the top of the column against the opposite houses in Waterloo-place. The effect produced was certainly most striking. Previously to the appearance of the electric light the surrounding neighbourhood, to a spectator stationed near the York column, was enveloped in obscurity, for the moon was hid by the clouds, and the ordinary gas-lights, though burning brightly, had not power enough to exhibit the shape and character of the adjacent houses, but marked merely the length and direction of the streets along which they were placed. But the electric light, wherever it chanced to fall, made every part of the buildings in Waterloo-place perfectly visible, and its effect might, perhaps without exaggeration, be said to be more powerful in that limited space than the brightest sun, for it not only displayed a number of persons previously invisible, who were grouped in balconies and on the roofs of houses, but even enabled one to judge of their different styles of dress. The potency and purity of the electric light may be inferred from the circumstance that, when cast upon one of the neighbouring club-houses it distinctly showed to the spectators at some considerable distance, the red colour of a shawl worn by a lady in the balcony. The most distant object on which the electric light was thrown was the County Fire-office, and the luminous stream, as it passed along the street towards that building, manifestly dimmed the numerous gaslights which glitter in the neighbourhood, giving to them all a yellowish tinge, and making the windows of the County Fire-office itself appear, by the reflected light they sent back, as if illuminated. Upon the whole the experiment was perfectly successful as exhibiting the powerful brilliancy and purity of the electric light within the circumscribed space to which the experiment was limited, although it must be added, that occasionally a slight unsteadiness in its force was perceptible." THIS singular creature is chiefly found in South America, of the size of a squirrel, and their wings, when extended, measure four or five feet: the head is funnel-shaped, and it has no tail: they live on flesh, fish, and are peculiarly fond of blood. "This species," says D'Azzara, "differs from the other bats in being able to run, when on the ground, nearly as fast as a rat. Sometimes they will bite the crests and beards of fowls while asleep, and suck the blood: the fowls generally die of this, as a gangrene is engendered in the wound. They bite also horses, mules, asses, and horned cattle, usually on the buttocks, shoulders, or neck; nor is man himself secure from their attacks, On this point, indeed, I am enabled to give a faithful testimony, since I have had the ends of my toes bitten by them four times, while sleeping in the cottages in the open country. The wounds, which they inflicted without my feeling them at the time, were small and round, and their slight depth so as scarcely to penetrate the flesh. No one in our neighbourhood fears these animals, nor gives himself any trouble about them." Captain Steadman, however, treats the subject more seriously. While sleeping in the open air in Surinam, he also was bitten without feeling it, but awoke besmeared and surrounded with clotted blood; and he adds, that these animals, knowing by instinct that the person they intend to attack is in a sound slumber, generally alight near the feet, where the creature continues fanning with his enormous wings, which keep the person cool, inflict the wound, suck, disgorge, and return so often, that the sufferer has frequently been known to sleep from time into eternity. THE LITTLE SHETLANDERS. It was in the month of March, in the year lately past, that a group of little children of one family were abroad enjoying the cheerful sights and sounds of spring. The scenery was bleak and bare: there were no trees, for it was in one of the lonely Shetland isles; but there were green fields, and the glorious sunshine, and the ever-varying magnificent ocean. The cottagers were all engaged with their field-labours: the ploughman was guiding the light plough, drawn by two staid, sagacious oxen; flocks of the sea-mew (or herringgull) attended the labourers, either to pick up the worms that the newly-turned earth brought to light, or the seeds which the harrow had left on the surface; a young calf and a pet-lamb were gambolling with the children, occasionally bleating at one little girl of the number, who was accustomed to give them their mid-day draught of new milk; yet when Mary told them softly and soothingly that "the cows were not milked yet," they only licked their lips and butted against her more roughly than ever. Two of the children were fond of all sorts of animals, and we like not to see a child who is not. Their THE LITTLE SHETLANDERS. father and elder brothers had taught them how to mark the flight and recognise the note of all the birds they saw, and thus they knew more about birds than most young persons of their years. Having run about till they were tired, they threw themselves beside baby on the soft grass, and began to pick for her the early daisies. "Oh look, Mary!" cried David, who was six year's old, "there is the eagle again! Oh my chickens!" "No, no, David," answered his sister (she was eleven), "it is not the eagle, but it is a very large bird indeed; there are more than one: a flock of swans, I do believe! Is it not, mother ?" Mother. Yes, my They come nearer. ing cry! David. Where are they going? How fast and high they fly! dear, and a beautiful sight it is. Hark to their cheerful inspirit Mother. They are winging their way over the trackless ocean to the lakes of the icy north, for the purpose of bringing forth their young in those unmolested solitudes. Charles. How can they find their way ? Mary. "The God of nature is their secret guide," as I learned a few days ago. Mother. Very true, my love. It is all the answer a child, a christian, a poet, or a philosopher can give; and it is sufficient. Yes, it is delightful to think that those magnificent birds, already disappearing from our gaze, are under the guidance and protection of their Almighty Maker during their long and apparently pathless journey, and will ere long be engaged in the interesting and no doubt grateful occupation of rearing their progeny, with whom in autumn they will retrace their way to the genial climate from whence they have now come. The swans were now no longer to be seen; but the sound of the lark suddenly broke on the children's ears. It was the first of the season, and Mary joyfully exclaimed, "The lark! the lark!-she will seldom allow us to see her; but how sweet her song!” "You like the lark because father likes it best," slyly observed David. Mary. And why not, Davie? It is so sweet and innocent a creature, and sings so cheerfully. David. Well now, of all birds, I like one we seldom see here-the Robin Redbreast. Mary. And why may that be, Davie? David (after a short pause.) Have you forgot about the babes in the wood? Mary. No, I have not: but what then? David. What then! Why, did not the robins cover the poor little children, so that the vile hideous ravens might not pick their flesh ? Mary. And what harm now could that have done them? They could not know or feel it when they were dead. Now was little Davie fairly set fast; but he never liked to be defeated in argument, and he thought awhile ere he would consent to give it up. Yet could he do no better than manfully bold to his point. "Still I think the robins the very best of all birds, and the ravens the worst." Mother here interposed. "Now tell me, David," she said, "why you dislike the ravens ?" "Don't Master David was eloquent enough now. they carry off my chickens? How many goslings did they take last year? Did not they attack father's poor old pony in the field, and pick out his eyes, so that he had to be shot; and only think of the one that fought with the black hen, and tore the piece from her breast, while she defended her chickens." Mother. All these are serious charges, my boy, and I don't wonder you are a little resentful; but let |