Chapter L: M. D (3)

They petted, nursed and fondled it, and showed it every care,
And said before it went to bed its sheets of straw they'd air;
They also begged it very hard itself at home to make,
And hoped, although its bed was strange, it would not lie awake.

How happy was this Bunny white I really cannot tell,
But certainly it happy looked, and was extremely well;
Its eyes were bright, its nose was cool, its tongue a lovely pink.
And for its pulse--well, that was strong and regular, I think.

When summer came, the little girls were taken to the sea,
And left their rabbit with the groom--a youth of twenty-three.
They bathed and dug upon the shore, and played with Cousin Jack;
They heard the band upon the sand, and rode on donkey-back.

Then home they came, and went at once to see their Bunny dear,
To stroke his ribs, and pat his head, and feel each wiry ear;
But oh! alas! they found him not--the rabbit was not there!
His hutch, like Mrs. Hubbard's shelf, was very, very bare.

Now, where is he? They called the groom, the youth of twenty-three,
And said, "Oh, George, where's Bunny gone? Oh where, oh where is
he?"
"He's in the hot-house," George replied; "the gardener put him
there,
For he was growing thinner, miss, and losing all his hair."

They trotted to the garden then, and there the Bunny found,
And 'neath a vine beheld their pet reposing on the ground.
"Why, what is that?" they both exclaimed; "can that a rabbit be?
I never in my life before so strange a thing did see!"

They were surprised, and certainly the sight was strange to view,
For Bunny looked so very huge, and such a bundle too!
Such fat he had, and lots of hair, they longed a bit to pull;
He was exactly like a ball of living cotton-wool.

No tailor ever did produce a coat so superfine,
'Twas white as snow, and very thick on stomach, chest and spine--
As thick as heads of stupid boys with countenances glum;
And oh! the hair was very long--as long as any sum!

A host of friends and neighbors came the funny sight to see,
To one and all a rabbit forced was quite a novelty;
And everybody petted him, and loved him very much,
And brought him goody-goodies for the larder in his hutch.

* * * * *

One day--and now my pen and ink the deepest mourning wear--
They let him out upon the lawn for exercise and air;
They turned their backs, two dogs rushed up, and one, with swelling
chest,
Seized Bunny by his woolly throat, and--you must guess the rest.

UP AND DOING.

Boys, be up and doing,
For the day's begun;
Soon will come the noontide,
Then the set of sun;
At your tasks toil bravely
Till your work is done.

Let your hands be busy
In some useful way;
Don't neglect your study,
Don't forget your play;
There is time enough for each
Every blessed day.

A DARING FEAT.

Remarkable for its spire, the loftiest of St. Petersburg, is the church of St. Peter and St. Paul. An anecdote connected with this church, and not known, I believe, out of Russia, is worth telling. The spire, which rises

"Lofty, and light, and small,"

and is probably represented in an engraving as fading away almost into a point in the sky, is, in reality, terminated by a globe of considerable dimensions, on which an angel stands, supporting a large cross. This angel was out of repair; and some suspicions were entertained that he designed visiting, uninvoked, the surface of the earth. The affair caused some uneasiness, and the government at length became greatly perplexed. To raise a scaffolding to such a height would cost a large sum of money; and in meditating fruitlessly on this circumstance, without knowing how to act, some time was suffered to elapse.

Among the crowd of gazers below, who daily turned their eyes and their thoughts towards the angel, was a mujik called Telouchkine. This man was a roofer of houses (a slater, as he would be called in countries where slates were used); and his speculations by degrees assumed a more practical character than the idle wonders and conjectures of the rest of the crowd. The spire was entirely covered with sheets of gilded copper, and presented to the eye a surface as smooth as if it had been one mass of burnished gold. But Telouchkine knew that the sheets of copper were not even uniformly closed upon each other, and, above all, that there were large nails used to fasten them, which projected from the side of the spire.

Having thought on these circumstances till his mind was made up, Telouchkine went to the government and offered to repair the angel without scaffolding, and without assistance, on condition of being reasonably paid for the time expended in the labor. The offer was accepted.

The day fixed for the adventure arrives. Telouchkine, provided with nothing more than a coil of ropes, ascends the spire in the interior to the last window. Here he looks down at the concourse of the people below, and up at the glittering "needle," as it is called, tapering far above his head. But his heart does not fail him; and stepping gravely out upon the window, he sets about his task.

He cuts a portion of the cord in the form of two large stirrups, with a loop at each end. The upper loops he fastens upon two of the projecting nails above his head, and places his foot in the others. Then digging the fingers of one hand into the interstices of the sheets of copper, he raises one of the stirrups with the other hand, so as to make it catch a nail higher up. The same operation he performs on behalf of the other leg, and so on alternately. And thus he climbs, nail by nail, step by step, and stirrup by stirrup, till his starting-point is undistinguished from the golden surface, and the spire dwindles in his embrace till he can clasp it all round.

So far, so well. But he now reaches the ball--a globe of between nine and ten feet in circumference. The angel, the object of this visit, is above this ball, and concealed from his view by its smooth, round, and glittering expanse. Only fancy the wretch at this moment, turning up his grave eyes, and graver beard, to an obstacle that seems to defy the daring and intrepidity of man!

But Telouchkine is not dismayed. He is prepared for the difficulty; and the means he used to surmount it exhibits the same remarkable simplicity as the rest of the feat.

Suspending himself in his stirrups, he girds the "needle" with a cord, the ends of which he fastens around his waist; and so supported, he leans gradually back, till the soles of his feet are planted against the spire. In this position, he throws, by a strong effort, a coil of cord over the ball; and so coolly and accurately is the aim taken, that at the first trial it falls in the required direction, and he sees the end hang down on the opposite side.

To draw himself into his original position, to fasten the cord firmly around the globe, and with the assistance of this auxiliary to climb to the summit, is now an easy part of his task; and in a few minutes more Telouchkine stands by the side of the angel, and listens to the shout that bursts like sudden thunder from the concourse below, yet comes to his ear only like a faint and hollow murmur.

The cord, which he had an opportunity of fastening properly, enabled him to descend with comparative facility; and the next day he carried up with him a ladder of ropes, by means of which he found it easy to effect the necessary repairs.

THE WORLD.

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world,
With the wonderful water around you curled,
And the wonderful grass on your breast--
World, you are beautifully dressed.

The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree;
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.

You friendly Earth, how far do you go,
With the wheat-fields that nod, and the rivers that flow,
With cities, and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,
I tremble to think of you, World, at all!
And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
A whisper inside me seemed to say,
"You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot;
You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

_Lilliput Lectures._

C--A--T.

FOR THE VERY LITTLE ONES.

Be quiet, good Tabby!
See how still you can be,
For I'm going to teach you
To spell C--A--T.

I'll show you the way
Mother reads it to me:
She looks very sober,
And says C--A--T.

Fred says you can't learn,
But we'll show him that we
Can learn, if we please,
To spell C--A--T.

To what little May said
Tabby did not agree,
And I doubt if she learned
To spell C--A--T.

THE GIRAFFE.

The creature which forms the subject of this paper is the giraffe, or camelopard (_Camelopardalis Giraffa_) noted for its wonderful and beautiful form and its remarkable habits.

At the first sight of a giraffe, the spectator is struck by its enormously long neck, and will naturally ask himself how it is supported, and how its mobility is preserved. Every one who has the least acquaintance with anatomy is aware that a strong and very elastic ligament passes down the back of the neck, and acts as a strap by which the head is preserved from falling forward. In the giraffe this ligament (popularly called the paxwax) is of great length and thickness, and is divided into longitudinal halves, and proceeds, not only down the entire neck, but along the back, nearly to the tail. So powerful a band requires correspondingly large attachments; and accordingly we find that the vertebrae of the shoulders send out enormously long perpendicular processes, which give to the shoulder that height which is so eminent a characteristic of the animal. To these processes the ligament of the neck is fastened by accessory bands, which add both to its strength and elasticity.

The natives of Southern Africa make great use of this ligament, which is carefully removed and dried. When the native wishes to make a kaross, or any other article of apparel, he soaks a piece of the ligament in water, and then beats it with a stone. This treatment causes it to split into filaments, which can be worked to almost any degree of fineness, and with these the native sews his leathern dress. I have now before me a piece of this Kaffir thread, as it is called. In its dry state, it is shrivelled and contracted, and no one who was not acquainted with it could guess the purpose to which it was originally devoted.

Although the neck of the giraffe is so enormously long, it only consists of seven vertebrae, as is indeed the rule throughout the mammalia. It seems very remarkable that in the neck of the elephant and of the giraffe there should be precisely the same number of vertebrae. Such, however, is the case, and the difference in length is caused by the great length of those bones in the giraffe, and their shortness and flatness in the elephant.

The giraffe is a swift animal, and even upon level ground will put a horse to its utmost mettle; but on rough and rocky ground, especially if the chase be directed up hill, the horse has no chance against the giraffe, which can hop over the stones with the agility of the goat, and even leap ravines which no horse will dare to face. So energetic is the animal when chased, and so violently is the tail switched from side to side, that the long, stiff hairs hiss sharply as they pass through the air.

Sometimes, but very rarely, the giraffe will miss its footing and fall to the ground; but it recovers itself immediately, and is on its feet before much advantage can be taken of the mishap. When it lies down intentionally, it is obliged to pack up its legs in a manner which seems extremely awkward, although the animal can lie or rise with perfect ease; and, like the camel, it possesses callosities upon the knees and breast, on which it rests while reposing.

The height of the giraffe is rather variable, but on an average is from twelve to eighteen feet.

THE LION ON THE THRESHOLD.

At Rietriverspoort, South Africa, writes Lichtenstein, we came to the dwelling of a farmer named Van Wyk. Whilst we were resting our tired oxen, and enjoying the cool shade of the porch, Van Wyk told us the following story:--

"It was something more than two years ago that here, in this spot where we are standing, I had to make a daring shot. My wife was sitting in the house near the door, the children were playing about, and I was busy doing something to my wagon on the other side of the house, when suddenly what should we see, on the doorstep, but the shadow of a great lion darkening the bright daylight. My wife, quite stunned with terror, and knowing also how dangerous it often is to try and run away in such cases, remained in her place, while the children took refuge upon her lap. Their cries made me aware of something having happened; and my astonishment and consternation may be imagined when I discovered what guest was blocking up my entrance to my own house.

"The lion had not as yet seen me: but how was I, unarmed as I was, to defend my family? Involuntarily I moved along the side of the house towards the window, which was open; and, most happily for me, I saw, standing in a corner of the room near the window, a loaded gun. I was able to reach it with my hand, though the window, as you see, is too small for any one to get through. Still more providential was it that the room door happened to be open, so that I could see the whole terrible scene through the window. The lion had got into the house, and was looking steadfastly at my wife and children. He made a movement, and seemed about to spring upon them, when, feeling that there was no longer any time to waste in deliberating what was to be done, I uttered a few encouraging words to my wife, and with God's help, shot right across the room into the passage, where I struck the lion in the head, so that he could not move again. The ball had passed close to the hair of my little boy."

The same writer, Lichtenstein, says that the lion, like a cat, takes its prey by springing upon it, and never attacks a man or animal which does not attempt to run away from him without first placing himself at a distance of ten or twelve paces off, and measuring his spring. This habit of the lion has been turned to account by hunters, who make it their practice never to fire at a lion until he has so placed himself: long practice enabling them to know exactly where and when to hit it with effect while the animal is preparing for his spring. If any one is so unfortunate as to meet a lion unarmed, the only hope of escape is presence of mind. To run away is certain destruction; if a man has the coolness to remain standing where he is, the lion will not attack him. He will not attempt the spring if the man stands motionless as a statue, and looks quietly into his eyes. The erect figure of the human species of itself alarms the lion, and when, in addition to this, he sees his antagonist calm and unmoved, the feeling of awe is increased. A sudden gesture, indicative of alarm, will of course disturb this impression; but if the man continues to show self-possession, the lion will at last be as afraid of the man as the man of the lion. After a time he slowly raises himself, looks carefully round, retreats a few steps, lies down again, makes a further retreat, and ends by taking a rapid flight, as if his desire were to get as far out of the presence of the human species as he possibly can. Indeed, we are told by the settlers at the Cape, that it is not likely that the experiment has been very often made. Formerly, when there were more lions to be seen there than at present, and when, at the same time, the settlers were inexperienced in lion-hunting, large numbers of hunters used to go in chase of the lion, whom they would endeavor to entice into the plain, and round whom they used to form a circle. They shot at him first from one side and then from another, and if the poor animal tried to break through the left side of the human wall, they would attack him from the right. At present, however, experienced lion-hunters generally prefer going alone after their dangerous prey, and sometimes pursue him to his den. Such species of sport is always dangerous, however, and is often attended with fatal results. We have heard from a reliable source that in many sports among the mountains near the Elephant River, lions are to be seen in such large numbers, that on one occasion our informant saw as many as three and twenty together. Most of them were young, and only eight quite full grown. He had just loosened his oxen on an open place, and took the rather cowardly than humane course of escaping to the tents of some Hottentots, and leaving his oxen to the mercy of the lions, without firing a shot.

THE SNOW-MAN.

Look! how the clouds are flying south!
The wind pipes loud and shrill!
And high above the white drifts stands
The snow-man on the hill.

Blow, wild wind from the icy north!
Here's one who will not fear
To feel thy coldest touch, or shrink
Thy loudest blast to hear!

Proud triumph of the school-boy's skill!
Far rather would I be
A winter giant, ruling o'er
A frosty realm, like thee,

And stand amidst the drifted snow,
Like thee, a thing apart,
Than be a man who walks with men,
But has a frozen heart!

MARIAN DOUGLAS.

BARN SWALLOWS.

When I was a youngster,--and that, let me tell you, young friends, was some time ago,--they used to say that swallows lived in the mud all winter, as the eels do. The books made no such stupid blunder; only the ignorant people, such as never seem to use their eyes or their reason. It was one of the popular errors of the time. Silly as the notion seems, it has been held by a great many respectable persons.

Possibly the error may have arisen from the fact that the moment the swallows appear in any locality, in the spring of the year, they immediately search out some muddy place, where they can get materials for their nests. First they carry a mouthful of mud, then some threads of dry hay or straw, then more mud, and so on. These frequent visits to a marshy locality might readily lead an unobserving person to imagine that the birds came from the muddy recesses in the banks. But, of course, they are on a very different errand.

Having commenced their nests, the swallows rest during the warmest part of the day, so that the sun may dry their work, and make it hard and strong. Then more mud is plastered on--more threads of straw; and so the industrious birds continue until the body of the nest is completed. A nice, soft lining of fine grass or hair finishes the whole, and makes a summer home for both birds and their young.

Unlike most other birds, swallows often repair old nests, if the frosts and storms of winter have injured them, as they generally do; and sometimes the birds come back to the same locality for several years. They select some unexposed corner, under the eaves of a barn or house, if possible pretty high from the ground, and in a very few days the entire dwelling, lining and all, will be completed.

If unmolested, barn swallows will form quite a colony in the space of a few years. But, if their nests are injured or torn down, or their young ones are stolen away or disturbed, the birds forsake the locality forever. Where a number of families live together, their chattering, when, as the evening comes on, they are catching gnats and flies for supper, or feeding their young ones, is very pleasant and diverting. And there is music in their language, too--music which a thoughtful person is ever glad to hear.

Last summer, when business was dull, I went on a vacation, away up into the Granite State. While passing through the town of Unity (my little niece insists upon calling it _Utiny_--but she will speak plainer one of these years), my attention was called to a small village church on the wayside. Around the entire building, under the eaves, were brackets, some three inches in width, and perhaps as far apart. In the spaces thus formed were hundreds upon hundreds of swallows' nests. Hardly a single space was left unoccupied, while many contained two, and sometimes three nests. Not content with the eaves, the colony had commenced upon the belfry, and far up towards the spire every possible nook and corner seemed to be spoken for.

I stopped to contemplate the very interesting spectacle. A villager informed me that the colony came regularly every year, and, as near as could be judged, the same birds; that for ten years the birds had been petted by the inhabitants, and protected by all, old and young. He said that the swallows had all disappeared in a body, about a week previous to my visit, adding, "You don't know what a lovely spectacle it is to witness the evolutions of these birds on a summer evening, when they are teaching their young ones to fly. They swarm around the building like bees, and their music is most delightful to hear."

I could readily imagine the beauty of the scene, from the great number of nests, though I mean to see the colony at their devotions this year. "Yea, the sparrow hath found a house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, _even thine altars_, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God."

It would be interesting to know where these birds go as winter approaches. It is very easy, and perhaps very true, to say that they "go south." But to what part of the south? Do they keep in a body there, as here? Do they have nests, and rear their young, there, as with us? There is a fine field for inquiry, which it is hoped some of our boys will go into by and by. For the present, if any of them are passing through Unity, let them remember the church which has its largest congregation on the outside.

W. WANDER.

[Decoration]

GRATITUDE OF A COW.

A gentleman passing through a field observed a cow showing many symptoms of uneasiness, stamping with her feet and looking earnestly at him. At first he feared to approach her, but afterward went toward her, which seemed to please her much. She then guided him to a ditch where her calf was lying helpless; and he was just in time to save it from death, to the no small delight of the cow. Some days after, when passing through the same field, the cow came up to him as if to thank him for his kindness. As among the various animals with which the earth abounds none is more necessary to the existence of man than the cow, so likewise none appears to be more extensively propagated; in every part of the world it is found, large or small, according to the quantity and quality of its food. There is no part of Europe where it grows to so large a size as in England, whose pastures are admirably suited to its nature. The quantity of milk and butter varies according to the difference of its pasture; some cows in favorable situations yield twenty quarts of milk in a day.

To form a just idea of the value of this animal, we ought to consider that there is scarcely any part of it without its utility to man. The skin is manufactured into leather; the hair, mixed with lime, is used in plastering walls and building houses; the bones serve as a substitute for ivory; when calcined, they are used by the refiners of silver to separate the baser metals; and when ground and spread over the fields, they form a fertilizing manure. Combs, knife-handles and many useful articles are made from the horns, which, when softened in boiling water, become pliable, so as to be formed into lanterns--an invention usually ascribed to King Alfred. We are furnished with candles from the tallow, and the feet afford an oil adapted to a variety of purposes. Glue is made from the cartilages, gristles and parings of the hide boiled in water; calves' skins are manufactured into vellum; saddlers and others use a fine thread prepared from the sinews, which is much stronger than any other equally fine. The blood, gall, etc., are used in many important manufactures.

MINUTES.

We are but minutes--little things!
Each one furnished with sixty wings,
With which we fly on our unseen track,
And not a minute ever comes back.

We are but minutes; use, use us well,
For how we are used we must one day tell.
Who uses minutes has hours to use;
Who loses minutes whole years must lose.

GOING FOR THE LETTERS.

AN AUSTRALIAN STORY.

It was a bitter cold day in the end of the month of January. The morning had been a very unpleasant one--neither frost nor snow, a sort of compound of rain and sleet; but now the snow was falling fast, and the clear crystals were fast hiding every shrub and plant that had a place in the beautiful flower garden, in front of the drawing-room windows of Arundel Manor, while inside a roaring fire, that made the handsomely-furnished apartment look even more than usually snug and comfortable, was surrounded by a family party consisting of Mrs. St. Clair, the three children, and uncle Godfrey.

It was the "children's hour," and his niece was trying to coax a tale out of "dear uncle," who did not seem much in the humor to comply with her request, when mamma looked up and said, "My dear, do not trouble your uncle so. I am sure, Godfrey, that Lydia must torment you; and if she does, we must send her to the nursery."

Poor Lydia's face fell at once. "I am sure I did not mean to tease uncle."

"Never mind, my pet; I know I promised to tell you a story to-night, and was just thinking what it was to be, when my fit of musing sent memory back many a long day, and revealed a scene distant many a thousand miles. Now that I am fairly awake, I will show you the picture of my waking dream. So up you jump;" and Lydia, catching hold of his hand, was quickly seated on her uncle's knee, her usual place at story time, and throwing her arms round his neck, exclaimed,--

"O, you dear old pet!"

"I heard," began uncle Godfrey, "some boys, who shall be nameless, grumbling this morning at being kept inside, for fear of catching cold on such a raw day, and my thoughts instantly turned to a day similar to this, and how I then prayed to be under the shelter of some friendly roof; and I also thought how thankful every one ought to be who is able to sit at a warm fire, when it freezes hard, or when the snow is covering the earth by inches every hour.

"I dare say you think it fine fun to run over to the lodge and bring the letters from the post-boy; at least I did when as young as you are; but going for letters is not always the pleasantest thing imaginable, as I once nearly found out to my cost.

"If you are all so anxious to hear the contents of letters from your uncle Wilfred, you may fancy how eagerly he and I used to watch for the arrivals of the mails at Sydney, and be sure that one or both of us were certain to be at the office in Kiandra on the day it reached there, and with what delight we read and re-read the letter which never failed to make its appearance monthly to one or other of us.

"Our winter fall of snow generally began about the 12th of May, and from that date till the month of October it was a matter of no small difficulty to get our letters at the place where we lived, a long nine miles from Kiandra of a very mountainous track.

"186- was an extraordinary season. May passed, no snow--June the same, only heavy, I may say, nearly constant showers of rain. 'A glorious year,' the diggers called it. 'Never such a season for work since the diggings broke out. Two months' work at a time when there is never any water. O, what a wash-up there will be in November!'

"Such was the substance of the conversation when any two of the residents met, varied, perhaps, by remarks as to whether old So-and-so, who had been twenty years in the district, would be right in saying there was to be nine feet of snow, or whether So-and-so was a better judge in saying we were to have none at all?

"I was then living by myself, Wilfred being away in Sydney, and was looking out for him every day, and hoping he might be back before the winter fairly set in, when it was scarcely possible to travel. As I said before, June had passed, and we were getting well into July, when I heard that our English mail would be in Kiandra on the following Wednesday. It was now Friday.

"We had got a fine week for work, raining gently all the time, which is what we diggers like, and no frost, which dries up the water, and makes us all idle, when on Sunday the weather completely changed, and very suddenly, too, as, indeed, it always did there. The wind, which had been from north or east, without any warning chopped right round to the south-west, and we had a strong frost. Next day was cloudy, but at night frost was harder than ever, and everything with liquid in it, even to the tea-pot in a room where there was a fire nearly all night, was full of solid ice.

"The thermometer was down to 18 deg. below zero in the same place; and in bed, in the next room, with four pairs of new blankets, I thought I should have been fairly frozen. We were hard at work all that day, which was a drizzly, snowy one, everything betokening a fall of snow; so, when Wednesday dawned, though not so deep as I expected, I was not surprised to find more than a foot of it all over.

"Down the country the floods had been dreadful; nearly all the bridges had been washed away, and the roads turned into bogs, so that our mails came in very irregularly, sometimes ten days behind time. You may therefore imagine I was in a great worry to hear from Wilfred, my last letter being a month old, as well as anxious for _home_ news. So I donned my oil-skin over my blanket-coat, put on my thigh gum-boots, tied my comforter round my neck and up over my ears, and pulling my south-wester on, prepared to face the weather.

"I found the walk into town, though very heavy, not so bad as I expected, and arrived safely, without any mishaps, but rather tired and uncomfortably moist, it being a sort of drizzle all the way; but a letter from Wilfred, saying he would not leave for some time, and so would not be caught in this storm, and the perusal of a kind one from 'the old country' soon made me forget my discomfort, and I spent a pleasant evening at a friend's.

"At bed-time it was a beautiful starry night; but I did not altogether fancy it. There was a kind of half soft feel through the frost, that sounded to me like a change, and the thought of the morrow's walk was not a pleasant one; but there was no use forestalling what might never be. So to bed and to sleep; but ere my eyes were well closed, the wind began to whistle round the corner of the house, and--hallo--what's that! Big drops of rain, and lumps of earth and gravel, were pelting the panes of glass.

"A few minutes there was a lull--a dead silence--when flash! crash!--the room was in a blaze of light, and at the same instant the thunder made the very bed shake again, and also made my heart rise to my mouth. Listening earnestly for some time, and no further disturbances occurring, I began, after thanking a kind Providence for his protection, to think over the matter, and came to the conclusion that at last we were in for a downright fall, this being the third time that, to my knowledge, such had been preceded by a single clap of thunder.

"Next day the snow came down in earnest; and as it was drifting in every direction, I took the advice of my friends, and quietly stopped where I was. Large, feathery flakes fell unceasingly all the afternoon, and by night there was fully two feet in the town; but as it looked a little better on Friday afternoon, and my dog, cat, and fowls could get nothing to eat until my return, I determined to make a start, though against the opinions of most of the town's people.

"When I left Kiandra there was a dense fog, which shortly changed, first to a light, and then to a heavy snow; and by the time I dragged myself the mile to the top of the mountain, it was coming down, and no mistake!

"It was impossible to see one yard in any direction, and my legs were already beginning to _talk_; but it was too late to think of turning. I had had only to fight through one extra deep drift as yet, and knew the road hitherto well; but now I had to turn off from where the track lay hid, and had not gone far when my difficulties fairly began, and I was quickly ploughing my way through some five or six feet of snow.

"Half an hour's hard work found me clear of that, and for a couple of miles everything went swimmingly. The snow was here firm enough to bear my weight, although now and again, bump! down I went through the crust, nearly jerking my joints out. The nearer home the deeper got the snow, and, of course, so much the more tired I felt. The main creek to be crossed was hidden entirely; and as its exact whereabouts was not very easily guessed at, you may depend it was not a pleasant sensation to plump down and find myself up to the neck. Luckily, the water was no depth, and as my boots were tight and long, a hard scramble pulled me out of my first trouble.

"A short rest, and I was again on my way; but it took me a good many hours to get the next three or four miles, even though I met no more serious difficulty than some very heavy drifts. I was getting very tired, and hungry, too, and you may fancy it was no joke wading the snow, never less than two feet, lucky if not going past the knees at every step; but at last I was in a mess, and how to get out of it I knew not. The look of the country, when a lull gave me the chance of seeing, showed I was off my road; and when I felt I was lost, my thoughts were anything but satisfactory.

"I knew not which way to turn, so sat down to think it over, and was looking around as well as the drifting snow would permit, when coming along my tracks was a large yellow dog. My heart gave a bound of delight, and jumping up, I let a 'cooey,'[A] to tell its master that some one was in the same predicament, as I doubted not he was.

"Slowly a minute or two passed, but no reply to my communication. Alas! all was silence, and I then saw, by its pointed ears and bushy tail, that it was a dingo, or native dog, which was running my footsteps. It was no use sitting where I was. So on I started in the direction I fancied, every minute feeling more and more fagged, and when at last darkness set in, was almost inclined to give up.

"My yellow friend followed me for some time at a respectful distance; and though the dingo is a sneaking coward, still, had sleep overpowered me, he might have been tempted to try how I tasted, as he must have been hungry to come so close to me as he did. So, although I never had any fear of such an event actually occurring, I was not at all sorry when he trotted off, his tail, as usual, between his legs, to join some of his companions, whose unearthly howls he heard at no great distance; there must have been five or six.

"I felt really glad they came no nearer, as a mob of them are very daring; and I have known them, when well starved for a week or two, kill calves, and even colts, when the mothers were weak and could not fight for them. But it was not very long before I found that they were not after me, as I nearly stumbled against a mare and colt belonging to myself, that were standing under a tree, and whinnied as I spoke. We had sent all our horses away two months ago but this one, as she could not be found, and we thought she was dead. The poor thing could not have tasted food for days; but what could I do but pity the pair, and feel that their end was to be food for the _warregals_ (native dogs).

"As I had now been walking seven or eight hours, and hard at it all the time, I could see nothing for it but to yield to necessity, as sleep was fast overpowering me, when I distinctly heard the bark of a dog, which I felt confident was my old watch, 'Jack.' My spirits rose at once, and again I was alive, and pushed in the direction of the welcome sound.

"At the same time I caught a glimpse of a cluster of trees, whose peculiar shape I had often remarked, which told me where I was; and this fact was also quickly proved by my plunging into an old prospecting hole--the only one in the neighborhood. It was about six feet deep, and full of snow and water. I thought I was lost, as the frozen slush went down my back, and that I, who had been picked out of the Canton River, in a dark night, when the tide ran six knots an hour, was fated to be drowned in a filthy pot-hole.

"But, luckily, such was not my lot on the present occasion, as, after many a failure, I managed to pull myself out, my boots full of water, and my whole body nearly numb from the cold. Luckily, the house was only half a mile off.

"I reached it in safety, and just in time, as my feet were all but frost-bitten, when I should have been fortunate to lose only a few of my toes, as I knew a man here who had _both_ legs cut off in consequence of a severe frost-bite.

"As it was, I was a sorry figure; my clothes were like a board, my socks were in a similar state, while icicles hung in festoons from my hair and beard. But, when at last I managed to open the door, and get a light, one or two rough towels, and some ten minutes' hard rubbing, soon put a glow of heat over my whole body; and by the time I turned into bed, after a cup of scalding hot coffee (I was too hungry to eat), my misfortunes were forgotten, and all I felt was thankfulness for having reached my house, which seems to me, even now, to have been a very doubtful matter, had 'Jack' not barked when he did.

"See how many things turned out all for my good--the mare and the colt in the snow, the dingo running after her through hunger, and my dog barking at it, showed me where my house was, when I was fairly lost, and thus saved my life, and enabled me to spin you this yarn, which I must now finish by saying that since that time I am always glad to have a warm house to shelter me in such weather as this, and cannot help thinking that if any boys had ever been placed in my predicament, they would only be too thankful to remain inside on such a day as this, without requiring their mother to order them to do so."

"But what about the poor mare? Did she die? and did the wild dogs eat the colt?"

"O, I almost forgot to tell you that, to my astonishment, in two or three days, when the snow hardened a bit, the pair found their way home, and I, after a deal of trouble, got them to the banks of the Tumut River, which, although only a couple of miles away, was so many hundred feet lower, that they could paw away the snow, and so got grass enough to live till spring when they soon got fat. The little colt I named 'Snowdrop,' and when she was old enough, broke her in; and many a good gallop we had over the place where she and her mother neighed to me on that dark and dismal night."

FOOTNOTE:

[A] A peculiar shout, heard at a great distance, which is common among the Australian settlers.

SPRING HAS COME.

Spring has come back to us, beautiful spring!
Blue-birds and swallows are out on the wing;
Over the meadows a carpet of green
Softer and richer than velvet is seen.

Up come the blossoms so bright and so gay,
Giving sweet odors to welcome the May.
Sunshine and music are flooding the air,
Beauty and brightness are everywhere.

ABOUT "BITTERS."

Charley and Jimmie D. were playing near the barn one day, when along came the forlornest looking cur you ever did see. The children commenced calling him, and laughed loudly as the animal came towards them, he was _such_ an ill-looking thing.

"Good fellow! nice fellow!" said Charley, patting him. "Jim, you run in, and get him something to eat--won't you? and don't tell mother yet; you know she dislikes dogs so. We'll tie him up to-night, and tell her to-morrow, if no one comes for him."

Such another looking dog I think I never saw--scrawny and poor, as though he had never been more than half fed; a slit in one ear, tail not much to speak of, and color a dirty black and white.

Jimmie soon came back from a successful forage, and gave him a good supper. At least doggie seemed to think so, for he gobbled it up in about a minute, and then wagged the stump of his tail for more.

"No, sir," said Charley, "no more to-night."

Then they shut him up in a little room in a corner of the barn, and ran to find their father, and tell him, well knowing he would not care, if their mother was willing.

They found their father, who went with them to see him, and laughed long and loud as they led out the ugly beast.

Then all went in to supper; the great secret almost revealing itself in their tell-tale looks and occasional whisperings, neither of which attracted their mother's attention.

Supper over, they made a final visit to their pet, and then left him for the night.

"What shall we name him?" said Jimmie, when they were alone in their room at night.

"O, we must have a funny name, he's such a sorry looking feller! Wouldn't you call him 'Bitters'?" said Charley.

"Bitters!" said Jim, with a laugh.

"Yes, that's bad enough."

So Bitters he was named; and next morning they won their mother's reluctant consent to keep the dog, provided he was kept at the barn, or away from the house, at all events.

Then they fed and played with him till school time, and shut him up till noon.

Bitters seemed to take to his new admirers, and appeared quite satisfied with his quarters, and was getting to look a little more like a respectable dog, when one morning, as he was running round a corner of the barn, he came suddenly upon the old rooster, who bristled up and showed fight. Bitters turned, and ran for dear life, as hard as he could go, and never has been seen or heard from, from that day to this, much to the boys' regret.

F. E. S.

FRED AND DOG STEPHEN.

"Now, just one good cuddle," said little six-year-old Freddie, "and then I'll be ready for school;" and he curled himself up like a young Turk in his mother's lap, and nestled there in a very enjoyable way.

She was sitting by the dining-room window; it was open, and a pitcher of wild phlox and pink-and-white wake-robins stood in it. While they sat there they saw Uncle Rube, who lives over on the hillside, coming along the crooked path with a basket on his arm. His head was down, and he was thinking so intently that he did not hear the steps behind him of his young dog, Stephen.

Now, Rube means to make the best dog in the world of Stephen--the playful little puppy!--and he never permits him to follow him anywhere unless by special invitation. About once a week he will say to him, "Stevie, would you like to go to your grandfather's with me? Come on, then;" and here they will come, the puppy so glad that his gait is more awkward than ever, his fat body, twisted out of all shape, wriggling along, while his tail will flap about in every direction and his ears look like wilted cabbage-leaves.

"He doesn't know Stevie is behind him, does he, ma? and now let's watch and see what they will both do when they find out." So they snugged down by the window and tittered and watched and anticipated rare fun.

Uncle Rube was whispering to himself and nodding his head and making gesticulations with his open hand, while Stephen trotted with his little soft, careful feet behind him, smelling of the ground, and thinking green grass with the dew sparkling on it was just made purposely for dogs to admire.

Just as Rube came to the big gate and stopped to unlatch it he heard a little whiffy breathing behind him, and then he looked and saw Stephen. He was very much surprised; but as he never scolded the dog, he simply said, in a very earnest way, "Steve, I am astonished! You go right back home immediately. You're a great boy, indeed, to sneak along without ever being invited! I didn't want you, sir, or I'd have told you so. Now go right back again."

Oh, it was _so_ funny! Stephen just threw his head back and whirled on his heels, and ran with all his might down the crooked path.

Then the school-bell rang, and Fred's mother kissed him "good-morning," and he started off with his books, and as he turned round the corner his white teeth showed prettily as, half laughing, he said to himself in wonderment, "_Dear little Stevie dog! he just ran back 'zactly as if he wanted to._"

NOW THE SUN IS SINKING.

Now the sun is sinking
In the golden west;
Birds and bees and children
All have gone to rest;
And the merry streamlet,
As it runs along,
With a voice of sweetness
Sings its evening song.

Cowslip, daisy, violet,
In their little beds,
All among the grasses,
Hide their heavy heads;
There they'll all, sweet darlings!
Lie in happy dreams
Till the rosy morning
Wakes them with its beams.

A RIGMAROLE ABOUT A TEA-PARTY.

Mrs. Dyer
Stirred the fire,
Agnes Stout
Poked it out,
Tommy Voles
Fetched the coals,
Alice Good
Laid the wood,
Bertie Patch
Struck the match,
Charlotte Hays
Made it blaze,
Mrs. Groom
Kept the broom,
Katy Moore
Swept the floor,
Fanny Froth
Laid the cloth,
Arthur Grey
Brought the tray,
Betty Bates
Washed the plates,
Nanny Galt
Smoothed the salt,
Dicky Street
Fetched the meat,
Sally Strife
Rubbed the knife,
Minnie York
Found the fork,
Sophie Silk
Brought the milk,
Mrs. Bream
Sent some cream,
Susan Head
Cut the bread,
Harry Host
Made the toast,
Mrs. Dee
Poured out tea,
And they all were as happy as happy could be.

THE FAIRY BIRD.

"I'm so glad to-morrow is Christmas, because I'm going to have lots of presents."

"So am I glad, though I don't expect any presents but a pair of mittens."

"And so am I; but I shan't have any presents at all."

As the three little girls trudged home from school they said these things, and as Tilly spoke, both the others looked at her with pity and some surprise; for she spoke cheerfully, and they wondered how she could be happy when she was so poor she could have no presents on Christmas.

"Don't you wish you could find a purse full of money right here in the path?" said Kate, the child who was going to have "lots of presents."

"O, don't I, if I could keep it honestly!" And Tilly's eyes shone at the very thought.

"What would you buy?" asked Bessy, rubbing her cold hands, and longing for her mittens.

"I'd buy a pair of large, warm blankets, a load of wood, a shawl for mother, and a pair of shoes for me; and if there was enough left, I'd give Bessy a new hat, and then she needn't wear Ben's old felt one," answered Tilly.

The girls laughed at that; but Bessy pulled the funny hat over her ears, and said she was much obliged, but she'd rather have candy.

"Let's look, and may be we _can_ find a purse. People are always going about with money at Christmas time, and some one may lose it here," said Kate.

So, as they went along the snowy road, they looked about them, half in earnest, half in fun. Suddenly Tilly sprang forward, exclaiming,--

"I see it! I've found it!"

The others followed, but all stopped disappointed, for it wasn't a purse; it was only a little bird. It lay upon the snow, with its wings spread and feebly fluttering, as if too weak to fly. Its little feet were benumbed with cold; its once bright eyes were dull with pain, and instead of a blithe song, it could only utter a faint chirp now and then, as if crying for help.

"Nothing but a stupid old robin. How provoking!" cried Kate, sitting down to rest.

"I shan't touch it; I found one once, and took care of it, and the ungrateful thing flew away the minute it was well," said Bessy, creeping under Kate's shawl, and putting her hands under her chin to warm them.

"Poor little birdie! How pitiful he looks, and how glad he must be to see some one coming to help him! I'll take him up gently, and carry him home to mother. Don't be frightened, dear; I'm your friend." And Tilly knelt down in the snow, stretching her hand to the bird with the tenderest pity in her face.

Kate and Bessy laughed.

"Don't stop for that thing; it's getting late and cold. Let's go on, and look for the purse," they said, moving away.