Corinthians xv., where we are emphatically told that we do not know with what bodies the dead shall be raised. The experience of ages has taught men the true meaning of that sublime passage. Swift, and sure is the decay of our mortal vestment, whether we commit it to the devour

ing flame or to the corrupting earth. A hundred years hence it will not matter which we chose. The atoms which have composed our body will have dissolved in a thousand directions, will have taken new forms, will have become part, it may be, of other organisms. That which we now call our body is made up of what in bygone ages may have been part of the body of our forefather. Nature is economic of her materials, and uses them many times. But the spiritual body which we look to receive is different from the natural body. In the resurrection they neither marry nor are given in marriage. The distinctions of mortality are lost; we have borne the image of the earthy, but then we shall bear the image of the heavenly. It doth not yet appear what we shall be; but at least we shall not be shut any more in this prison of the senses, hampered and fettered by bodily conditions. Secure in this belief, we contemplate without fear the inevitable dissolution of our decaying flesh; we watch its atoms lost in the ocean of matter, as our breath is lost in the ocean of air; for the physical laws by which this kaleidoscopic whirl of atoms and organisms is governed, are but expressions of the will of Him who has promised an immortality of joy, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive what He hath prepared for them that love Him.

THE ART OF SKIPPING.

CONSIDERING how much more people read, or are supposed to read, nowadays than they ever did before, it is not a little strange how seldom they are aware that there is room for the exercise of art in reading as well as in other occupations. The remark which Socrates made on statesmanship, that it was an exceedingly difficult and complicated business which everybody practised, and nobody thought himself bound to learn, applies with tenfold force in our own day, not merely to its original object, but to an infinity of other matters. And the exercise of reading, in which many of us spend, whether for work or for pleasure, a very appreciable proportion of our lives, certainly falls within the spirit of his censure. We learn in our infancy to read words, but we are left to pick up the way to read books. Advice about the choice of the kind of matter to be read is indeed plentiful enough, and is not unfrequently overdone; but how to read the things chosen intelligently and economically, how to extract the greatest profit with the least expense of time and eyesight this, which surely is a thing worth knowing, is left for the most part to come by nature. So far as we are aware, there is only one current precept on the subject, and that is radically wrong. As the prejudice created by it must be cleared away before any reasonable conclusions of a positive kind can be arrived at, we shall do our best to expose the venerable fallacy at the risk of being held to encourage idleness, desultoriness, and naughtiness generally.

--

Almost every one who was fond of reading as a child must more or less distinctly remember having impressed on him at various times that " It is wrong to skip." This maxim is answerable for a quantity of time and trouble wasted in useless reading by the children who listen to it, after they have come to riper years, which, if the statistics could only be collected and nicely made out, should be enough to raise a clamor for a Royal Commission. The general proposition is indeed softened by explanations and qualifications, by the time when young readers are thought to be of sufficient discretion to follow them. But the qualifications are all wrong too. The rule commonly taught, as modified by exceptions in teaching or practice, comes to this. It is wrong to skip in reading a solid book. The more solid the book, and the more important the matter, the greater is the offence of skipping. It is venial to skip in reading poetry, and quite harmless to skip in reading

novels. This rule appears to us just as wise and sensible as if a parent whose son was about to travel partly on business in cities, partly in the country, and partly among works of art, were to advise him in this fashion: "I would have you above all things remember to keep a most observant eye on everything about you in the places where you do business. If you confine your attention to what concerns yourself, if you cannot tell me what other people were doing, if you fail to note all the things in the counting-houses and the shop-windows, I shall take you for an idle fellow. As to the country, no doubt you had better observe its beauties than not, but it does not much matter. As to pictures and so forth, certainly they are good in their way; but as they are only made to be looked at, why, you may look at them just as carefully or carelessly as you please."

Instead of acting by analogy to such advice as this, which we need not spend time in showing to be counter to the general opinion and habits of mankind, we prefer to treat reading as a branch of human life, and to hold a doctrine directly opposed to the popular fallacy. We maintain that the true belief as to skipping is to this effectgenerally speaking, it is not wrong to skip. Skipping is an important part of the art of reading, and should be practised systematically. It is most to be practised in solid books by which we mean, for the purposes of this discussion, books that are read merely for information. Solid or serious reading consists in attending to the matter of a book independently of the form, except indeed when the form itself is the primary subject of study, as for instance from the point of view of a philologist or historian of literature. The more solid the book, the more expedient it is to skip, and the more useful it is to know how to skip judiciously. But when the form is of sensible importance to the reader as compared with the matter — or, in less abstract language, when a book is read partly or wholly for entertainment and artistic pleasure, independently of information - then the art of skipping is no longer in its proper place, and should be very sparingly used, if at all. It is generally a mistake in poetry, and it is absolutely wrong in a good novel. We do not mean to forbid a cursory glance at a novel or a volume of poems about which nothing is known, honestly intended as a preliminary inquiry to ascertain whether it is worth reading at all. One has a perfect right to look into a book and say that it appears to be worth reading or not worth reading, as the case may be; and the faculty of doing this with a reasonable chance of guessing right is indeed closely connected with the art and mystery of skipping. But we must protest against the habit of tasting a good novel by dips and skips-which really is nothing better than taking extracts at random- and then pretending to have read the novel. This way of treating the masterpieces of fiction, though we fear it is not uncommon and meets with but little reprehension, we take to be no less vicious and demoralizing than the much-decried practice of skipping in books of solid instruction is in truth wholesome and laudable. The same observation applies, though in a less degree, to the reading of poems.

Our position may seem paradoxical, but it can be established by indisputable steps. Let us begin at the beginning with the extreme of serious literature. The books which are wholly made up of solid instruction, or profess so to be, which are completely free, so far as human frailty will allow, from any suspicion of art or amusement, are Charles Lamb's class of biblia abibla, books which are no books. This class includes nearly all dictionaries not quite all, for M. Littré, and perhaps a few others, have a way of writing a series of disjointed but fascinating essays disguised in the dictionary form - most encyclopædic literature, of course with individual exceptions, and a considerable part of books of reference and scientific treatises generally. Now it may be safely said that no one ever supposed that such books were meant to be read continuously, that there was any virtue in reading them from beginning to end, or any vice in looking into them to find particular things as wanted. Indeed, it is generally admitted that the worker in any special subject on which

much literature exists is at a disadvantage if he does not know how to use books of reference properly that is, if he is not an adept in the art of skipping. This is especially true in the profession which of all others is the most rigorous in requiring accurate knowledge and the least favorable to slovenly habits. Half the practical aptitude of a lawyer, at any rate of an English lawyer, depends on his being able to use his books discontinuously, so as to pick out the very thing he is in search of, and not waste time on its irrelevant surroundings.

But if this much is conceded, why should the principle of skipping be confined to books which are manifestly and on the face of them not readable? Why is it right to flit from page to page of a dictionary by the help of the alphabetical order, and wrong to travel from one part of a history or a book of travels to another by the help of the index (if the book happens to be tolerably indexed), table of contents, or otherwise? We can see no answer to this, so long as the object of reading the book is knowledge and not artistic pleasure. The writer can at most only guess what things it will be convenient to tell; an intelligent reader must know best what things he wants to be told. It is the same with argumentative writing, essays, and the like. You see by a glance at the first page of half a dozen that the whole space is filled with setting forth an argument with which you are quite familiar, to which you will never be converted, or to which you need no conversion; by what manner of duty or reason can you be bound to read the other five pages? It may be answered, Because the style gives a new lustre to old matter. But then you are no longer reading with the single view of information, and the instance is no exception to the first branch of our rule, but a confirmation of the second. It shows, not that it is wrong to skip when you read for learning, but that it is right not to skip when you read for pleasure.

In reading what may be called literature of exposition, especially in really good essays, it is often difficult to say how much of the general pleasurable impression is due to the substance of the author's meaning, and how much to the form. This may be regarded as a kind of neutral ground, where skipping may in some circumstances be allowable and expedient, in others a grave mistake. When we come to fiction the case is much plainer. A good work of fiction, whether in prose or in verse, -we are here speaking only of good works, is a work of art, and can be rightly enjoyed only by entering into sympathy with the artist's mind and accepting his work according to his intention. In a perfect poem the place of every word, in a perfect novel the place, if not of every word, of every episode and of every paragraph, is important; and the reader who skips throws away the pleasure he was meant to derive from the harmony of composition, in which very possibly the beauty of the whole may chiefly consist, and despises the best part of the artist's labor. He might as well go to see a good play, and then wilfully miss every alternate scene. In saying this we are no doubt setting up a high standard of light reading. We assert by implication the doctrine, which many will think severe, that a novel not worth reading continuously is not worth reading at all; and this principle would lead to the conclusion that a vast quantity of current and accepted literature has no business to exist. And so we are perhaps committed to a paradox worse than the first. We should not be disinclined to do battle for it if space allowed; but the whole subject of novel-reading is too large to be disposed of in a closing sentence, and one paradox at a time is enough.

THE BLACK DOLL.

DoT was a little girl, five years old, the only child left to her parents, whose other children all lay sleeping a still sounder sleep under four tiny mounds of green turf. The parents were poor, and lived in one poor room 66 over the water," that is, on the Surrey side of the Thames. The

mother did what she could with her needle and her scissors and her iron to increase the means of subsistence earned by her husband, who plied some mysterious vocation on the river-side, and, when he was not engaged in that vocation, performed "odd jobs" in all parts of London. And some of them were very odd jobs. He was one of those men who are so very useful when you have something to get rid of, and are at your wits' end to know what to do; when, for instance, your little dog has died, and you don't know what to do with the body; or when there is a contagious disease abroad, and it seems advisable to have certain things disinfected or destroyed. On all such occasions Potten was your man. He would do anything for next to nothing, or at any rate for a mere trifle; anything, at least, that was not dishonest, for a more honest man than Potten did not exist. Nor had the repulsive nature of the work on which he was frequently employed resulted in any corresponding repulsiveness in the man himself. He had a sallow, gaunt face, it is true, for the lines had not fallen unto him in pleasant places; but he smiled, when he did smile, very brightly, and his manner, especially towards children, was gentle, and even winning. No doubt his heart was under the softening influence of a double memory of Dot and of the tiny graves. But Potten had certainly one unpleasant peculiarity: there were times when he looked the very incarnation of scepticism; disbelief stood confessed in the twinkle of his eye, in the wrinkles round his nose, in the lines about his mouth, in the sound of his snigger. Sternly admonish him, tearfully beg of him, solemnly adjure him to be very careful, and to take the greatest precautions on his own account, and his wife's, and his children's, if he had any; and he would answer impatiently: "All right, sir; to be sure I will, ma'am; don't you go for to be afraid; " but all the while his manner and his laugh were as much as to say: "Tut, tut! It's all a pack of rubbish; no harm shall happen unto me." Thus does familiarity breed contempt. Who is it that lights his pipe over the powder-magazine? Who is it that burns a naked candle in the deadly atmosphere of the mine? And yet Potten was most scrupulously careful in all that concerned his employers; he may have laughed at them in his sleeve, but, whether it were from a conscientious sense of duty, or from fear of consequences in case of detected neglect, he performed their orders, as regarded themselves, to the very letter.

Such was the man who sat contentedly smoking his pipe in the room where Dot lay sleeping, and hugging in her arms a large black doll, with merry black eyes, laughing mouth, and grinning teeth, but without arms- not a doll that most girls would fancy, but Dot loved it and fondled it, as if it had been a paragon of beauty. In Mr. Potten's section of society, no special smoking-room is provided, and infants sleep peacefully amidst the fumes of tobacco. Perhaps that may be a reason why fever, though rampant enough, is not more rampant in certain districts.

Well, Mr. Potten sat smoking, Mrs. Potten sat sewing, and Dot lay sleeping. Mr. and Mrs. Potten had a deal table between them; and on the table stood a common sort of lamp, which gave a very good light by means, if smell can be depended upon, of paraffine oil. Dot lay sleeping; but anybody who supposes that she occupied her own little cot with its snow-white coverlet, and other accessories which make such pretty pictures of slumbering childhood, would be very much mistaken. Mr. Potten's humble establishment did not admit of so much luxury and independence. Mr. and Mrs. Potten and Dot all shared the same bed, which, though by no means large, took up a considerable portion of the apartment. The bed had a coverlet of patchwork, old and faded. And yet it was anything but an ugly spectacle that presented itself to the husband and wife whenever they looked in Dot's direction. The bed-limen was clean, though coarse; and there, with her head between two pillows, lay Dot. Her fair hair, very long for her age, streamed out in all directions; the long lashes of her closed eyes drooped on her cheeks; her smiling mouth, half open, showed a few white teeth; her chubby little arms were folded round the neck and body,

posture upon the table, was propped up against a candlestick, and in a silent language, interpreted by Dot, contributed greatly to the hilarity of the evening.

"Lord love her little heart!" exclaimed Potten, as he wiped tears of amusement from his eyes when Dot had sunk exhausted to sleep; "she's as good as any play; that 'ere doll's a fortun' to us."

But the next evening Potten was not so well entertained. Dot, it appeared, had been seized with a shivering fit, and was now sleeping heavily, breathing stertorously, and tossing uneasily, with a skin as hot and dry as a burning coal. But poor people shrink from the expense of a doctor; and the Pottens resolved to see what a night would bring forth. The night brought forth a sore throat, so sore that it seemed as if Dot would be choked. There was no help for it; a doctor must be called, and Potten, on his way to work, engaged one to "look in." The doctor looked in, and looked serious. He sent medicine, and word that he would look in again in the evening. In the evening he came ; and Potten was there.

Dot was one bright red flush, to the very whites of her eyes.

"What is it, sir, please?" asked Potten, with white and trembling lips.

"Well," said the doctor, "it is best to tell you, in order that you may take precautions. It is a very bad case of scarlet fever."

Potten groaned heavily, dropped down by the bedside, and hid his face in the clothes.

"Come, be a man," said the doctor, touching him on the shoulder; "don't give way like that. I've known worse

cases recover."

Potten got up, and stared about him like one distraught. The doctor gave his directions to Mrs. Potten; and with a kind "good night," departed.

The eighth day was approaching, and Dot was in a high state of delirium. There were no sweet flowers, no violets, no primroses, no daffodils for poor little Dot, to catch her eye and soothe her senses; no grapes and no blood-oranges to moisten her poor parched lips. And whenever her father drew near her pillow, she, when the delirious fit was upon her, would turn away her face and mutter: "Do away, b'ack man; do away, b'ack man!"

The eighth day came and passed; and Dot passed away in the twilight.

Potten had scarcely spoken a word as long as the fever lasted; but now, as he stood looking with a ghastly face, and dry, fierce eyes, at the tiny corpse before him, he said, in slow, distinct, deliberate tones: "Susan, I've killed my child."

Mrs. Potten, for a moment, hushed her sobs, and stared at him in blank amazement.

"Look here," continued Potten, in low, husky tones: "I knowed there 'd bin fever in the house where this come from; the lady that gave it me begged and prayed o' me to burn it, or, leastways, to burn the clo'es and the hair, and bake and scour and reg'lar disinfect the rest on it; but I was afraid o' sp'ilin' it, and -and- as they was always disinfectin' everything in that house, I never give it a second thought, and — and I-give it-her;" and, with a sob that shook his whole body, he threw down upon the patchwork counterpane the black doll.

Mrs. Potten had listened to him with a face that grew paler and graver and more horror-stricken at every word he uttered; but all she said was, in a voice full of awe and agony: "Oh, John !"

It was the only reproach she made him; but it may be that there is more in a tone than in words.

Potten walked slowly to the door, and left the room. He looked like a man in a dream. He did not return that night; and Mrs. Potten was alarmed. He did not return the next day or night; and the neighbors were alarmed. They thought, too truly, that the poor man had gone distracted, was mad with grief and his sense of having bene the cause of the death of his child. In this belief, they naturally expected to find him on the river-side. And there, on the third day, they found him at low-water- - drowned.

THE LAWS OF DUELLING.1

Ir may not be generally known that just fifty years ago a benevolent and enterprising Irish gentleman undertook, unaided and alone, to do for duelling what the Brussels Conference has attempted to do for war. Duels, he had said to himself, could not perhaps be put an end to, but they could be regulated. He seems, however, to have entertained some hope that his code might gradually have the effect of abolishing the custom of duelling altogether; and, had he lived until now, he would doubtless have attributed its comparative disuse, as far at least as England is concerned, to the influence of his well-meant little book. The author conceals his name; but he informs the reader, in a preliminary essay on "the point of honor," that, "born and educated in a country which has been emphatically called the Land of Duel, and acquainted with several of its most chivalrous inhabitants, a case of point-blank pistols was almost his earliest boast." "We have sometimes," he adds, "felt ourselves obliged to ask the reparation of an injury or satisfaction for an offence; but with deep, deep gratitude we here record the fact that the controller of all human actions never saw those pistols levied at a fellowsubject, a hostile message forwarded to our address, or a single shot discharged when the counsel which we offered was adopted." Probably the counsel offered was to the effect that a full apology should be made. In any case, the author of The British Code of Duel" was well qualified to deal with the question he had taken up, and he knew, moreover, precisely what was to be said on both sides. "having held directly opposing sentiments upon the subject."

From his original opinion that duelling was a necessary evil he gradually came to believe that it was a practice not to be tolerated. When, however, he addressed "several courts in Christendom," hoping to obtain from them a formal condemnation of the duel, he found it to be generally held that "a practice sanctioned by time and precedent, which had withstood the raillery of the satirist, the terror of the penal laws, and the admonition of the pulpit, nay, the fear of a future state, could never be abolished."

Sir Walter Scott wrote a letter to the author, in which he says that, while doing the fullest justice to the philanthropy of his motives, he is still afraid "that the practice of duelling is so deeply engrafted on the forms of society that, for a length of time at least, until mankind may entertain much clearer views upon most moral subjects, it will hardly fall into disuse." Worse than that, the Duke of Wellington, after assuring the author that he had perused a manuscript copy of his code "with great interest," failed on being provoked by Lord Winchilsea, to observe Article VIII., which sets forth that "when a gentleman is the depositary of any public trust, it is more honorable to sacrifice his individual feelings than the general interests of society."

A Mr. Brie, too, "though an admirer of the code," engaged in a duel which the code did not sanction, and which his second, by observing the principles laid down in the code, might easily have avoided.

At last, however, encouraged by experienced friends" as well as by Plato's assurance that it is truly honorable to contrive how the worst things can be turned into better," the promoter of the anti-duelling movement took up the ground that the duel could not be absolutely done away with, but that it might be surrounded by conditions and determined by rules which would deprive it of some of its most objectionable features, and, in certain cases, prevent its taking place at all. Thereupon he made it his business to draw up a guide through all the stages of a quarrel, in which the views of "the advocate of single combat and of the Christian moralist who scruples fighting" should be equally respected.

When the first edition of the work was issued, a nobleman and general officer, "who had fired eight shots in a 1 The British Code of Duel. London. 1824.

single duel," subscribed for twelve copies. Captain Fottrell, well known "by his desperate duel with Colonel Ross," approved of the "Christian and philanthropic principles" on which the code was based, and the author was in hopes that his work would find favor not only with the military, but with the clergy, many of whom had recently been "out," and with schoolmasters, who, it was suggested, would find in the "British Code of Duel" a suitable prizebook. In fact, two boys aged sixteen, named Wetherall and Moran, had recently fought in Dublin. Two boys of the same age, who had been expelled from Yale College, had fought with rifles at the distance of twenty paces, in presence of their parents, one of whom witnessed the death of his son; and two pupils of the Polytechnic School, aged seventeen, had fought in the Bois de Boulogne, when one of the seconds got mortally wounded through standing too near his principal.

The "British Code of Duel" bears unmistakable marks of the opposite opinions entertained by the author at different periods of his life. Thus in the preface, usually written not before but after the book which it serves to introduce, he disapproves of duelling altogether; whereas in the opening pages of the body of the book he maintains that duelling is as justifiable as war itself, though, like war, it ought never to be resorted to except in the last extremity. But the author of the "British Code of Duel" held that, though it might be impossible to put an end to mortal combat, there could be no reason why certain objectionable customs associated with duelling, such as posting, horsewhipping, nose-pulling, calling names, and so on, should not be abolished. Already, we are told, "these courses are rarely resorted to by honorable men; because if their origin be traced to the form used in the degradation of knights, the individual would usurp to himself the prerogative of the Crown; and he would, at the same time, become amenable to municipal law, as for assault." In the end, after a preface and two introductions, the author prints his code, and in proclaiming it informs the British public that "should any individual attempt to deviate from rules which have been so very highly sanctioned by the chief commander of the British army and others whose letters we have inserted in the introduction, his adversary will be justified in refusing to recognize him as a gentleman."

Among the most remarkable articles in the code are No. II., which enjoins every gentleman "to abstain from nicknames, mimicry, offensive jokes, and what is usually termed horse-play, as in the imprudent indulgence of such very vulgar follies irreconcilable quarrels but too frequently originate;" No. XXVI,, which sets forth that an apology, with its usual accompaniment -the offer of a whip or switch — should always be accepted for a blow, or for any other offence which may be considered an assault;" and No. XXVII, which qualifies the severity of the article immediately preceding it by allowing the tender of a horsewhip or stick to be dispensed with "at the solicitation of the offending party and upon the written plea of his hazarding his commission, rank, pay, or family expect

ance."

A gentleman who is in liquor is not to be urged or allowed to fight; nor one who has not had sufficient time to make a proper disposition of his property and trusts for the advantage of his family, clients, or creditors. All extrava

FOREIGN NOTES.

Ir is said that the late Sidney Dobell left a large quantity of manuscript in verse and prose.

EX-MARSHAL BAZAINE has taken the apartments formerly occupied by the late Emperor Napoleon III., in King Street, London.

THE Berlin Academy of Sciences offers a prize of two hundred dollars for the best essay recording experiments, satisfactorily proving whether the changes in the hardness and friability of steel are due to physical or chemical causes, or to both. Papers are to be sent in before March, 1876, and the prize will be paid in July.

A NATIONAL Kaulbach Institution has been founded at Nürnberg to give assistance to talented German artists, without distinction of age, sex, or place of residence. The council is composed of artists and lovers of art (Kunstfreunde), and the committee have already received powerful support, especially from Germans residing in foreign

countries.

one.

It is a curious fact that Paris, with all its love of music and amusements, and its crowds of foreigners, cannot support an opera- at least the state is always called upon to furnish subsidies in aid of the Italian and French operas, the Opéra Comique, and the Lyrique when it plays. But even with subsidies, which have been cut down since the fall of the Empire, the business is not always a paying Thus in 1869 the receipts of the Italians reached 1,200,000 f., but the expenditure exceeded them by over $85,000. The singers cost 700,000 f., the dancers 337,000 f., the orchestra 137,000 f., and the other persons employed in the house 168,000 f. The subsidies have varied from time to time, being sometimes 600,000 f., sometimes 700,000 f., and sometimes' 800,000 f., and yet with this assistance the opera has always been in embarrassed circumstances. It would appear, however, that the subsidies have been paid, not to the manager, but to the Parisians, to enable them to have cheap music.

THE Times, in a review of the "Life of Louisa, Queen of Prussia," speaks of Kosciusko's having "fallen, severely wounded, with the words which became historic, Finis Poloniæ.'" It would be interesting to know who first started the foolish story, which was contradicted by Kosciusko himself almost as soon as it was published, but which is still repeated from time to time as though its genuineness had never been called in question. It may be excusable to believe in the "last words" attributed to the Imperial Guard at Waterloo (where they did n't "die" and did "surrender"), because some one member of the Guard, better bred than Cambronne, might really have used the words which Cambronne himself was at one time supposed to have uttered. But Kosciusko settled the "Finis Poloniæ" question when he wrote his well-known letter to Count Ségur, assuring him that he had not, on falling, cried "Finis Poloniæ for two reasons: first, because he was all but mortally wounded at the time and could not speak; secondly, because he could never have had the presumption to think that with his death Poland must come to an end. He even added that, after all their

"

sible.

In choosing the scene of action special precautions should invariably be used "to prevent the necessity for carrying wounded gentlemen over walls, ditches, gates, stiles or hedges;" and at their meeting on the ground the parties should invariably salute each other, and should, indeed, be "emulous of offering this evidence of civilization." The solemn act of tossing up is to be performed with "three, five, or seven coins, after they have been carefully shaken in a hat." No duel is to be fought on a Sunday or festival, or near a place of public worship.

niæ" than had the French after Rosbach to say "Finis Galliæ."

THE aged poet, Runeberg, the greatest scald that Sweden has ever had, has been in extremely weak health for manyyears past. It appears that as he has lain on his sick-bed, at Helsingfors in Finland, he has occupied himself by close observation of the habits of birds, and specially with regard to the causes of migration, and he has at last put forward a singularly beautiful theory on the latter point. He believes, in fact, that it is the longing after light, and that alone, that draws the birds southwards. When the days shorten in the north, the birds go south, but as soon as ever the long northern nights set in, with all their lumi