^H[(fllAWnifltd the more flexible posterior portion at- tached only to the anterior part compels the airs to be driven backward as by the blades of an airplane propeller and therefore, against this resistance, drives the body of bird, bat or insect forward. This is the sole means of propulsion and never, under any circumstances, is the stroke of the wing backward, as many have stated directly or implied, the idea of being taken quite for granted. The most casual observation of the flight of any larger bird, particularly that of a pigeon, crow, heron, gull or pelican, will at onpe fix this in mind; also the method of flight may be ascertained by closely watching a swallow, grackle, kingbird or other species that move their wings not too rapidly, or by noting the blur or glistening haze of the wings of the humming bird, the sphinx moth, the hovering and-hill hornet, the Carolina grasshopper, the male carpenter bee or the syrphus fly. As a matter of fact, the wing motion is in relation to the speed of the flying creature and its trajectory is therefore to be expressed by the figure of a series of waves, the height being the extent of the upward reach and the length governed by the difference of strokes per second from the distance traveled in the same time. For instance, if a bird made six strokes of its wings per second and traveled six feet in that time each stroke would represent an upward and downward motion one foot long, the crests of the waves being just that apart, there being no difference between the angles of progression of the wave strokes both up and down. When a flying creature wishes to increase its speed it merely strikes the air harder or more swiftly. When hovering the wing is flattened, or better, the posterior portion is held rigid with the anterior portion and with such nice adjustment that the air is only driven directly downward, the body lifted evenly. The best way to ascertain this is to get a side view of a sparrow hawk hovering as it watches for field mice. The vertical motion of the wing may be easily seen and when the bird starts on again there is an in- stant change in the position of the long primary and secondary feathers. The general mechanism of all wings is remarkably similar; Nature has adopted one scheme, as has been said. The bones of the wings of the bat and bird, the veins in the wings of insects show a construction singularly adapted for rigidity forward and pliability backward and this is essential not only in the propelling downward stroke where the upward “give” is not too great, but also in a non-resistant upward lift where the downward bending is governed by the resistance. The attachment of the wing to the body also indicates clearly the necessity for rigidity in the downward stroke and pliability for the lifted wing, the muscles tying the socket joint of the bones so as to prevent twisting the posterior portion of the wing up and over the anterior portion, but not preventing the decided and necessary twist in an opposite direction, which permits the upward stroke. With the insects this attachment is remarkably effective for the purpose; it may best be observed in the larger moths and the dragon flies. With these a forcible twisting of the wing in the direction of its essential rigidity will dislocate it. All flying creatures except the birds possess membranous wings and the downward twist of the posterior part is necessarily extreme so as to carry the wing upward edgewise to the air resistance. The birds have feathers and while the same pliability in the uplift of the wings is necessary, it is less so because of the long primary and secondary feathers that extend backward and are the chief factors in both support and propulsion. Each of these feathers in the wing of a bird acts just as the wing does in its entirety; the quill, for this purpose rounded, permits the twisting or pivoting of each feather in its fleshy socket. The shape of the feather is such that in the downward stroke the wide web is braced against the narrow, more rigid part of its fellow and in the upward stroke it pivots down so as to permit the air to-pass through. Yet with this obviously double advantage of the feathers and wing attachment the birds are no better fliers than those creatures with membranous wings. The huming bird cannot equal, in speed, tirelessness nor control, the largest sphinx moths, sometimes called humming bird hawk moths because of their manner of hovering before flowers (though the name hawk has never been explained). The little kinglets, the active wood warblers, the flycatchers and even the swallows can all take lessons in aerial agility from the bats, though for grace and poetry of motion the swallows far excel, which is not so much a matter of skill as a habit of flight. There is evidence also that the birds are more untiring than the bats which either indicates more muscle in the birds or less needed effort. It is not fair to compare the largest soaring birds with those insects that possess similar tendencies at time; because of the ease of overcoming gravity on motionless pinions we marvel at the vultures, albatrosses and ospreys. The larger-winged butterflies and the emperor moths (the latter seen only at dusk), drift along between wing flaps with more comprehensible ease, their wings not held horizontally but at an upward angle of about forty-five degrees. There is especially among the larger flying creatures a very decided limit to wing power as a result of gravity and air resistance. Nature has not attempted anything like the airplane or the dirigible, never having developed a motive power apart from the weight-supporting wings and it is very evident that for both speed and carrying weight man’s invention is greatly superior, though as yet never quite so sure. A vulture never has its engine go dead in the air, unless from such an outside source as a shotgun. The California condor and the great albatross are tre extreme examples in nature of sustaining weight on motionless pinions, but surpassing these are the heavier migratory wild swans that attain high speeds over hundreds of miles. Compared to these the wild turkey and the giant Asiatic bustard are quite ordinary. The limits of speed are shown by the fact that few birds can attain over sixty miles an hour, though considering what momentum should do as an aid to continued rapid effort and how little resistance to the air can affect a smoothly feathered, stream-line body it is really surprising that much greater speed is not attained. Some years ago we read of the observations of an ornithologist whose chief desire was evidently to announce wonderful discoveries rather than to state cold facts. He claimed to have timed the flight of many birds between measured points and he found that a rate of more than one hundred and twenty miles an hour was attained. The writer has carefully experimented in exactly the same manner, every condition for accuracy most carefully observed, a stop-watch playing the principal part and on days when there was no wind. A fellow observer stood at one point and signaled to me at another four hundred yards away when a bird passed a fixed point on a near sea river. Much patience was required. A herring gull flying without soaring at an average rate of speed made a little more than twenty miles an hour for the distance. A black duck just starting did only a little better; another having gained good headway improved on thirty miles. A teal considerably exceeded forty miles. A great blue heron fell below a mile in four minutes. Shifting our ground to a like distance between inland hills we found that homing crows on a still winter day about equaled the above gull. With a strong wind they attained a mile in two minutes, but against a stiff breeze their speed fell to a mile in about three and a half minutes; against a hard wind, in which the birds were taking every advantages of hillside and woodland windbreak, they hardly flew at the rate of a mile in five minutes. The speed of the crow, with its long, deliberate sweep of wing, is surprising. A kingbird, martin or even a swamp blackbird can make a dash and easily overtake' the black maurader, but on a long flight only the kingfisher, the flycatchers, the swift and the swallows, the smaller hawks, the plovers and snipe and certain sea birds, as the ducks, terns, cormorants, petrels and skimmers will exceed the crow in speed. Most birds are surprisingly slow of flight; they by no means meet the common impression of exceeding powerdriven wheels. Traveling in a train at about thirty miles an hour permits ready observation of compara- tive speeds of many birds that rise and fly with the train for even a short distance. Sparrows, grackles, meadow larks, shore larks, pipits, robins, all fall quickly behind. Most birds are loath to continue parallel with the train for any telling distance. Swallows and the chimney swift easily keep abreast even when their line of flight is many-curved and when they want to put on speed they instantly forge ahead, as does also the killdeer. At one time we raced a frantic chipping sparrow that persisted in keeping between the car and a high, close embankment and for a time kept up with us at a speed of about twenty miles an hour*, it then began to fall back and finally dashed into some overhanging vines. Once in an auto along a smooth, level stretch we raced with a sparrow hawk that was after English sparrows dusting in the road. The little falcon missed his strike, then dashed off, keeping one direction and gradually pulling away from us, though we were making about a thirty-mile speed. A friend whose word may be relied upon tells me that while traveling from Philadelphia to Atlantic City in one of the fastest trains they sighted a wild duck, species not known, that kept abreast of the train for several miles, then very gradually forged ahead until it went out of sight or veered off and it is possible that the train was making fifty miles an hour, or better. This was a case of continued momentum increasing the speed and it is certain that this enables migrating birds to reach, a considerable velocity. Then, of course, varying speeds, as with the killdeer, which can loaf along or beat the swiftest hawk, the kingbird and the purple martin, which are very indolent fliers at times, make estimates somewhat uncertain. It is, however, safe to say that few if any birds—falcons, plover, kingfisher, man-of-war bird, swallow, swift or skimmer—ever attain a speed greatly exceeding sixty miles an hour and they never equal one hundred miles, as has been carelessly asserted. The swift is undoubtedly the fastest of our land birds if not of all species. Making allowances for the lessened influences of gravity and momentum, or bet- ter, for proportionate weight as compared to air resistance and muscle, we turn to the insects as examples of extreme wing control. Observe the bee flies and their close of kin the syrphus, tachina and blowflies, all of that two-winged, stout-bodied host that move their wings at the tremendous rate of several hundred beats a second and that dash through the air almost like shafts of light. Hardly second to them are the small, solitary, digging bees, the Andrenidae, the song of their wings, indicated by the tuning fork, making as swift a measure. Watch dragon flies do stunts over a swamp or pond: rushing forward, stopping instantly to hover, drifting actually backward at times, pivoting about at right angles or entirely turning, diving downward or straight upward and all with the utmost ease and a hardly perceptible wing motion. These are Nature’s biplanes, with the lower wings set behind and a little below the others, not directly underneath. Keep your eye, if you can, upon the sand-hill hornet dashing after a bigbodied cicada that is hardly less swift in flight. You may have as much of a task following a skipper butterfly, a larger-winged vanessa, a noctuid moth or the male of the carpenter bee playing a sort of tag with his fellows around the house. Here is speed, with its limitations, of course, but it is difficult to determine what they are. Copyright by the Art Institute of Chicago. Landscape. A Child’s Lesson to Its Mother. A lady had made several pots of jam, and preparing to go out, she forbade her daughter to touch them. But she was no sooner gone out than the child took one of the pots, ate a little of the jam which it con- tained, then put it back in its place. Her mother, on her return, perceived it, and said to her in a severe tone: “What would you do, naughty child, if you were in my place?” “This is what I would do,” replred she; “I would say: ‘Finish the pot, since you have begun it, but don’t do that again.’ ” HERMANN HAGEDORN: The Lie. (Conclusion.) The wind whistled through the Archway. The boys stuck their hands in their pockets and danced, shivering, but not one deserted the bulletin board. They stared at the dismal figures and a dozen versions of How It Must Have Happened were launched by imaginative spectators, attacked ruthlessly and torpedoed as improbable. The trouble with the whole matter of explaining Chancellor’s Hill’s two touchdowns was that the very fact of the touchdowns would, an hour ago, have seemed the last word in improbabilities. They talked and shivered and bantered and sang and cheered (just to keep warm) for a solid hour. Mr. Tuttle reappeared at last. The boys surged out of the Archway in the Quadrangle to meet him. “Score! What’s the score?” “Get back, you wild Indians!” cried the studious secretary to some importunate First Formers who were tugging at his arms. “There is no news, and I can’t get Chancellor’s Hill on the telephone.” There were murmurs of bewilderment. The Senior Master, tall, genial, and conspicuous for his good sense, came out of the Main Building, and suggested a run for health’s sake. He tagged Runt Woods lightly and was off. With a shout the crowd followed him at a jog-trot past the Music House, Past the Cottage out on to the cinder track. They jogged a quarter-mile. As they reached the Cottage on the return trip, they saw Mr. Tuttle dancing toward them, wildly waving his arms. The Senior Master halted his band. “Fifteen to eleven!” shouted Mr. Tuttle ecstatically. “We win!” The roar that followed was memorable. Eppie, the confectionery man, picking his teeth in his empty shop at the foot of the hill, threw away his toothpick and went to the kitchen to tell his wife that The Towers had won, and business for the rest of the afternoon would be brisk. Two minutes later the jubilant invasion began. Dick Harrington was not one of the crowd that rushed, cheering down the hill. He was on probation, and Eppie’s was out of bounds. He stood in the Archway, lonely and miserable. Why hadn’t he lied ? The team was due back at Hainesburg, the railroad station for The Towers, at eight-thirty. One or two Sixth Formers, flushed and almost incoherent with excitement, had asked the Senior Master for permission to organize a torchlight parade. “Sure enough! Good idea!” exclaimed the Senior Master. “Go to it! Don’t burn yourselves up, don’t get lost, don’t get in the way of a train and don’t all have apoplectic fits as my friend Andrew here is promising to do shortly if some one doesn’t put an ice compress on his enthusiasm. But go on. Give ’em a good time.” “Thank you ever so much, sir!” cried Andrew, “and I’ll promise to cool off.” “Go ’way!” cried the Senior Master cheerfully. “You don’t know how. You’re a perpetual human Roman candle.” “I’ll hold him down, sir,” said the other boy. “Pshaw!” cried the Senior Master. “You’re a Whiz-bang yourself—go ’long! Shoo!” The boys went. At eight, Dick Harrington made his way to the Study to ask the Senior Master whether boys “on probe” could join the triumphal procession. The Senior Master was kindly, but firm. “Sorry, old man,” he said. “Probe rules hold.” That was all. But Dick Harrington without a word went to his room on the third floor of the East Wing, stumbling on the stairs, because of the tears. Why, he asked himself bitterly again and again—why hadn’t he lied? He crept out of his room an hour later, hearing the cheers of the returning revelers. His hallway was utterly deserted, the school was deserted. If he needed any further evidence that virtue did not pay, here it was. “Be good and you’ll be lonesome.” There was one aphorism proved, at least. Suddenly, standing in the Quadrangle, he heard singing. Then through the bare branches he saw the glow of many torches. It was all magical and mysterious, for the wild cheering which had brought him down from his room had given way to a solemn exaltation of triumph. If he had had a hat on his head, he would have pulled it off, hearing the school song sung that way. He felt a tug at his heart and again the dimness covered his eyes because he should be fated to have no active part in that thrilling chorus of victory. He stood quite still, swallowing hard. At the end of the first stanza, there was a “regular yell” for The Towers, as the procession turned sharply, with torches flaring, up the steep drive. He could see now that they were dragging a hay-wagon with ropes. The team was on the hay-wagon. Te second stanza of the school song floated up to him, it seemed a chant drifting over from fairyland. The procession came nearer now. The hill and the hay-wagon together proved too much for the singers and the song died off in breathless laughter and another cheer. Then somebody started to call off the score: “One —two—three—four—” to a climactic burst— “Fifteen!” The procession disappeared behind the Main Building only to reappear a minute or two later around the corner of the Office, on the other side of the Archway. Dick Harrington wished that he had enough manly pride to scorn it all and go back to his room. But he didn’t, so he rushed to where the crowd was gathered and listened in rapture to the cheers and the speeches and the songs and all the wonderful stories of a wonderful game. “Colonel” Burton was there, smiling embarrassed appreciation. He had won the game for The Towers, when it seemed hopelessly lost. Every one agreed to that. He made a speech, thanking everybody for everything. Why, oh, why, Dick cried to himself, as he climbed three flights after “creams” a half-hour later—Why hadn’t he had the sense to lie ? Dick Harrington crept into bed, and his roommate crept into bed. The roommate slept and Dick Harrington tried to sleep, but sleep eluded him—it seemed for hours. Perhaps it was only for fifteen or twenty minutes. Then he too slept, dreaming of torch-lit chariots. He woke and gave a low cry. Some one was sitting on his bed. He started to jump up, scared through; but a strong hand touched his shoulder and a friendly voice whispered—“It’s all right, Harrie; don’t be scared.” Dick was still half asleep and dazed. “Who are you?” he cried in an unnatural voice. “It’s Bill Burton.” “Who?” he asked, amazed. “Bill Burton.” “You’re somebody trying to fool me,” Dick whispered after a pause. “No, I’m not, Harrie,” said the other’s deep, rich voice.. “I wanted to talk to you. I couldn’t wait until to-morrow, so I got permission from Prof. and here I am.” “What makes you want to see me?” asked Dick softly. “I guess I don’t understand at all. I didn’t think you knew me.” “You remember yesterday in the Algebra class?” “You bet I remember,” whispered Dick emphatically. There was a moment’s utter quiet. From away over in the direction of Chicken Hill came the sound of a rumpus in the Black Belt of Hainesburg. Then again quiet. Burton spoke at last, slowly and rather more softly than before. “Beaver asked you and me the same question, you remember?” “Yes,” murmured Dick, breathlessly. “You told him the truth.” “I just blurted out a lot of—” “Well, I lied.” Somehow the shock of those words was to Dick Harrington like the impact of a terrible fist. He literally saw stars. The idea that “The Colonel” should tell a lie was inconceivable. Sneaks and cowards lied. His reeling standards straightened suddenly. His bitter regret that he hadn’t had the sense to lie evaporated in the glow of an overwhelming gratitude. He could not speak. “Harrie,” Burton went on with a quiet depth of feeling which was not lost on Dick (for Dick had deep capabilities of sympathy himself if any one bothered to find it out). “You told the truth and I know what it cost you. I lied. And it took all the stuffin’s out of me, Harrie. As soon as the lie was out, I felt I’d have given my head to have it back. You see, Harrie, quite apart from the right or wrong of it, it wouldn’t have mattered if I had told the truth.” “It wouldn’t?” “No, I’ve had a fairly good record in class lately. But—” “Why did you do it?” “That’s just it, old man. It was habit, I guess. It was just the line of least resistance. It was the quickest way out of a box— I didn’t think, and bang!—first thing I knew I’d gone and done it! I’m a good deal older than you, Harrie, I’m twenty-one. I was a pretty bad kid until Prof. and Mrs. Brewster got hold of me. I’ve managed to get most of the worst devils under. And I thought I had the lie-devil under. I haven’t told a lie for two years. But I didn’t have him under, Harrie. When I least expected him, there he was. I guess I haven’t been as unhappy for a good many years as I was yesterday and to-day.” Dick Harrington floundered helplessly for words—“I never thought—” “I was getting pretty cocky about my own goodness, I guess,” Burton went on quietly. “That’s why I got it in the neck this way. But it took the sand right out of We. It seemed that all the years of tussle 'Were in vain and I wasn’t worth a little yaller dog’s respect, and here the school was looking to me to do big things. It took it right out of me, Harrie. Do you know what was the trouble with the first two periods of the Same to-day?” “The team lost their heads, and then you bucked ’em up and won the game. The fellows told me.” “That sounds good, old man. But the trouble was that I couldn’t get my mind down °n the game. I was all the time thinking of that algebra class and that lie. I thought of it out on the field and mixed up the plays. That was the reason for those two first periods.” Dick Harrington sat bolt upright. “Really? Really?” he exclaimed. “Instead of trying to win the game, I was all the time trying to puzzle out what I could do to wipe out that Lie. It wasn’t square to the team, it wasn’t square to the school, but there it was. There was that Lie. I tried to laugh at myself, but that didn’t do any good. There was that Lie. I tried to curse myself out, but that didn’t do any good. There was that Lie, sitting in my heart.” Dick stared at him through the darkness with burning eyes. “Then what happened ?” he cried in a low voice. “I dunno exactly, Harrie,” Burton answered, speaking very slowly. “Suddenly I just found that I was thinking of you.” “Of me?” There was awe in the exclamation. “And then it was all clear. I had to square myself with you. Suddenly I knew that that was what would wipe out that Lie and give a fresh start. It was like a sort of revelation. You see, Harrie, I knew that you thought I was pretty fine, and you just had to be set straight.” “I—I haven’t changed my mind at all about you,” said Dick Harrington timidly. “And you won the game after all.” Bill Burton leaned over the younger boy. His hand groped for Dick’s shoulder and clutched it. “I didn’t win the game,” he whispered tensely. “The game wasn’t really played at Chancellor’s Hill at all. It was played in the algebra class. It was lost when I lied, and it was won a minute later when you told the truth. And I guess I’m pretty glad you told the truth.” • “So am I,” murmured Dick very softly. They both breathed deeply. It had heen a notable victory. Next morning, between breakfast and Sunday service, Dick Harrington surreptitiously borrowed his roommate’s safety razor, and shaved with shining eyes. / The Kite Tournament. “Say Harry, have you heard the news?” called Red Philpot, running down the street after Harry Miller. Red’s freckled face was flushed and his breath was coming fast. “What news?” grunted Harry. “Is it something about the tournament?” “Very much about it. Billy Andrews’ fine silk kite disappeared off his back porch last night.” “Disappeared!” exploded Harry. “Why, how could that be? I was round there about eight, helping him patch a little split in the silk.” “Well, it’s gone now—and a prettier, lighter kite than his was I never saw. She was dead sure to fly away with the first prize.” “But I can’t see how he lost it,” put in Harry. “Surely no one took it!” “I’m not so sure about that,” replied Red suspiciously. “The kite wasn’t out on the back porch a half hour before it was gone. Somebody knew he put it there and hid it just for mischief, maybe, but just the same it was a mean trick to pull off the night before the tournament.” “Maybe it flew away,” suddenly suggested Harry. “If there was any breeze blowing last night it’s more than I remember,” grunted Red. “It’s my opinion that one of the ten boys who are going to fly kites in the tournament this afternoon can tell something of the whereabouts of Billy’s silk one. They’ve all been grumpy anyhow because he had some old Chinese silk handkerchiefs to make his out of.” “Well, I don’t believe any of them did it,” said Harry firmly. “I’ve played baseball with them and fellows that’ll play square at baseball will play square at everything else. I just know they didn’t do it.” “You’ll see!” grunted Red sceptically, “I’m going up to the playground and tell Mr. Wilton what’s happened, and maybe he can find out what happened to that kite.” Harry had started to the playground himself. He always did up his home tasks in a hurry on Saturday morning so that he could have most of the day free for play on the spacious and well-equipped playground. But now he suddenly decided he would go to Billy’s instead of the park. Billy was in trouble and he needed the backing of all his friends. For weeks the boys at the playground had been preparing for the kite tournament. From the preliminary contestants had been selected the ten best kite fliers who were to be in the final tournament. Naturally every boy who frequented the playground had allied himself with some one of those ten boys. Even though Harry lost out in the first contests, he was delighted that his best friend, Billy Andrews, was to be in the finals, and he made himself Billy’s staunch champion. “I just heard about your losing your kite!” said Harry a few minutes later as he hurried into the sitting room at the Andrews’ home where Billy was tying together some ribs of whalebone. “Did you ever hear the beat of that!” exclaimed Billy. “Clear gone—and not a trace left behind it. But whoever is pulling off this trickk needn’t think he’ll get the best of me. I’m starting on another one right now, but I’m afraid this scrap of silk is not quite big enough.” “Say,” offered Harry eagerly. “Mother has an old China silk waist she said I could have. I’ll run home and get it for you.” “Will you!” exclaimed Billy gratefully-“And say, as long as you’re going out, will you stop by the ten-cents store and get me three balls of kite cord—that old cord might snap.” “It’s funny about the other kite disappearing,” mused Harry. “Did you find any tracks or anything to make you believe it’s some of the fellows playing you a trick?” “Not a sign that I could find—but you come on up and take a look for yourself.” (To be continued.) “Juvenile” Puzzlers, Letter-Box, Etc. Puzzle No. 8. Can you name them? When a DOG is little it is a PUP; a CAT is a KITTEN. Now what is a BUTTERFLY, a FROG, a HORSE, a SHEEP, a SUNFISH, a COW, a GOAT, a BEAR, a DUCK, and a HOG? * Answer to Puzzle No. 7. An ice-cream cone. * Honorable Mention. Jennie Vodopivec, Kitzmiller, Md. Frank Petkovšek, Waukegan, 111. Louis Drobnich, Lloydell, Pa. Caroline Melich, Export, Pa. Frank Hodnick, Irwin, Pa. Theresa Smith, Chicago, 111. Elizabeth Dolinar, Library, Pa. Agnes Shiftier, Broughton, Pa. Frank Virant, Imperial, Pa. Fannie Langerholz, West Newton, Pa. * Mary Kozole, Philadelphia, Pa., sent in the correct solution of Puzzle No. 6, but her letter came too late for last issue. Letters from Our Young Readers. ^ear Editor: This is the first time I have ever bitten to the “Mladinski List”. I am 13 ^ears of age and am in second year high school. There are eight of us in our family and 'ye are all members of the wonderful lodge s- N. p. j. We receive the “Ml. L.” every month and when it comes we always fight to see Wio gets to read it first. I like to read the stories and try to solve the puzzle, but I must admit that they are hard nuts for me to jlack. I thought the story of “The Child ftiprover” was very good. , I will send some puzzles for the readers to solve. 1. What always walks on its head? , 2. A riddle, a riddle, as I suppose, a ufidred of eyes and never a nose, drying to become a friend, I remain, Jennie Vodopivec, Kitzmiller, Md. Dear Friends:—I am writing a letter to let you know that this is my first writing to the Ml. L.—We are all members of S. N. P. J. I am going to be in the 6th grade, and am 13 years old. My sister Jennie is going to be in 5th grade; she is 10 years old. Brother Joe is 14 years old and in 7th grade. We all like to go to school, but we all like to see vacation come and school start again. I wish that Ml. L. would come every week instead of every month. Do you like our Mladinski List? I like it. This is all for this time. I will write more next time. And I have a riddle for you: There is something that goes around the house and touches every corner. 0, what can that be! Yours truly, Mary Verhovsek, Coverdale, Pa. Dear Editor: This is my first letter to you. I am nine years old. I was in the fourth grade and passed to the fifth grade. This time I am writing in American because I do not know how to write in Slovenian. I am going to try and learn how to write in Slovenian, so that I will write my next letter in Slovenian. Soon the berries will be ripe and we children will have a great deal of work picking them. We will bring them home to our mothers and they will make jelly out of them. I like to eat bread and jelly. Sadie Kočevar, Bishop, Pa. Dear Editor: This is the first time I am writing a letter to “Mladinski List.” I wish the List would come every week. I love to read the letters and stories. I go to post office most of the time and when the “Mladinski List” comes I look it over on my way home. I am twelve years of age and in the seventh grade. We had a man teacher this year. There were thirty-seven pupils in the school-room this year. Our school was finished May the sixth. We all passed in our room except two. Yours truly, Julia Kern, Export, Pa. Practical Slovenian Grammar (Continued.) CONVERSATIONS.—POGOVORI. Pred šolo. Janko, ali še ni čas iti v šolo? Ne, Jakec, saj je šele poldevetih. Znaš svojo nalogo? Seveda, danes jo znam prav dobro. Kako vesel sem! Če že ne bom danes prvi v svojem razredu, vsaj daleč proč ne bom. Si prevedel svojo latinsko vajo? Kajpak sem jo, in zelo sem se trudil, da bi jo dobro naredil. Upam, da nimam dosti pomot. Pokaži mi jo. Prav dobro je narejena; vidim samo dve napaki. Kateri ? Tukaj sta, popravi ju. Sedaj je čas, da gremo, ali bomo pa zadnji. Koliko je sedaj ura? Tričetrt na devet je. Poslovimo se od našega očeta in matere. Zbogom, deca, bodite pridni in obnašajte se, da bo vaš učitelj zadovoljen. Storili bomo po svoji najboljši moči. Ne ustavljajte se med potjo; saj veste, da vaši učitelji nimajo radi, če pridete prepozno. Before Going to School. Johnnie, is it not yet time to go to school ? No, Jackie, it is only half past eight. Do you know your lesson? To be sure; to-day I know my lesson perfectly. How glad I am! If I don’t get the first place in my class today, at least I shall not be far away from it. Have you done your Latin translation ? Certainly I have; and I have taken great pains to do it well. ' I hope, I have not made many mistakes. Show it to me. It is very well done; I see only two mistakes in it. Which are they? Here they are; correct them. Now it is time to go, or we shall be the last. What time is it now? It is a quarter to nine. Let us say good-bye to our father and mother. Good-bye, children; be good and behave so as to please your master. We will do our best. Do not stop on the way; you know, that your teachers do not like you to come in too late. (To be continued).