“Yes, it is the skin of a grebe of some kind,” was the reply; “but there are so many different kinds, in this country find America.”
“A kind of duck, isn’t it?”
“Or a kind of gull?”
“Betwixt and between, one might say. Grebes are nearly allied to the great Northern Diver, but their feet are not, like his, quite webbed. They frequent the seashore and rivers by the sea, and live on fish, frogs, and molluscs of any sort. Their nests are often built to float among the reeds, and to rise and fall with the tide.”
“When I get an opela-cloak,” said Ida, “I’ll have it tlimmed with elmine.”
“Why with ermine, Ida?”
“Because the Queen had elmine on, in the waxwork.”
“Yes; and the ermine is only a weasel after all, and all summer it wears a dress of red-brown fur, which speedily gets bleached to white, when the thermometer stands below zero.”
“No, Frank, I haven’t seen my weasel for some time. He is dozing in some snug corner, you may be sure; and really, Frank, I believe the subject of hibernation is but very imperfectly understood. I don’t want to go into the matter at present physiologically, except to say that it seems to be a provision of Nature for the protection of species; and that a variety of animals and creatures of all kinds that we little wot of, hibernate, more or less completely. We see sometimes, in the dead of winter, a beautiful butterfly—a red Admiral, perhaps—suddenly appear and dance about on a pane of glass. We wonder at it. It is not a butterfly’s ghost at all, but a real butterfly, who had gone to sleep in a snug corner of the room, and has now awakened probably only to die.
“I found an immense knot of garden worms, the other day, deep down in garden mould. They were sleeping away the cold season.