"DEAR me!" cried little Polly Miller, as she looked out of the window one sunshiny May morning. "Dear me; sakes alive! Here comes a percession!"

Polly flew out to the porch, her eyes shining, and her cheeks pink with excitement; for processions did not often go past the little brown cottage where she lived. Down the lane there was a tooting of tin horns, a merry murmur of children's voices, a flutter of gay little flags, bright ribbons, white muslin dresses,-and in a minute more the Mayparty came marching along. There was a queen, with a wreath of flowers on her head, and a long white veil floating behind her; there were four maids of honor, carrying long wands that were decorated with pink and blue streamers; there were ten girls marching two by two behind the maids of honor; and two big girls to take care of the party; besides any number of boys, who all carried baskets, and had little flags stuck in their hats, and "blew up their horns," as if every one of them was a Little Boy Blue in his own right.

Polly watched them in breathless delight. "Oh!" she gasped, "it's the loveliest percession I never did see! An' it's going—why, just as sure as I'm alive, it's going up in my woods! So it aint a percession, after all; it's a picnic!"

Polly always said "my woods," although they only belonged to her as they belonged to the birds, and the tree-toads, and the black ants, and the brighteyed, bushy-tailed squirrels that she loved to watch. She spent a great deal of her time there-almost as much as the birdies and the bunnies themselves; for she had nothing else to do with it,-nothing to signify, at least; and the woods were so close by her home that her mother could call her from the front door, if she wanted her. It's true Polly did n't always hear her when she called, for she strayed off sometimes to hunt for wild strawberries, or to get the flag-root that grew in the marshy bed of the brook. But her mother knew the woods

were safe, and she never worried. There were no snakes, and it was too far away from the high-road for tramps.

Indeed, it was a rare thing for Polly to meet anybody at all in her woods. Once upon a time there had been a picnic in them-a Sunday-school picnic, which came up from New York; and Polly's grown-up sister, who was n't grown-up and married then, had gone to it. She had told Polly all about it a great many times,-about the swings that were

put up in the trees; about the long table (made of pine boards resting on stumps) that was covered with good things; about the little girls in white frocks and blue sashes; about the banners and the badges; and the ladies and gentlemen who played games with the children; and the songs they sang; and the ice-cream they ate; and everything! It was a story that Polly was never tired of, and the dream of her life had been to go to a picnic just like that one. No wonder her eyes sparkled when she saw the May-party! For she never thought of there being any trouble about her going to it. Susan Ann went to the picnic-that was the grown-up sister: why should n't Polly go as well as Susan Ann? The only thing was, they were all dressed up in white frocks. "But never mind!" said Polly. "I have a white frock, too."

And she ran upstairs, pulled it out of the bottom drawer of her mother's bureau, and had it on in a jiffy-as funny a little white frock as you have seen in many a day. Polly's mother made it after the same pattern that she had made Susan Ann's frocks by when she was little; and it was long in the skirt, and short in the waist, and low in the neck; it had n't any ruffles, or embroideries, or gores, or pull-backs, such as little girls wear nowadays, but the short sleeves were looped up with pink shoulderknots, made out of Susan Ann's old bonnet-strings, and Polly's fat little neck and round arms were left all bare. They looked cunning, though; so plump, and white, and babyish that you wanted to kiss them. The bright little face was sweet enough for kisses, too; and the naked little feet-for Polly could n't bear shoes and stockings in warm weather -were bewitching. When she put her Sunday hat on-a big, flapping Leghorn with a wreath of "artificials" round it-she looked as if she had stepped out of a picture-book; and she had n't the least idea that there was anything funny or oldfashioned about her.

There was nobody around when she went downstairs, for it was churning-day, and her mother was busy. Besides, she never paid much attention to Polly's movements, so there was no one to hinder the little one from following the May-party. They had only had time to look about them a little, set the provision-baskets in a safe place, and begin to consider how they were going to amuse themselves all day, when Polly overtook them.

"Is you havin' a picnic?" she said, walking up,

that company was coming, and she had to bake cake and put on the tea-kettle; that her children were all down with the measles, and she could n't get a chance to clean house.

There was no end to the things Polly "played" in her hollow tree; but one of the best games of all was when she played that bears and Indians were around. Then she filled up the door of her house with bushy green boughs that she broke off the young trees, and hid herself behind them. She used to pretend that she was terribly frightened, and sometimes she pretended so well that she really did get frightened, and ran home as fast as if the bears and Indians had truly been behind her. It was only yesterday that that very thing had happened, and the green boughs were still in front of Polly's house, just as she had left them when she ran away. She remembered it now, and it did not take her long to make her way back to the tree. She was nimble as a hop-toad, and knew just where to go; so she was safe in her snug hiding-place before any one got so much as a glimpse of her.

Once there, she could see a good deal of what was going on, and hear more. The green boughs sheltered her, but there were plenty of little openings through which bright eyes could peep. She saw the children running to and fro to gather mosses and ferns, and heard their shouts, their bursts of merry laughter, their chattering tongues, now close by, and now far off. After a while, she heard somebody say:

cloth was filled up with loaf-cakes, and dishes of jelly, and cold chicken, and biscuits, and custardpie. It was a beautiful table when it was all done, but oh, how hungry it made Polly feel!

"Seems as if I had n't had breakfast to-day,” she said to herself. "Seems as if I did n't never have anything to eat! Oh dear me; sakes alive!"

"Is it all ready? Shall we blow the horn?" she heard Lulu say, presently.

And Bertha answered:

"Yes-all but the Russian tea. Fetch the round basket, Lulu-the brown one, you know. The tea is in that, in a covered pail."

Lulu ran away, somewhere out of sight, and ran back again with a big tin can in her hands—upside down.

"See there, now! Did n't I tell you it would be safer to bring lemons and sugar, and make the lemonade here?"

"Why, what's the matter? Is it spilled?" cried Bertha, in dismay.

"Every drop of it. The basket was tipped over on its side, and your Russian tea has been watering the moss all the morning. So much for not taking my advice, Miss Bertha."

Then somebody else said, "Well, call the children."

And Polly heard a very loud trumpet-blowing, and all the boys and girls began to flock together in a green open space which was just below her "house." She had no idea what a coronation meant; but she thought it the most beautiful thing in the world when she heard them all singing, and speaking pieces, and saw them dance in a ring around the little girl who was chosen Queen of the May. There was nothing like that at Susan Ann's picnic, Polly was sure; and she was so happy, looking at the coronation, that she quite forgot she was only "peeking" at the picnic, and not really in it herself.

By and by, before she had begun to be tired, something else happened. The two tall girls, Lulu and Bertha, began to "set the table." They spread a long white cloth on the ground, and in the middle of it they made a little mound of moss, which they stuck full of ferns and wild-flowers. Around this they made a circle of oranges, and then a ring of little iced cakes, pink, and white, and chocolate-colored. At the four corners they had heaping plates of sandwiches; and the rest of the

Lulu laughed, too.

"But that wont quench your thirst," she said. "I begin to wish we had let little Polly What 'sher-name stay. We might have sent her for some water, or milk, or something."

"Some of the boys will have to go,” said Bertha, shortly.

"Only they wont know where to go. Little Polly had the advantage of being a native."

"What's a native?" said Polly to herself, as she slipped through the green boughs, and crept around behind the hollow tree. "What's a native, I wonder? Is it anything to drink?

She did n't stop to ask anybody; and she does n't know to this day what it meant. She knew something better, though-how to return good for evil

and the bare little feet went flying through the woods as if they had wings. It was churning-day at home, and there would be fresh buttermilk; there was always plenty of sweet milk, too; and Polly was n't afraid of what her mother would say.

Before the picnic had fairly sat down to its lunchcon,-for they wasted a great deal of breath in lamenting the Russian tea, and in arguing the

Far down the beach, something reflects rainbow hues, and, only stopping to glance at a stranded "ship of pearl," the fabled Argonaut, we go toward it. It proves to be the Portuguese man-of-war -a sac or bubble of thin, transparent skin as large as one's fist, filled with air. When alive, this bubble has long tentacles or hanging arms, which, with the body, are gorgeously coloredpink, blue, and violet; even in death, the sun playing over it causes a charming iridescence. Well are they named "sca-nettles," for those tentacles are extremely poisonous, causing the hand that touches them to swell and smart for several hours afterward.

of the waves, drop with a splash upon unwary fishes, gulping them up with their pouched bills. Beautiful shells of every hue-blue, purple, scarlet, crimson, orange, yellow, and pearly white-lie in windrows tossed up by the steady surf, or where the latest gale has heaped them high upon the sand. A curious, earth-colored crab runs rapidly to his hole in the dry sand from the water just in front of us, where he has been fishing, brandishing his claws most threateningly as he waltzes along in his funny, sidelong style.

Do you see these depressions in the sand, looking as though some one had thrown out a trowel-full of sand every foot or two, and this broad line marked between the regular rows? That is the trail of the huge sea-turtle, as she comes out of the ocean in the spring to lay her eggs. And narrow escapes from death she has, between her two enemies, bears and men, while she is at this duty. Run a small stick into the sand, where you notice this excavation, and see if you strike anything. If successful, you get a large half-bushel of round, white eggs, covered with a leathery skin, instead of a brittle shell. They make a good omelet, and are much sought after. Those other depressions, such as one might make with his closed hand, but larger, are the tracks of a bear. Bruin walks the beach during the turtling months, and robs every nest on his route. The dweller on the Florida coast may lose his share of turtles' eggs, but he lies in wait for the shaggy thief on moonlight nights, and enjoys exciting sport in shooting him.

A hundred other charming objects claim notice. I want to turn your eyes particularly to two of the least noticeable, and which are excellently represented in the engraving. The figure on the left-hand is that of a beautiful mollusk called the "violet snail,"-Ian-Thina communis, in Latin. It is a small shell, and would hardly attract a glance were it not for its rich violet hue and its attachment of what appears to be a group or string of bubbles of sea-foam. Closer examination shows us that these supposed "bubbles" are a collection of filmy little air-cells, proceeding from the mouth of the snail within the shell. They serve several important purposes.

The violet snail lives all over the Atlantic Ocean, and in the Mediterranean, floating about in the open sea. It does not sustain itself by constantly moving hither and thither, but is upheld by means of this buoyant structure of air-cells to which it is attached. Excepting in the most violent storms, the snail thus floats about unconcerned; and when the water is too rough for his comfort, he can suck the air out of the cells and sink to quiet depths. It is a very great convenience to him.

Besides performing the duty of a raft, this bundle of air-cells becomes a sort of family nursery, for to its under surface are glued the egg-cases out of which the young are hatched. These cases contain eggs and young mollusks in all stages of advancement-those farthest from the parent-shell being nearly ready to own a raft of their own, and embark upon it, while those nearest are totally undeveloped.

This little mollusk is said to have no eyes; and