'The stork in the heavens knoweth her appointed times,' says the Bible, and the turtle-dove, the crane, and the swallow to this day 'observe the time of their coming.' What a wonderful law is theirs! They need not learn it, for it is born in them. Migratory birds know not only the need for their journeys, but the fixed times for them. It has been thought that the rules of their airy road have been handed down from generation to generation, but this is not always true. Nothing is positively known, except that the travellers are in search of food or quiet nesting-places, when they move from land to land.

As the time draws near for birds of passage to travel, they seem to know it by an inward restlessness; they long to be away—they know that delay is dangerous, and, so strong is the longing to be gone, that migratory birds kept back by accident or wilful cruelty, often die of the desire to go. The young cuckoo never survives an attempt to detain him. A poor, wild goose, with a lame wing, was seen bravely setting out on foot to do his journey of hundreds of miles over sea and land, when he saw his brethren depart for another clime.

One of nature's grandest sights is the yearly flight southwards of wild swans from Norway to the great lakes in Turkey. The birds fly at the rate of about one hundred miles an hour, in vast flocks, shaped like the letter V, the sharp end foremost, as an arrow passes through the air. At the point flies the leader or captain, the strongest and wisest of the band, and ahead of the main army he sends a skirmishing swan to keep a sharp look-out. This swan's business it is to see if the coast is clear. From time to time he comes rushing back with some warning note. Then there is a great cackling, a pause, and a council. After holding this noisy parliament, the army resumes its course, or changes it, according to the news brought. When the swans reach the lake, they do not swoop down till the captain has made a careful search around, poking among the reeds, flapping over the surface, and even taking a sip of the water, to make sure that nothing has happened to make the lake dangerous for swans since the last time he was there. All being well, he signals to the band, who descend with a rush, and soon cover the water with their graceful forms.

Do pigeons carry watches? How do London pigeons, for instance, tell the hour, and turn up punctually at the feeding-places? At Guildhall Yard the birds come early in the morning to eat the breakfast provided for them, but they do not stay all day. At Finsbury Circus, Draper's Hall Gardens, and other places in London, there are flocks which are carefully fed at regular hours, and those who have the care of them agree that at feeding-time the flocks are always joined by large numbers of guests from without. Perhaps the pigeons ask each other out to dine, mentioning the hours for the meals!

The rough idea of time which all living things possess is keenest in domestic animals. The dogs, cats, horses, donkeys, and others, who know certain days in the week and hours in the day without clock or almanac, may be guided by noticing little events which we do not, but which show them the time; or they may even feel the position of the sun, though it cannot be seen. However this may be, they show a sense which we must admire and may envy. Horses are great observers of time, as many anecdotes show, perhaps none better than this one: A horse belonging to a news-man knew the houses at which his master's journals were delivered, and, when he took them round in the trap, always stopped at the right doors. But this was not all. There were two people—living one at Thorpe, the other at Chertsey—who paid for a weekly paper between them, taking it in turns to read it first. The horse found this out, and would stop one week at Thorpe and the next at Chertsey, alternately.

The mule is not behindhand. A Spanish milk-seller was taken ill, and, being unable to go the rounds or to spare his wife, they agreed to send the mule, who always carried it, alone. A paper was written, asking the customers to measure their own milk, and place the money in a little can for the purpose; this was fastened to the animal's neck, and off he went. At every house where his master was in the habit of selling milk he stopped and waited; but he did not wait an unreasonable time. If nobody came, he tried to push the door open, or pulled the string of the bell, which, in Madrid, is usually rung by a cord hanging down. The simple peasants laughed, and fell into the joke; they scorned to cheat the dumb milkman, and the clever mule took his money home in triumph.

It is not the higher animals alone who are time-keepers. Menault tells of a friendly toad, living in a garden, who would appear at the family dinner-time, and sit upon the stone ledge outside the window to get a share. The hour was changed, for some reason, from noon to three in the afternoon, and, for the first time, the uninvited guest was absent—once, but once only. On the second day after the change he was squatting at the new hour ready for his saucer of milk.

Edith Carrington.