ONE sultry night, in Indiana, I sat busily writing upstairs close to an open window. My lamp, placed upon my desk, attracted countless numbers of the insect world that come out to see their friends only after dark; there was a constant buzz around the lamp, and many a scorched victim, falling on its back, vainly kicked its little legs in air. Suddenly a clear, low whistle sounded from the window—a whistle somewhat like the sound made when a boy blows into the orifice of a trunk-key. Startled for a moment, I turned my chair and beheld on the window-sill a little tree-frog gravely looking at me. His skin—of an exquisite pale apple-green color—shone in the lamp-light. Fearful that I might frighten him away, I sat motionless in the chair, watching him intently. Presently he gave another little whistle, as clear and sharp as a bird-note. He was evidently making up his mind that I was to be trusted (a confidence not misplaced), and soon he gave an easy spring and was on the desk before me. I hardly dared to breathe, lest he should be alarmed. He looked at me carefully for a few minutes; and then, hopping under the lamp, he began a slaughter of the insect creation, such as I had never before witnessed. He captured in a flash any careless fly or moth that came near him, declining to touch the dead ones that had cremated themselves. After half an hour's enjoyment of this kind, my apple-green friend hopped rather lazily across the desk, repeated the whistle with which he had entered,—as if to say good night,—and went out into the dark. I proceeded with my work, and soon forgot my visitor. But judge of my surprise when on the next night he again appeared, again signaled his coming with his musical cry, and again took up his position under my lamp. For nearly three weeks did my small friend visit my room nightly, and he and I became great friends. House-flies were his special delicacy. Stealthily crawling up the painted wall, clinging to the smooth surface with the little disks, or suckers, on his feet, he would draw close up to his body first one leg and then the other, and when within proper distance, he would dart forward, and, snatching the fly, would swing head downward, his hind feet firmly glued to the wall! Then, attaching his forefeet, he would move on in quest of another. He never missed his aim, and he would quietly and calmly zigzag up and down the side wall after every fly he saw there. He became quite accustomed to me, and would hop on my hand, and sit there looking at me, with a grave composure ludicrous to behold.—St. Nicholas.