I heard her ask for Livy, but I had not the courage to venture out of my hiding-place till it became nearly dark, and then I crept cautiously to the parlour door and peeped in to see how matters stood.

There sat aunt in grandmamma's easy chair, looking the very picture of despair. She had a lot of broken pieces of china in her lap, and was trying to fit the fragments together. On the tea-table was quite a heap of broken china.

I stood looking in at the door, when aunt, startled by a slight noise I made, looked up and caught sight of me.

"Come in, you naughty girl," she said; "how could you think of bringing that ugly thing home here? Look at the mischief it has done! Go straight up to bed with you, at once."

I did not require bidding twice, but, wishing aunt "good night," I crept upstairs in the dark to my little bedroom.

As I passed the door of grandmamma's bedchamber I peeped in. She was awake. I ran and put my arms round her neck, kissed her, and begged her to forgive me.

"It was very wrong of you, Livy," she said, "to bring that donkey here without first asking our permission. It has ruined poor grandpapa's garden, and all my beautiful china is gone. Well, there, I dare say you are very sorry, and did not expect the creature would do so much mischief; you won't be so thoughtless again. I am sure grandpapa is very cross, and means to give Mister Shufflebottom a good scolding to-morrow for selling a donkey to such a little child as you without first asking our permission for you to buy it. Now go to bed."

I went to my bed, as I was bid, though not to sleep, but lay awake all night sobbing out my grief. I was greatly troubled about my poor little donkey, turned out as it was into the street. I did not know where it might go to, or what would become of it. Naughty boys might ill-use it; gypsies might steal it, or the butcher might think is was a calf, and kill it, as he had killed our cow Daisy's little one. The thought of all these mischances to which my pretty little pet was liable quite prevented me sleeping until day-break, and then I fell into a slumber that was more troubled than my waking thoughts.

(To be continued.)

THE STORM.

THE storm is dreadful. The heavens are one vast black cloud. The sheeted rain comes down in torrents. The fair earth is deluged. The sea, the broad-breasted sea, is tossed in terrible commotion, and the whole round world seems wrapt in eternal midnight. God reigns! let all the earth stand in awe of him. Hark! it is his voice, the rolling thunder! See! it is his eye, the fearful lightning! The smitten rock declares His power, and the monarch oak, rent from the adamantine hills.

Alas!-on such a night-for the poor sea-boy. No friendly star lights his dread course. The wind-spirit howls. Wild raves the maddened ocean. The demons of the storm make merry at his fate. Look! now tossed on mountain billows-now sunk to the lowest depths,-"a thing of elemental sport"-the frail bark hurries to destruction. O God! have mercy on the poor sea-boy! Hark! he shrieks-" help, help," he cries, "help!"-but ah! no help is nigh. The monsters of the deep stand ready for their prey, and the victim in despair awaits his awful fate. The booming gun and the shriek of human agony are vain. He who rules the storm permits the destiny, and the doomed ship strikes on the fatal rock.

"Oh! Sailor Boy! wo to thy dream of delight!
In darkness dissolves the frost-work of bliss-
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,
Thy fond parent's pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?
Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay;
Unblest and unhonoured-down deep in the main,
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.
On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid :
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.
Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll-
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye-

.

O! Sailor Boy! Sailor Boy! peace to thy soul."

THE GRATEFUL DOG.

A LABOURING man said one day to his little son, "Go to your Uncle Andrew's house, and inquire from me how he does ?" This house was a full league distant from the labourer's cottage; but as Santiaguito was a very obedient child, he immediately set off, taking with him a loaf of

bread and some meat, and two apples which his mother had given him at breakfast. He had not proceeded more than a quarter of a league when he met a dog, who was so lean that it was quite evident he had been living on spare diet for a very long time. The boy, who had a kind heart, felt pity for the poor dog, and gave it half the bread and meat he was devoured the food voraciously, and when he had eaten it all up he stuck carrying, and which was to serve him for a dinner. The hungry animal close to the little boy, following him on his journey as if he wished to show that he would like him for a master. The boy jogged along quite merrily, happy in having performed a good action.

After completing his errand the boy returned home, accompanied by the dog, who, from this time forth, accompanied him wherever he went.

river, accompanied, as usual, by his dog; he met some boys of his own age, with whom he commenced playing, and soon slipped into the water. His companions were so frightened that they all ran away as fast as they could. Santiaguito could not swim; he struggled in the water until the strong current carried him away, and, losing all hope of rescue, he gave himself up for lost. He called for help, but in vain. At length his dog, hearing his screams, ran up the river's bank, and seeing his master struggling in the water, he leaped into the river, and seizing his clothes in his teeth, swam with him to land. He then, by the most ardent caresses, showed his joy at having rescued his master from a watery grave. When Santiaguito's father heard of the accident he gave thanks to Heaven, not only for the preservation of his son's life but also for showing him that a good action never fails to bring its recompense, and that we ought always to be grateful to those who have rendered us a service. From the Spanish.

It happened one day that Santiaguito was walking along the bank of a

THE BEGGAR GIRL.

OVER the mountain, and over the moor,
Hungry and barefoot I wander forlorn :
My father is dead, and my mother is poor,

And she grieves for the days that will never return.
Pity, kind gentlefolks, friends of humanity :

Cold blows the wind, and the night's coming on!
Give me some food for my mother, in charity,-
Give me some food, and then I'll be gone.

Call me not vagabond, beggar, and bold enough,
Fain would I learn to knit and to sew:
I've two little brothers at home; when they're old enough
They will work hard for the gifts you bestow.

Pity, kind gentlefolks, friends of humanity :
Cold blows the wind, and the night's coming on!
Give me some food for my mother, in charity,-
Give me some food, and then i'll be gone.

Oh, when we think of this poor little beggar-girl,
Should we not all be contented and good?
Have we not all of us houses to shelter us,

Have we not clothing, and firing, and food?
And, what is better, we're taught to be dutiful,

Kind to each other-well-mannered and mild;
Oh, then, how grateful and thankful we all should be,
When we remember this poor beggar child.

HUMANITY.

DURING the retreat of the famous King Alfred at Athelney, in Somersetshire, after the defeat of his forces by the Danes, the following circumstance happened, which shows the extremities to which that great man was reduced, and gives a striking proof of his pious and benevolent disposition. A beggar came to his little castle and requested alms. His queen informed him that they had only one small loaf remaining, which was insufficient for themselves and their friends, who were gone in quest of food, though with little hopes of success.

But the King replied, "Give the poor Christian one half of the loaf. He that could feed five thousand with five loaves and two fishes can certainly make that half of the loaf suffice for more than our necessities." Accordingly the poor man was relieved; and this noble act of charity was soon recompensed by a providential store of fresh provisions, with which his people returned.

Sir Philip Sidney, at the battle near Zutphen, displayed the most undaunted courage. He had two horses killed under him, and while mounting a third, was wounded by a musket shot out of the trenches, which broke the bone of his thigh. He returned about a mile and a half on horseback to the camp; and being faint with the loss of blood, and parched with thirst through the heat of the weather, he called for drink. It was presently brought to him; but as he was putting the vessel to his mouth, a poor wounded soldier, who happened to be carried along at that instant, looked up to it with wistful eyes. The gallant and generous Sidney took the flagon from his lips, just when he was going to drink, and handed it to the soldier, saying, "Thy necessity is greater than mine."

MARY'S RETURN.

YE woods and fields, how bright ye are,
How green ye look, how fresh and fair:
How sweetly sing the little birds,
Now fluttering in the balmy air.
I love to see you, little birds

All sporting through the flow'ry thorn;
Ye tell me that cold winter's gone,
And summer's cheerful days return.
And I will walk by sunny banks,
And pluck the yellow primrose pale;
And I will search the shady wood,
To find the lily of the vale;
And I will seek among the leaves,
Where buds of purple violets blow;
And I will climb the hilly field

Where cowslips sweet in thousands grow. And when I've found the freshest flowers, I'll bind them up in nosegays sweet; s And in my lap I'll bear them home, To deck our little cottage neat; For 'tis to-night our Mary dear Returns, from wandering far away, To us to home; and it is meet

That I should make our cottage gay.

THE MOUSE'S PETITION.M
O HEAR a pensive prisoner's prayer,
For liberty that sighs;
And never let thine heart be shut $100
Against the wretch's cries!

For here forlorn and sad I sit,
Within my wiry grate,
And tremble at the approaching morn,
Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breast with freedom glow'd,
And spurned a tyrant's chain,
Let not thy strong oppressive force
A free-born mouse detain.

O do not stain with guiltless blood
Thy hospitable hearth!
Nor triumph that thy wiles betray'd
A prize so little worth.
The scattered gleanings of a feast
My frugal meals supply;
Let not thine unrelenting heart
That slender boon deny.
The cheerful light, the vital air,
Are blessings widely given;
Let Nature's commoners enjoy

The common gifts of Heaven.
The well-taught philosophic mind
To all compassion gives;
Casts round the world an equal eye,
And feels for all that lives.

A LARK having built her nest in a field of corn which had ripened very early, was fearful lest the reapers should come and cut it down before her young ones were able to fly. So whenever she went abroad in search of food she charged her young ones that they should pay particular attention to anything they heard the farmer say, and repeat it over to her when she came back to the

nest.

While she was away the farmer came along with his son, and said to him, "this corn is quite ripe enough to cut; do you go tonight and ask our friends and neighbours to come and help us to

reap it to-morrow."

This speech put the young larks in a terrible flutter, and when the old bird returned, with much chirping and twittering they told her of what they had heard, and begged that she would find some means of getting them out of danger. "Make youselves comfortable, my dears," replied the old bird, "for if the farmer is going to depend upon friends and neighbours, I am pretty sure the corn will not be reaped to-morrow."

Next day, when the lark went out upon her usual errand, she left, the same orders as before. The farmer came early with his son, bringing their sickles along with them, and they waited for their friends and neighbours until noon. But not one of them came. Then he said to his son, "I see that no dependence can be placed upon neighbours and friends, so go to-night to all our relations, uncles and cousins, and tell them I shall expect them here early in the morning to help us to reap this corn."

The young arks when they heard this speech were even more frightened than before, and repeated what had been said to their mother when she returned.

"If that be all, children," said she," you need not be frightened, you are quite safe for another day at least; kindred and relations are not usually very eager to help one another; but to-morrow, while I am away, take particular notice of what the farmer says, and let me know. I do not expect he will submit to being trifled with much longer."

So

The lark went abroad next day, as usual, the farmer found that his relations were no more to be depended on than his neighbours, for none of them came to help him to reap his corn. he said to his son, "Hark ye, George, if a man wants a thing done he must do it himself; get you a couple of the sharpest sickles ready, and to-morrow we'll just set to and reap the corn

ourselves."

When the young larks told their mother this, she said "Now we must indeed be gone, for when a man undertakes his own business it is not likely he will be disappointed." So she removed her young ones the same night, and next day, sure enough, the field of corn was reaped by the farmer and his son.

AN excellent method of exercising the memory of children upon past events, and to make them profit by the study of history, is to ask them at what period and in what country they would have preferred to live, and what historical personage they would wish to have been. While their answers will reveal their inclinations it will also be a favourable opportunity of extending their knowledge, and of correcting their judgment of celebrated persons, and of causing them to better understand and appreciate the noblest models of goodness and morality.

THE AWAKENING OF THE WIND.
HURRAH! the wind! the mighty wind,
Like lion from his lair upsprung,
Hath left his Arctic home behind,
And off his slumbers flung;
While over lake and peaceful sea,
With track of crested foam sweeps he.
Hurrah! the wind, the mighty wind,

Hath o'er the deep his chariot driven,
Whose waters, that in peace reclined,
Uplash the roof of heaven;
Then on the quaking cliff-bound shore,
They foaming dash with deafening roar.
The ship loomed on the waveless sea,
Her form was imaged in its breast,
And beauteous of proportion she,
As ever rolling billow prest;
And graceful there as stately palm,
She towered amid the sultry calm.
Her flag hung moveless by the mast,

Her sails drooped breezeless and unbent, And oft the seaman's glance was cast Along the firmament, ou o 5 To note if there he might descry The wakening gale approaching nigh. On came the wind, the reckless wind, ali Fast sweeping on his furious way, His tempest rushing pinions brined,

In wrathful ocean's spray; as On came the wind, and, as he past, The shriek of death was in the blast! The tall ship by the shrouds he took,

To shrivering shreds her canvas rent, Then like a reed her mast he shook,

And by the board it went; While yawned the deep with hideous din, As if prepared to gulp her in. With fruitless efforts on she reels,

The giant wind is in her wake,
The mountain billow's coil she feels
Around her like a snake:

Locked in that unrelenting grasp,
She struggling sinks with stifled gasp.
Hurrah! hurrah! the victor wind

Hath swept the ocean-rover down,
And left a shipless sea behind,

With many a corse bestrown;
And swift, unfettered, strong, and free,
Like eagle on his path, speeds he.

I

LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. THE bee delights in opening flowers, The birds rejoice in scented bowers, The plover loves the lonesome hill, The speckled trout the silver rill, The wakeful bittern loves the bog, And I love thee, my faithful dog. love with thee, as forth we walk, Mute though thou art, to smile and talk, Through beds of lilies, white as snow, Treading their dewy heads, we go; The mousing cat thou fearest to faceArousing, in our merry race, On creatures wearing tooth and claw. The mild of mood ay look with awe But let at night the scared owl screech, Thy look is fire, thy bark is speech: With tail extended, white teeth baring, No lion looks more fierce and daring: Thy back with rage is all one bristle, Thy whiskers sharpen like a thistle. On days of state, 'tis grand to see Thee strut with dogs of high degree. No peacock waves his golden trail so stately as thou shakest thy tail. Live on unharmed by chain or clog, My word is-Love me, love my dog.

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Dame has lost her shoe; Master's broke his fiddle-stick, And don't know what to do.

MOUDOURI THE HUNTER.

A TARTAR LEGEND.

ONG time ago, perhaps a hundred years, or more, there was a young Tartar, who dwelt near the city of Moukden, the capital of the Mandtchou emperors. He was known by the name of Moudouri, which, in the language of that country, means Dragon this name was given to him on account of his fondness for the chase.

Mounting his little sorrel-horse, which was as swift as a bird, he would roam boldly over the mountains and plains of Mandtchouri at all seasons of the year, leaving the strip of land he owned lying waste, for he scorned to labour in the fields. Winter and summer were all the same to him: for when the mountains were covered with snow from base to summit, when the cascades were frozen and silent, and hung suspended over the abyss like huge blocks of white marble, then would Moudouri take shelter in the grottoes and caves, and, wrapped in his furry cloak, sleep through the long nights upon a bed of moss. What privatious and sufferings he endured during the bitter cold of winter were known only to himself, for he never uttered murmur or complaint.

But in spring time he joyously made his bed on the green grass, beneath the shelter of a lofty tree. While his horse wandered at liberty, cropping the young grass, Moudouri would listen delighted to the sound of the rustling leaves stirred by the balmy spring breezes, to the murmuring insects, but especially to the songs of the birds which flew above his head from tree to tree.

Among the feathered creatures he met most frequently in his wanderings there were two whose voices exercised a remarkable influence upon his mind and feelings. When, from his roost in the branches of a lofty pine tree, the chattering magpie uttered his discordant cry of sak-sak-ha, the young hunter felt himself overcome by a nervous trembling, and excited by a strong desire to pursue every living creature of the mountain, and pierce them with his arrows. But when the gentle dove, concealed among the waving branches of the willow, tenderly murmured its coo-coo! coo-coo! then the spirit of Moudouri was soothed and calmed.

The voices of these birds, so different one from the other, seemed to correspond to the two sentiments which divided the heart of the young hunter-the instinct of destruction, and a sympathy for the denizens of the forest. Often when he had brought down with his arrow a gay-plumaged bird from the clouds, or had wounded a swift four-footed animal, Moudouri would feel stirred with pity, and wish that he could restore the dying creature to life. But, again excited by his passion for the chase, he would seize his bow and gallop off in pursuit of fresh victims. So, in the heart of man, there are frequently two opposite currents, which impel him in contrary directions, like the ebb and flow of the ocean.

Moudouri the hunter was well known throughout all the country of the Mandtchous. The austere Lamas, who believe in the transmi

PRICE ONE PENNY.

gration of souls, had a great dislike to him: they said that, when he died, he would be turned into a jackal. The young men of the villages, on the contrary, spoke of Moudouri admiringly, and the young maidens enthusiastically. Whenever he returned from his hazardous pursuits, his face browned by the sun, and a leopard's skin thrown over his shoulders, looking proud and delighted, every one stopped to gaze on him as he passed; but, present or absent, no one turned so often to look after him, or thought so much about him, as little Melia, an orphan girl, who gained her livelihood by taking care of a troop of goats.

Melia had nothing beside what Nature had bestowed upon her, yet she never envied those who contemned her on account of her poverty. Ever smiling and contented, she grew up on her native plain like a wild flower whose sweet perfume is spread around by every wind. Simple and rustic in her manners she was as lively as a bird, and as alert as a chamois. The rude climate under which she was born had tanned her skin, yet her features lost none of their remarkable delicacy, and her melancholy expression betrayed the thoughtful habit of her mind.

Seated all day long amid the huge fragments of rock where her goats sported, climbing and jumping from crag to crag, Melia often lifted up her eyes to the cloud-capped peaks of the mountains, murmuring to herself, "Oh! that I had the swift foot of the doe, that I might follow Dragon in his wild path; oh! that I had the wings of the falcon, that I might soar over the road where Dragon gallops his steed."

The Dragon was Moudouri, the hunter. He, perhaps, at the same moment, was stopping on some lofty mountain peak to survey the vast horizon spread before his gaze, but his glance lost itself in the dim distance without seeking out the spot where the poor orphan was pasturing her goats.

Melia well knew that the young hunter thought nothing of her, but this gave her no surprise. The lowliness of her condition had accustomed her to consider herself a nobody. Yet her heart often ached for sympathy, and, as she had no friend to whom she could impart her sorrows, she sought consolation in prayer, and would frequently fall on her knees before one of the little rustic altars which the Tartars construct of the bones of animals, and decorate with many-coloured flags. In these places, which Melia believed were haunted by invisible spirits, she would weep and pray, plant a dried branch amid the bones as an offering, and then return with a

comforted heart to her task.

One morning as, with her forehead bowed to the earth, Melia was offering up a prayer to the Father of the Orphan, Moudouri happened to pass that way. His horse trod with so light a step over the grass that the young girl did not hear him approach. She prayed for a long time, and when she had finished she rose from her knees, and, taking a small coin from her bosom, placed it on the rude altar at which she had been kneeling.

The hunter, who, when he saw Melia on her knees, had stopped,

and reverently took off his fur cap while her devotions continued, now addressed her :

"Melia," he said, "you have made a long and fervent prayer; the good angels will, I hope, have heard you."

Upon hearing the voice of the hunter Melia started, and trembled from head to foot. Then, with her face red with blushing, she stood with downcast eyes, her hands folded across her breast, silent. "Here," said the hunter, "add this piece of money to the offering you have placed on the altar. I am now going for a long chase in the mountain, and shall have much need of the protection of guardian angels."

"It is now the tenth new moon," replied Melia, "and winter will soon be with us."

"What matters ?" said the hunter; "I know of many deep caves and grottoes in the mountain where I can find shelter from the winter's cold."

"Have you not heard," replied Melia," the Lamas say that it is a great sin to kill any living creature, and that some day a great misfortune will befall you ?"

"The Lamas have no relish for hunting," said Moudouri. "How can they who pass all their lives in praying understand the kind of life I lead? What can they know of the charms of forest life? I have no hatred for the creatures of the wild solitudes I pass through while hunting. Can the Lamas tell my why the weaker creatures flee at my approach, or the stronger ones make war upon man? If I could get near to them all I would stroke the striped back of the tiger, smooth the glossy neck of the eagle, and let the swift doe nestle at my feet. But these creatures all flee away from me, and that is why I follow and pursue them. Why are they not as familiar with me as I wish to be with them ?"

At this moment the magpie's sak-sak-ha resounded through the air. "Ha, ha!" shouted the hunter in reply, and, spurring his horse, he started off with the swiftness of lightning. Melia watched his receding form for several minutes, till it gradually diminished to a dark spot, and at length disappeared.

Moudouri's horse galloped so swiftly that before mid-day he had reached the lower peaks of mount Gekhungay, called by the Chinese the Lime Mountain, from the chalky whiteness of its summit. Upon reaching these elevated regions the air became much colder. A keen north wind whistled through the branches of the pine trees, and clouds of hail broke here and there against the sides of the mountain. As the horse gallopped on, the ice began to crackle beneath his iron hoofs.

Moudouri pulled over his ears his thick, warm cap, made of a blue fox's skin, and protected his hands from the cold by a pair of fur mittens. He could hear, afar off, the grey bear roaring and bellowing like a drunken cobbler, while from the thickets the wolf howled in a melancholy voice broken by sobs. From the deep recesses of the caverns came the coaxing mewling of the tiger, voluptuously sharpening his claws upon the moss-covered stones.

The wind whistling and howling in fitful gusts brought to the ears of Moudouri a confused noise of the cries of the beasts of prey, which, though excited by hunger, yet hesitated to quit the dens where fear held them captive during the day. These ferocious animals dare not face the light of the blessed sun which shines upon

harmless ereatures.

Moudouri, with head erect and bow in hand, advanced fearlessly amid the gloomy solitudes peopled with these formidable tenants. He rode on amid the profoundest silence, broken only by the arrows which rattled in the quiver at his back, or the jangling of the curved sword that hung suspended at his saddle-bow. If a man traverses the forest on foot, unarmed and defenceless, without these attributes which proclaim his superiority, then the larger quadrupeds defy and attack him; but if he is mounted on horseback, covered with arms, which resound and glitter in the sunshine, then every living creature recognises him as lord and master, and flees at his approach.

During the first day of his reaching the mountain Moudouri encountered only a chamois, which he shot with an arrow just at the moment when the timid creature was about to leap across a precipice. The hunter thus made sure of a good supper. He sought a grotto, where he soon kindled a fire, and roasted a portion of the flesh of the chamois he had killed. A barley-cake, baked in the ashes of the fire, completed his rural repast, and that nothing might be wanting to make it a feast, Moudouri took frequent draughts from his leathern brandy-bottle, which he always carried with him on long excursions. Promising himself the pleasure of attacking more formidable enemies on the morrow, Moudouri stretched himself on a bed of moss and soon fell into a sound sleep.

Early in the morning he awoke full of ardour, impatient to pursue the chase. The cold had become much more intense. The snow fell heavily in large flakes whiter than swan's down. Immense flocks of cranes and geese sailed like black clouds in the air,

pursued by falcons who, with swift wing, charged them just as may be seen when the nomadic Tartars drive before them the scattered population of a village.

Moudouri halted for a moment to watch the evolutions of the winged hosts that passed to and fro far above his head. Then, lowering his eyes, and looking about him, he observed the track of a great tiger, whose huge paws had left their traces in the snow. After searching for half an hour or more, the hunter discovered the formidable animal in a thicket, lying with its monstrous head resting on its paws, as if it were asleep.

Drawing an arrow from his quiver, Moudouri bent his bow and advanced a step nearer. The tiger remained in the same position, with his eyes half closed, stretched like a cat warming itself in the sunshine.

"Rouse up," shouted Moudouri, "O king of the forest, rouse up; take a leap or two, for I shall not attack you cowardly while you sleep."

The tiger yawned, then closed his eyes entirely. Moudouri might have supposed that he was sleeping his last sleep, but for the heaving of his sides and back. The hunter spurred his horse nearer and nearer until there was no more than ten paces distance between himself and the tiger.

"If I make but one step backward," thought Moudouri, "he will think me afraid, and spring upon me, and I am a dead man! Yet, I cannot persuade myself to strike him while he is in that position. What a noble creature, what a splendid skin he has got, more beautifully striped than the richest Persian carpet."

While he was thus thinking, the tiger began to retreat, at first slowly, as if sliding over the ground: then it began to walk quickly, and soon to run, retreating from Moudouri all the time. It had gradually opened its fiery eyes, and kept them fixed upon Moudouri, who followed the creature step by step, running when it ran, and then galloping as if his horse was drawn on by the fascination of the tiger's stare. The hunter thought no longer of using his bow: he hurried on, dazzled, bewildered, charmed, and dizzy.

How long he continued thus he never could tell. What he experienced while the tiger exercised upon him an attraction similar to the fascination which draws the bird into the serpent's mouth, he could never explain. Moudouri's horse obeyed, like his master, this supernatural power: its feet no longer resounded upon the icy ground, it bounded over the earth as if it galloped in the air. Strange cries, mingled with the flapping of hosts of huge birds, resounded through the forest: the bald-headed eagles clattered their beaks, and the owls, rolling their large eyes, flew from one pine tree to another with dismal hootings.

Never before had Moudouri met with anything like this; for the first time in his life the bold_hunter felt afraid, and his brow was bedewed with a cold sweat. It was in vain that he tried to stop his horse. His arms had lost all their strength: besides, the most powerful hand could not have checked the animal in its headlong

When he rose up again he discovered his horse was gone. Somewhat bruised, and his legs embarrassed by his heavy fur-boots, Moudouri made a few steps forward. A light more brilliant than that of the sun suddenly shone around him so vivid that he was compelled to screen his eyes with his hand, as the sound of a harsh burst of laughter, which it seemed impossible could have proceeded from a human mouth, made him tremble all over. Removing his hand from his eyes, he found himself in a vast, lofty hall, ornamented with sparkling stalactites, illuminated in every part like the great palace of Pekin during the festival of the Lan terns. There, in solemn conclave, seated in grave and serious attitudes, were all the animals that frequented the Lime Mountain. In the centre of this assembly, silent as phantoms, appeared the tiger, luxuriously extended upon a carpet of lichens, its head resting upon bundles of laurel branches.

Moudouri, dumb with surprise and fear, dared not stir hand or foot. He believed his last hour was come, and he remembered the words of little Melia. His terror was at its height when the tiger uttered a growl which shook the sides and roof of the immense hall hollowed out of the rock. Moudouri fell upon his knees, and again the horrid peal of laughter struck his ears. Then deep cries of sak-sak-ha! sak-sak-ha! echoed through the cave, which caused every member of the hunter's frame to thrill with rage.

Moudouri," said the tiger, raising his paw in an authoritative manner, "be seated-no ceremony. You must be tired, for I have brought you a long way. I wanted to talk with you." The tiger