efore. I reckon it's a
new kind.' Then he got angry and walked up and down the roof. I never
saw a bird take on so.

"When he got through, he looked in the hole for half a minute; then he
says: 'Well, you're a long hole, and a deep hole, and a queer hole, but
I have started to fill you, and I'll do it if it takes a hundred
years.'

"And with that away he went. For two hours and a half you never saw a
bird work so hard. He did not stop to look in any more, but just threw
acorns in and went for more.

"Well, at last he could hardly flap his wings he was so tired out. So he
bent down for a look. He looked up, pale with rage. He says: 'I've put
in enough acorns to keep the family thirty years, and I can't see a sign
of them.'

"Another jay was going by and heard him. So he stopped to ask what was
the matter. Our jay told him the whole story. Then he went and looked
down the hole and came back and said: 'How many tons did you put in
there?' 'Not less than two,' said our jay.

"The other jay looked again, but could not make it out; so he gave a
yell and three more jays came. They all talked at once for awhile, and
then called in more jays.

"Pretty soon the air was blue with jays, and every jay put his eye to
the hole and told what he thought. They looked the house all over, too.
The door was partly open, and at last one old jay happened to look in.
There lay the acorns all over the floor.

"He flapped his wings and gave a yell: 'Come here, everybody! Ha! Ha!
He's been trying to fill a house with acorns!'

"As each jay took a look, the fun of the thing struck him, and how he
did laugh. And for an hour after they roosted on the housetop and trees,
and laughed like human beings. It isn't any use to tell me a bluejay
hasn't any fun in him. I know better."

SAMUEL L. CLEMENS (Mark Twain)

A CANADIAN CAMPING SONG

A white tent pitched by a glassy lake,
Well under a shady tree,
Or by rippling rills from the grand old hills,
Is the summer home for me.
I fear no blaze of the noontide rays,
For the woodland glades are mine,
The fragrant air, and that perfume rare,
The odour of forest pine.

A cooling plunge at the break of day,
A paddle, a row, or sail,
With always a fish for a mid-day dish,
And plenty of Adam's ale.
With rod or gun, or in hammock swung,
We glide through the pleasant days;
When darkness falls on our canvas walls,