt Esther-but I must tell you the truth now that I have begun I certainly am proud and ambitious-fond of wealth, position, and all that those words include. The question is, would I be happier with-" I paused, blushing and confused, utterly unable to finish the sentence I had commenced so glibly. For a long time there was silence between us two. At length Aunt Esther took my face between her hands, and, leaning gently forward, kissed my forehead. "I was very worldly-minded once myself," she said, softly. "Shall I tell you a story, Katie ?" I nodded assent, for I could not speak; and after a pause of several minutes' duration, Aunt Esther commenced: You know, said Aunt Esther, something of my early history already. You know that I was only ten years old when my only remaining parent died; and that after that event I was carried from the city to my mother's early home, where my aged grandparents welcomed me as the sole legacy of their lost daughter. At first even their unvarying tenderness could not make me forget that I was an orphan. My eyes refused to behold any thing on the broad green earth but the three graves in the dreary city church-yard, where my father, my mother, and my little brother were to sleep until the heavens should be no more. I thought I should never smile again. But childhood's griefs are seldom enduring; and as the spring came on my spirits gradually recovered from the unnatural weight of sorrow. I had never been in the country before, and every thing about me filled me with wonder and delight. Before the summer was over I was as much at home in Maybrook as if I had been born beneath the shadow of its everlasting hills. Maybrook was dignified with the title of village, but it had no other claim to it than that derived from the possession of a single store, a "hotel," and a blacksmith's shop. Our nearest neighbor upon one side-and not very near at that—was your grandfather Bailey. Our nearest on the other side was Mrs. Grey, a widow with two children-a son a year or two older than myself, and a daughter a little younger. Your mother had several brothers and sisters. Gay, lively young people they were, thoroughly good-hearted and affectionate. But she was the rose, the gem, the pearl. As we grew older we were always together, the young folks from your grandfather's, Horace Grey and his sister, and myself. There were many other boys and girls in the neighborhood—our neighborhood extended over a circuit of three or four miles-but they were farther off; and for our ordinary, everyday society we three families were mostly dependent upon each other. But at length there came a change. Your aunt married very young, and went away from us. One of your uncles entered college, and another went into business at Reedville. Just about that time Mrs. Grey met with an accident which left her a confirmed and hopeless invalid. She was not a great sufferer, but was utterly helpless, unable to move from the bed upon which she lay. It was a terrible trial to herworse than death-not so much on her own account as on that of her children. I have said she was a widow. Her husband died when she was but twenty-five years of age. Young and still beautiful, she henceforth devoted herself wholly to her children, refusing, for their sakes, to listen to the "voice of the charmer, charming never so wisely." Mr. Grey had owned a small farm, and after mature deliberation she had concluded to keep it, feeling that by so doing she secured at least a home and maintenance for her precious charge. Providence had abundantly blessed her, even beyond her hopes; and while many luxuries were denied to them, a comfortable and happy home had been theirs always. To promote her children's welfare, to advance their interests, and by giving them every advantage in her power to prepare them to fill honorably any position to which God should call them, had been the aim of her life. Now all was changed-instead of a help she was to be a hindrance, instead of a staff, a burden. She had hoped to stand between them and trouble; but henceforth she was to be dependent upon them for the supplying of her simplest needs. They took up the burden thus cast upon their young lives-not as a burden, but trustfully, even joyfully. Never, by word or look or deed, did they allow their mother to perceive the disappointment they must have felt at this sudden blighting of all their hopes for the future-this rude awakening from their happy dreams. For such it was. Julia Grey has but little to do with my story, and of her I will merely say that she possessed uncommon musical ability, which had been thoroughly trained and cultivated. At the time of which I speak she had just secured a situation as teacher in a neighboring city, with a salary that would enable her greatly to lessen her mother's cares, and to add to her comforts. But, alas! her filial devotion was to bear far different fruit. "It is hard, Esther," he rejoined, after a moment; "harder, perhaps, than you can imagine. It changes my whole future. I meant to be a great man some day. It is hard to give it all up." I did not reply. What was there for me to say? After a while Horace continued: "But it is all right-all right. It is such a comfort to feel that God knows what is best for us, and what we need, better than we do ourselves. And I do feel that, Hetty. I have had a hard struggle; but it is over now, and my mind is made up." I asked him what his decision was- -very needlessly, for I knew already. "Why, I shall stay here, of course," he replied, "carry on the farm, and take care of mother. I shall make a capital farmer too. I am going to raise nobody knows how many bushels of corn and potatoes next summer-see if I don't!" "Is there not some other way to manage?" I asked, after a pause. "Farming is all well enough, but it is not your calling, Horace. Can nothing else be done?" There is no other "Nothing else, Esther. course for me to pursue. Here is my work. God never appointed any man's field of labor more unmistakably than he has mine. I thank Him for that; and I shall walk in the path His providence has marked out for me. But here we are at the gate. Good-night, Hetty!”—and our conversation ended. As for Horace, in spite of the manly cheerfulness with which he submitted to what was inevitable, I knew that it must be almost more than he could bear to give up all the ambitious hopes, the eager, stirring dreams of his young manhood, and tie himself to the couch of an invalid, even though that invalid was the mother he so deeply loved. When scarcely more than a boy he had looked far onward into the future, and had chosen his life-path. Since then every energy of his being had been turned toward one object - preparation for that path. He had chosen the law as his profession. At first a collegiate education had seemed to him indispensable-the first stepping-stone, without which he could not hope to reach the heights above him. But when he thought of their limited resources, Horace kept his word, and more corn and and of the privations and self-denials his pursu- potatoes were raised on the little Grey farm that ance of that course would entail upon his mo-year than had ever grown there before. ther and sister, he gave it up. Educated he The next few years wrought but few changes must and would be, but in some different way. in Maybrook. Mrs. Grey grew neither better How he labored and studied I need not tell nor worse. Every morning Horace carried her here. Inspired by an intense love of learning, from her bed to a lounge in the family sittingby his own personal ambition, and by his desire room; and there she lay, as helpless as an into place himself as quickly as possible where he fant, until her strong and stalwart son came in could not only maintain himself but give his from his work and carried her back again. She mother and sister a home more in accordance had ceased to worry, ceased to be anxious. I with his wishes for them, his rapid progress, his never saw such perfect peace and serenity upon rapid mental growth, was a wonder to all with any mortal face as dwelt upon hers. whom he came in contact. He had nearly reached the goal, and during the coming autumn was to enter the office of an eminent lawyer, under flattering auspices. For several weeks after Mrs. Grey was hurt I was with her most of the time, assisting Julia in the care of the dear sufferer. It was one evening, as Horace was accompanying me home after a day spent in his mother's sick room, that he first spoke to me of his changed prospects. "I must give up the law, Esther," he said. "It is worse than useless for me to think of it any longer." His compressed lip, and the forced firmness of his voice, told me how much it cost him to speak those words; and I am sure that my own voice trembled as I replied, in a low tone: "Do not decide too hastily, Horace. I have been so sorry for you all these weeks! Is there no way-?" VOL. XXXII-No. 190.-GG "I have learned one thing since I have lain here, Esther," she said to me as I sat by her side one day: "I have learned that we can none of us choose our own work or our own discipline. God chooses for us, and contentment is the highest wisdom." I can hardly tell how or when I first became aware that Horace Grey loved me. We had been friends for so long, almost like brother and sister, that I was not aware when the relations between us began almost imperceptibly to change. Not a word of love had ever passed between us. Horace had little time for lovemaking. He had grown more manly, more quiet, more self-possessed than ever since he had become the head of the household, and felt the cares of this "work-a-day world" pressing so heavily upon him. We met less often than formerly; yet gradually I came to know beyond a peradventure that all the wealth of his deep, |