the results of investigations by Prof. S. P. Langley, of the Smithsonian Institution, and by Hiram S. Maxim, the English inventor. Colonel Waring has supplemented bis translation of Fijnje's book with abstracts of two still later announcements of results by Prof. Langley, and some extracts and illustrations from a study of a practical air ship contributed by Mr. John P. Holland to Cassier's Magazine. The reader may obtain from this volume an understanding of the problems that have to be solved before the air can be navigated, and a knowledge of lines along which these problems are being approached.
A Bird-lover in the West. By Olive Thorne Miller. Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Pp. 278. Price, $1.25.
Of old the poet Horace warned us that "black Care sits behind the horseman and does not withdraw from the ship," but Mrs. Miller assures us that the way to truly recreate is to leave our hurries and worries behind us and seek some unfamiliar spot where we may commune with Nature. Even with her explicit directions this may not be easily accomplished. Her example is, however, of more practical value than her advice.
It is not the going away, nor change of scene, nor yet strength of will, that dismisses the dark follower, but the substitution of a greater interest for our own petty concerns. If we can not journey to Cheyenne Mountain, there are new worlds to be discovered about us, and this book shows such loving study of bird life that some may be tempted to begin it at home.
Wherever the author finds herself—at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, beside Great Salt Lake, or in "the middle country"—her first inquiries are for her winged neighbors. In the forest and in the cañon she spends days observing the manners and habits of the wren, chat, or blue jay. Incidentally she notes that poets take too much license with the traits of her feathered friends. "The voiceless swallow," "forgetful thrush," and "mourning dove" are base misnomers. The coo of the dove "has a rich, far-off sound. . . . expressing a happiness beyond words," and not one of the swallow tribe can be called mute.
In the arid country the author comes upon a housewife who cooks outdoors. The stove is under an oak tree, while the pots and pans hang outside the house. This is so nearly akin to the ways of the winged fraternity that place is given to a regret that the woman is not a bird to be studied!
In spite of her zeal for bird acquaintance, the flowers do not go unobserved; two chapters are devoted to their changing glories in the wild garden of Colorado. Not only do these surpass the eastern flora in size, color, and fragrance, but also in abundance and variety. In one locality a hundred differing kinds are found in a month, and of these only half a dozen are recognized as old friends.
Altogether, a most inviting field, according to the author, awaits the naturalist in the west.
The Friendship of Nature. By Mabel Osgood Wright. New York and London: Macmillan & Co. Pp. 238. Price, 75 cents.
This little volume depicts a series of New England landscapes. They are rendered with words instead of colors, but an artist would have little difficulty in reproducing them by any medium he might choose. Foreground, background, sky, atmosphere, and foliage are delineated by the faithful eye that neglects no detail.
With the scenic descriptions are given bits of botany, ornithology, and philosophy, quaint legend, and flower lore.
Although employing a prose form, the author delights in rhythmical expression, and many sentences are as easily scanned as the following: "Down from the village runs the dusty road"; "The flush of morning comes upon the sea." Figures are lavishly scattered about; some of these are fresh and effective. Mushrooms are pictured as the gypsy race of plant-land that rears its fungus encampment. Occasionally this love of imagery betrays the author; she writes in regard to the blue gentian: "One dreams that the sky, once molting, dropped its soft-edged feathers on the grass, and earth twined them into flowers." The vision of the vaultless blue shaped like some huge fowl shedding its feathers is too incongruous to be entertained, and we dismiss it to the company of that distressing simile, "And like a
