hero in the American Pigeon Service is Cher Ami, who lost a leg in the Argonne fight. The little courier was hit by a bullet just as he was leaving Grand Pré, and as he staggered, the boys in the trenches who were watching him expected to see him fall. But he carried on and, almost covered with blood, delivered his message at Rampont, nearly twenty-five miles away, in exactly twentyfive minutes.

Lord Adelaid, an American pigeon working with the tanks at St. Mihiel, was badly wounded by shrapnel, but delivered his message. The Poilu, with head and neck badly cut, reached his loft in the Meuse-Argonne sector with information which enabled American gunners to effect the almost complete destruction of an enemy ammunition train. Many another plucky bird lost an eye or a leg in the service of Uncle Sam, and the deeds of each are on record.

But it remained for the French to confer in their own charming way the honors they felt were due their pigeon heroes. Birds which performed distinguished service, or showed unusual courage in the line of duty, were awarded the Croix de Guerre or the Croix Militaire. Diplomas with the citations were issued and kept at the headquarters of the French Pigeon Service, and because pigeons cannot wear medals on their breasts, special bands, with the colors of the decorations, were made for their legs.

A bird which will go down in French history, just as surely as Field Marshal Foch himself, is the one which carried from Vaux to Verdun the last message for help sent by Commandant Raynal before the Germans captured the fort. This pigeon flew through a hail of fire and a gas barrage and, wounded and gassed, dropped dead as it delivered its message. It was awarded the Légion d'Honneur.

As savers of individual lives, pigeons did some of their finest work with the seaplanes, all of which carried several birds. The following story, which the writer heard at the headquarters of the Air Force Pigeon Service in London, is typical of many which have to do with rescues, no one of which would have been made but

for the unerring instinct, strong flight, and splendid courage of a homing pigeon.

It was late afternoon. One of England's largest seaplanes had just completed a long antisubmarine patrol above the North Sea, and her tired pilot gladly swung her round and headed for his base. Then something went wrong. The huge craft plunged downward, righted itself, plunged again, and dived sidewise into the water. There was an ominous cracking and ripping, some quick, dangerous work by the crew, and four men stood upon a wrecked and wave-swept seaplane. How long she would float, heavily laden as she was with motor and armament, none could tell; but what every man did know was that help must come quickly from somewhere or it need not come at all.

Then somebody shouted, "The pigeons!" A dripping basket was found and opened; but, alas, two of the three birds were dead, and the survivor was so wet and chilled that its recovery was doubtful. But it seemed to be the only chance. An officer wrapped it in a woolen muffler, which by some miracle was dry, and placed the bundle inside his shirt. In half an hour the pigeon had somewhat revived, and as the daylight was already failing, it was decided to wait no longer. A brief message was written and attached to the right leg of the bird.

It was an anxious moment when the pilot climbed to a high point on the wreck and tossed the little messenger into the air. It fell, and every heart sank with it; but it lifted a little as it caught itself just above the waves. For several seconds it barely held its own; then, seeming to gain strength by its own effort, it arose slowly, squared away, and disappeared in the battleship gray.

Somewhere on the northeast coast of England night was approaching under a drizzly mist, and a raw wind whipped land and sea around the lonely group of buildings of a Royal Air Force Pigeon Station. It was teatime - a welcome hour to the little group of bronzed men in British uniform, who were chatting and laughing around the small fire in the messroom. One of them was telling a story of a Portuguese commander who had mistaken a

gift of two baskets of British homing pigeons for an addition to the food supply, and who, in his letter of thanks to the British commander, had naïvely remarked that he and his staff had "enjoyed them very much indeed." But the laugh which greeted this story was cut in two by a sound which caused every man in the room to pause and listen - it was the sharp, insistent call of an electric bell which rings automatically when a homing pigeon enters the trap. A non-commissioned officer set down his cup of tea untasted, arose, and opened the door leading to the pigeon loft. From a corner where it was huddled he lifted a light-blue pigeon, very wet and bedraggled, skillfully removed a small aluminum cylinder from its right leg, slipped the bird into a pigeon basket, and carried it into the messroom.

"'Ere!" he called, "set this blarsted pigeon on the 'arth till it dries art."

Before the order could be obeyed, he had drawn from the little cylinder a roll of tissue paper, smoothed it out flat, and was reading aloud:

Machine wrecked and breaking up fifteen miles southeast of Rocky Point. Send boat.

Two men had already reached for their oilskins and were passing out of the door into the fog. Another minute, and those sipping their tea heard the staccato put-put-put of a motor boat dying away in the general direction of Rocky Point.

Darkness had fallen on the North Sea, and four men, wet and chilled, still clung to a wrecked seaplane. They had little hope that their message had been delivered, or, if it had, that help would come in time to save them. The wind had risen, and now and then the waves tore away some portion of the wreck, which sank lower and lower in the water. At last there came a sound the sweetest music they had ever heard the siren of a motor boat. Again and again it sounded, each time nearer. The heartened men arose and sent up a wild shout in answer, and a hissing bow shot toward them from the darkness.

On top of a little basket by the fire in the messroom a modest blue pigeon sat quietly preening its damp feathers. And the next morning the British papers reported:

Seaplane N-64 lost in the North Sea, fifteen miles southeast of Rocky Point. All the crew were saved.

1. Eight different kinds of animals are here described as having been used in the war. Do you know of any others? Which ones seem to you to have performed the most interesting service?

2. Many of the stories one reads concerning animals are false because they attribute to animals mental powers which they do not have. What is your impression of the stories told in this selection?

3. What stories of the cleverness of animals can you tell from your own experience with them?

WHERE SCIENCE GETS ITS WORDS

One of the differences between scientific and ordinary writing is that science tries to state facts with great accuracy. In doing this, it has usually picked its new words from the ancient Greek and Latin languages. Thus when Galileo invented an instrument with which we could enlarge the distant stars, there were two Greek words which, put together, fittingly described the new instrument. These words were rŷλe (tele) meaning far or far off, and σKOTTELV (scope) meaning to view. The word telescope thus came into the language and is now a part of everyday speech.

1. What do you know about the origin or meaning of these words: telegraph, telephone, television, microscope, spectroscope, hydroscope, automobile?

2. Locate on pages 550-553 five scientific words that appear to you to have been derived from the Greek or Latin language and look them up in the dictionary. Look also on pages 506–509 in the article about the stars.

THE WRECK OF THE MEMPHIS 1

CAPTAIN K. C. MCINTOSH

I

WHEN the United States ship Memphis crashed against the rocks of Santo Domingo, the catastrophe was too big for any one man to see in its entirety. My part in the event was small, but it is all I know. It is all I shall try to tell.

It was hot and sticky weather, a typical August afternoon in the Caribbean. Occasional light showers drifted across the roadstead, and the ship swung easily in the long swell. I had intended making an inspection of the Castine's pay department that afternoon, but a troublesome error in the balance of my own clothing return kept me hunting for an elusive discrepancy of twenty cents until nearly three o'clock. By that time I was drowsy; and as I came on deck, to find the sun shining through a patter of big, plashing raindrops, I reflected that the afternoon was too far gone to make much of an inspection. My room was on the breezy side, and an air port twenty inches square opened by the head of my berth. I went below instead of going to the Castine.

There was a two-inch batten on the long bookshelf overhead to hold my books when the ship rolled. Nevertheless, I was aroused by the impact of a thick volume of Montaigne landing in the pit of my stomach. Still drowsy, I put the book back. Before it was fairly set on the shelf, six or seven volumes of Decisions of the Comptroller cascaded all around me. I was suddenly wide-awake. The ship had never rolled like that during my time on board.

Automatically I closed and dogged down my air port and pulled on my coat. Was there a hurricane making up? The log, kept in a desk on the quarter-deck, would show. As I started up the

1 Reprinted from The Atlantic Monthly, June, 1927, by special permission of The Atlantic Monthly Company.