s he knows are making these pin-organs for themselves, which I am
not at all surprised to hear.

ABOUT THE PORPOISES.

BY J. D.

The porpoise is a long, sleek fish without scales, black on the back,
and white and gray beneath. He is from four to ten feet in length, and
his sociability and good-nature are proverbial among seamen of all
nations.

A porpoise is rarely seen alone, and if he by chance wanders from his
friends, he acts in a very bewildered and foolish manner, and will
gladly follow a steamer at full speed rather than be left alone. He is
a very inquisitive fish, and is always thrusting his funny-looking
snout into every nook that promises diversion or sport.

[Illustration: A SCHOOL OF PORPOISES.]

A very familiar spectacle at sea is a school of porpoises--or
"porpusses," as the sailors call them. As soon as a school catches
sight of a ship, they immediately make a frantic rush for it, as if
their life depended upon giving it a speedy welcome. After diving under
the vessel a few times to inspect it and try its speed, they take their
station under the bows, just ahead, and proceed to cut up every antic
that a fish is capable of. They jump, turn over, play "leap-frog" and
"tag" in the most approved fashion. Their favorite antic is to dive a
few feet and then come to the surface, showing their backs in a half
circle, and then, making a sound like a long-drawn sigh, disappear
again. Sailors call them "sea-clowns," and never allow them to be
harmed.

They are met with in schools of from two or three to thousands. They
often get embayed in the inlets and shallow rivers which their
curiosity leads them to investigate. A porpoise once came into the
Harlem River and wandered up and down for a week seeking a way out. One
day he suddenly made his appearance amid some bathers and scattered
them by his gambols.

When they change their feeding-places, the sea is covered for acres
with a tumultuous multitude of these "sea-clowns," all swimming along
in the same direction.

When one of these droves is going against the wind (or to windward),
their plungings throw up little jets of water, which, being multiplied
by thousands of fish, present a very curious appearance.

THE WILD WIND.

BY CLARA W. RAYMOND.

Oh, the wind came howling at our house-door,
Like a maddened fiend set free;
He pushed and struggled with gasp and roar,
For an angry wind was he!

He dashed snow-wreaths at