PROBATION: A TALK OF THE LANCASHIRE COTTON FAMINE:

I3v MISS JESSIK FOTIIEROILL,

Author of "Henley," "Aldyth," "Tho First Violin," etc.

CHAPTER XXXI. Grout Mother Nature! Kt«n:al, Kood, and blosaod I Ito&r nio ! Hear ray pruyor ! Forsivko mo not in thiß my need ! Myt,ks HEYWOOD's life had become worse and darker than merely a sad. life. It was filled with a wretched pain and unrest, which had been growing like a disease for weeks. His was an earnest, passionate nature, deep and intense ; but there was iuita well-spring of contentment, a some thing essentially sweet and wholesome, which, so long ns no very disturbing clement intruded, left him tolerably at ease with hi* liftl, in spite of the vague dissatisfaction and striving which had led him in earlier days to associate himself with Radical working-men's clubs ; which had made him eagerly devour all kinds of iconoclastic literature, and which had often sent him home, on pny-dav, meditating upon the unequal manner in which wealth was dis tributed. Hut lie had had nothing to make him feel tliis inequality, keenly and cruelly, until, with onosingle circumstance, one single evening's adventure, the turning point in his life came, and he seemed all at once to realise the signiticanco of all these things : wealth, station, and culture, in the shape of Adriemic Missel. From that time hi-, view of things was changed, lie had seen what he felt to be the best, and most beautiful, and desirable thing in the world ; and he did desire it with the ardour of a young man, and a poet, and a lover, all combined, and with an ardour deeper still —the ardour of one who feels that every thing great, and high, and satisfactory lies in one direction, and in the other, blackness, emptiness, death, if death bo the opposite of life. He could never look back or down again ; and yet, the more he looked forwards and upwards, the more did all he saw in the distance seem unattainable and impossible. He had <iuite ceased to visit Auricnne, To he with her now was only a prolonged ache and pain. He watched her wistfully, and noted in his heart each day that passed over without a visit from her. She used to come so often ; now .she never came at all. He knew—everyone knew, that her uncle was dead, and that she was his heiress. .More than once he had hoard that it was likely that she and Sebastian Mallorv would be married, lie felt it to be very likely himself ; but to go and see her, to lioar such a thing from tier own lips, was more than his will had strength to ac complish. Myles had at one time heartily despised Sebastian Mallorv ; ami Inter, with little more reason, had as intensely disliked him. Now that was all changed, and ho himself was surprised to find out how utterly and entirely his resentment had burnt out, vanished, evaporated. He could see his (as he considered him) successful rival without any other feeling than one of quiet, despairing indifference. His most active wish, when he was conscious of actively wishing anything, was that all this could somehow come to an end, that some change would soon take place. The change was approaching, in a manner so unexpected, so utterly terrible, and un thought of, that if his sore and weary heart led him somewhat astray, a just and righteously acting world must not blame him too severely. When the eyes are dim with watching, when every nerve is irri table from a long strain and a cruel endless tension, when calamity quickly succeeds calamity, it is not given to all men to act exactly' us. they ought to do.

On the morning of the day on which Mrs Mallory had boon so signally defeated as regarded Miss Jilisset, Myles Heywood received a letter. Address and contents were alike in a handwriting unknown to him. The epistle was simply headed, "Thanshope," with the date following. He turned it over, and the subscription puzzled him—"A Christian Well-wisher," it was signed. Marvelling at the whole thing, he began at the beginning and rend it through. "Do you know," began the "Christian Well-wisher," " what position you are standing in ? Do you know to whom you really owe your situation ? You owe it to your* friend Mr Sebastian Mallory. Ask him if he did not get Canon Ponsonby's casting vote, which with his own got you iv. I thought you were determined to owe nothing to Tiim. Do you know, that with all his fair professions, he is stealing a march upon you in one direction—that if you don't either make sure of a certain young lady, or give her up altogether, you will soon look a great fool ? I say this because it is well known that you and she arc, or were, great friends. Ask anyone you know, almost anyone in the town of fhanshope, what is said about you and her, and see if I have not written the truth. There is one way to open you out of this, and one only—you can leave the place. I take a real interest in you, and advise this supposing that you do feel some grief at having caused her to be spoken about in such a manner. Of course, you are at liberty eitiier to take my advice or leave it. 1 should think there cannot be much doubt which is the most manly, not to say Christian course. A Christian Well'-wehek."

He Jnid the letter clown, feeling that lie was trembling —feeling almost as if" his limbs failed him. He did not speculate as to who had written the letter. Much of it seemed true to him. Sebastian's love for Adrienne was no delusion of his jealous fancy. Nothing was said against her ;he was blamed, and it was hinted that others spoke lightly of her, He was told to test the report, to inquire for himself; the challenge was a fair one. That he owed his situation to Sebastian Mallory's influence was nothing; such things as that had now lost the slightest power to distress him, That Sebastian was " stealing a march " upon him—that idea was so ludicrous and so pitiable as to make him smilo drily in the midst of his own torture. There was no sting in that. If Sebastian chose to woo Adrienue, if she chose to receive his wooing, who should say them nay ? He had no such right at least. He dwelt for a moment on these points, and then came the rush of horror and disgust, the sickening, dreadful part of it. He shook with fury, and with misery too, as he realised that <;there were people who had watched him and her; that wrong construc tions had been put upon their friendship ; that people gossiped about her—coupled her uame with his. It stung him into madness. There bust be something in it. " Ask," said the writer, " ask and see if I have not written tshc truth." To advise him to go away—to\ appeal to his manly f eelin" !It was like aVhideous dream, which heoouldnot at first gVasp. His heart was sore and aching already ; this blow seemed

to crush him. His nerves had been strained for weeks past ; he saw nothing in its proper light or just proportions. He thrust the letter into his breast-pocket, and, driven by necessity, went out to his work. How he got that work accomplished ho conld not tell. Adricnne was not there, or he did not think he could have struggled through with it. At noon he took his way home again. Crossing the Towniield, he met Harry Ashworth, who joined him, wishing him good-day, and observing : " Mylcs, lad, you don't look so well. What ails you ?" „.,', " Nothing, nothing ails mo," .said Myles ; and then there Hashed a sudden thought in his mind : that letter-said "Ask, and see if I have not written the truth." Ho would put it to the test now; no time like the present. "I'm telling lies," said he ; "something does ail me. Harry, are you my friend ? " Ay, for sure I am, old lad." " Then come and prove it. Come with mo into our house ; I want to show you something." They were close at homo. Myles led the way, and Harry followed him into the parlor, the front room, now stripped of almost all the furniture and ornaments which had formerly been the pride of Mary's life. "See here !" said Myles, his eyes filled with a sombre fire, and his lips twitching a little, as he pulled out the letter ; " read this, and tell me, when you've done, if you tnow who's meant in it." Harry looked surprised, but took the letter and read it. Mvles watched him, thinking what a good idea it was to make him read the letter. If the report wore un founded, he ivould not guess who was referred to ; and ii it were true, he would. Harry's face changed, grew amazed, em barrassed, a.s Sic read on. When he had finished the letter, he folded it up, and returned it without speaking to its owner. He did not look at Myles, but out of the window, as he said : " It's a very (inner kind of a letter. "Well," said Myles, obliged to raise his voice, but desirous that neither Mary nor Edmund should overhear the conversation, "can yougivemeaguess, lad,as to who the lady is that's spoken of?' "Well," said Harry, rather confusedly, " I have heard some talk about you and— and—that lady." . "Suppose I don't know who is meant ? Suppose it's all a riddle to me?" said Myles.

But Harry shook his head, saying : " Nay, nay, that won't do." "But tell me who you think it is," said Myles impatiently, desperately ; " tell mo, for God's sake ! I will know, Harry ; so out with it." " You must remember, it's no tale of mine—it's only what I've heard ; and I believe the lady meant is Miss Blisset. Fact is," he added decisively, "I know it is 1" Again Mylcs'nlips quivered a little,as he said : . ...

"You said you were my friend, Harry You must tell me what you've heard."

" Well, it's useloss to deny that there ha story going about that before her uncle died' she was in love with you, and that you said so often; but I don't believe it, old chap. You don't think I believe it all ?" "That I said she was in love with me?" said Myles, in a voice that had grown al most hoarse.

"Yes; and that when you went to their house, it wasn't exactly to see the old gentleman but —" "There, that will do !" said the other, holding up his hand, and turning away siokened. It was too hideous. If any such rumour had penetrated to her cars ! He could not speak, till Harry in an ill-judged moment said: " Nay, there's nothing to take on about so much, Myles. Some enemy of yours has writton that letter—some one as wants you out of the way. Can't you see what lie's driving at when ho advises you to go? Likely enough tome one as thinks lie might got your place if you were gone. But you're not the sort of chap to pay any attention "

" The advice is good," said Myles curtly, " Very likely I shall take it. Do you know who set this tale going ?" he asked, turning to Harry with a look which startled the latter.

" That's just what no ono cor. tell," said he. "It seems to be known everywhere, and yet we can't tell wheru it comes from." "Though you give it the benefit of free discussion. -Well, I've found out-what I wanted to know. There's only one thing more. If you care forme or mine—and we've known each other a good many years now—you'll never speak of what we have spoken of this morning." "My hand upon it," Baid his friend. "Never, so long as I live." They loft the room. Harry departed by the back way to have a word with Mary, and to otter to come and sit up that night with Edmund, who was much worso. The offer was accented, and Harry wont away. The midday meal was again a very sad ono. Myles ate nothing and said nothing; and Mary, full of forebodings, waa almost as bad.

After dinner, the young man went out again—up the street he hated, to the room ■which had become a purgatory to him. How ho loathed the sight of that long building with the many windows and the well known faces, it seemed to him as if every qyemustbe fixed upon him, every finger pointing at him, Work waa not over until late that after noon. It waa six o'clock, or after, when Mylcs got home again, and, on going into the house, found that Mary was sitting up stairs with Edmund; bo after brooding a little, his mind full of wild, half-chaotic projects and ideas, he left the house and wandered out, he knew not whither. At last he found himself in the park, pacing about the broad terrace, and looking, with eyes that saw nothing, across the idle town and tine nearer lulls, to the blue, calm moorland ridges, far away to the north% It was a scene he had loved, half unconsciously, from his childhood^ up, but to-day it was without joy—almost without existence for him.

At last" he seated himself on a bench, situated in a kind of rockery which ran along one side of the terrace. The seat was a little retired in a hollow of the rock-work, and there he remained, and gradually he turned his back upon the prospect and his face to the wall, and hid his face in his arm and fought alone, as well as he could, with the misery and despair which rushed ove him like a flood. He saw no point of cheer fulness or light in all his life's sky. All was black and thick and overcast.

" This is no fit place for me to stay in," he thought. " I must get away as soon as I can. If I go, all the lies will die out quickly enough, and then—there's another man who is ready to fight her battles for her, and he may see her as much as he pleases, and there's no harm in it."

How long ho had remained there motion less and miserable he did not know. Ho had forgotten all outside things, and "was busied solely with his self-introspection. At last, however, distant voices first, and then approaching footsteps, which advanced slowly and with many pauses, penetrated to his abstracted ear. He did not move. Why should anyone notice him, or think of him ? Still less did he move when he distinctly

heard and recognised Sebastian Mallory'a voice close to him, saying : "And then all slander will bo silenced, and there will he no more misunderstand ings All will be clear between us. His voice was deep with love as he spoke, and to each vibration of it Myles s heart seemed to give an answering throb. " Quite clear, as it should be," replied the voice he loved best, and it trembled °They paced past. Myles hid his face more deeply in his folded arms. He heard Sebastian kiss her hand, and then their voices died away-their footsteps too, and at last Myles raised his head and changed his position. He -was half puzzled at the change which had come over him, at the quiet apathy which seemed to fill Ins whole soul. He had heard those words spoken which he thought would be harder than any other words to bear, and yet he fonnd him self sitting or. in the same place, his pulse beating no faster, his breath coming no more quickly. Such utter indifference lie felt to be ominous, and yet though he tried lie could bring no different feelings forward; he repeated to himself all he thought he had lost, all he believed Sebastian had won; conned it over as a devotee might tell las beads, but it had no effect. _Hefelt_no spe cial pain or indignation, .„. ■•-" — , . And yet, when he rose with the instinc tive intention of turning his steps home wards, he found that he was incapable of going home. He recoiled from the very idea of entering the house, or speaking to any one he knew. He stood reasoning with himself about it. "Why shouldn't I go home? Home is surely the best place. Molly is there, and Ned. I ought to go and stay with him ; he'sso ill." And he forced his feet towards home, lint it was uselesn; he felt it ini possible to enter the house. "I know what 1 want," ho reasoned within himself. " I want a good stretch of a walk, right over the moors, and away from this smoky hole. There's nothing like a moorland breeze for blowing away un healthy fancies. Harry used to say so, and he's tried it often enough, and in trouble enough, poor lad." He smiled. He found himself pitying Harry Ashworth with an intensity of com miseration such as he could not by any means wring out for his own sorrows. Hut he congratulated himself. A long, long walk, a walk of twenty miles or so, to prove to himself that he was still young and strong, and swift of foot, and that six weeks' clerkship drudgery, and six months' alter nate hot and cold, hope and fear, doubt and despair, had not impaired ono iota his strength and endurance ! That glorious moorland air, blowing keen and fresh, though it was pure, from the north, over the top of Blackrigg ; there was surely not a <*rief, not a solitude-nourished fear and sor row, that its strong bracing breath -would not blow clean away ! By this time he had left the park, and was walking quickly down tho streets in a northerly direction. He met one or two friends and acquaintances before he got fairly out of the town ; he returned their salutations quite mechanically, and still walked on. Just outaidoTaanshope, aa the suburb of Bridgefold began, there stood a well-known public house, the Craven Heifer; and, as he was passing its door, someone hailed him.

"Eh, My leu 1 I say, Myles, is yon you ?" He looked up and saw a man stand ing in the doorway—a man whom ho had. known years ago, whohad once worked side by side with him in the factory, and had left and gone over into Kosscndale before Myles had been promoted from the weaving shed to the warehouse. He stared, blankly at the man, who had been drinking_, and though by no means drunk, was de«idedly elevated.

"Come in, mon!" he cried. It's years sin' I saw you. Come in and hare a glass, for old acquaintance sake. I'll stand it "

He would not be gainsaid, but rolled out, and pulled his former friend into the tap room There were half a dozen men there, all more or less happy and free from care, as it seemed to Myles. They welcomed him noisily, and his friend asked him, with un necessary affectiohatcness of tone and man ner, what it should be. "What? Oh, anything; What are you having yourself?" said Myles, greeting iirst one and then another of them, and thinking, with a kind of savage mirth, within himself, that there '.cere more kinds of pleasure in the world than one; since ho could not have one kind he might as well try another. He would see whether these men, who seemed so pleased to see him, were really such bad company after all. And he sat down, and waited until a girl brought him a glass of steaming hot punch —whisky punch; that was what they were drinking. "Now, then," cried his acquaintance, "good luck to you, Myles! Here's to our next merry meeting, oh ?" "To our next!" said Myles, raising the glass to his lips, and then, even as it touched them, feeling as if ho had suddenly come to his senses, Tic put the glass down on the table. " Not yet 1" ho said, half aloud and got up from his seat, and walked out of tho room, shaking off the hands that were out stretched to stay him, and unheeding the angry expostulations which came after him.

" Pah !" he exclaimed, as ho took his way along the the road again. "I'm not come to that yet." It was a long and toilsome road that led from the town of Thanshopc, through some outlying suburbs, to a large manufacturing village called Hnmertqn, which lay on the very skirts of Yorkshire, closed in on all aides by the great ridges of Blackrigg and some neighbouring wild and desolate moors. Ho took the road along which Hugo and Sebastian had once driven, and the sun had set as he turned his face towards the lulls with that strong sensation of oppressive apathy and indifference ever at hia heart. Tho night was descending; the " stars rushed out," as he at length gained the complete solitude of the moors, and, turn ing aside from the road, plunged half knee deop into the thick heather and ling, which was the only vegetation about there. He walked for a very short time, as it seemed to him—really for hours—battling with the horrible sensations of a great, black, yawning, hideous blank,' a huge emptiness, an eioiges nicht, which completely overpowered him. He was unconscious how far he had gone, or where he was, or that he was even weary, when suddenly he found himself stumbling over the knolls of heather, and, looking up,found it was dark. The summer night had closed in, and he, for aught he knew, might be twenty miles away, or thirty from Thanshope.

He thought ho would sit down and rest a little, so he sank down tipon the friendly heather, and found that it formed a soft and yielding bed, and that the air, which played around his head and face, was cool, and pure, and sweet. For a moment, he found a blessod sensation of rest and relief, and then all things seemed softly to swim and fade around him; with sweeping wing Sleep came upon him, and laid ncr finger upon his eyelids, and bade the wcarjr brain rest. He sank gradually down in the hollow of the heather, and a deep, dreamless slumber overcame him, and saved him. Never had sleep been a more beneficent visitant; never had kindly Nature taken to her soft arms a more weary, heartsick

child of hers, than she did that summer night, when she offered to Myles Heywood rest upon her own brond bosom.

CHAPTER XXXII. SUNBISE.

MakV Heywood, all the weary afternoon of that weary day, sat beside Edmund's, bed and nursed him, with fear at her heart that the. nursing would be of no long duration. Thefevor which had consumed him was over, but the weakness which remained was terrible—it was a weakness from which, as Mary dimly felt, there would never be any rallying. She had brought sewing and knitting upstairs into the little bedroom, and she drew down the blind " to keep the sun out," a» they both said. Edmund lay perfectly still. She asked Mm if she should read to him, but he smiled a ■ little, and shook his head. Neither of them knew how very near the end" was, Edmund, it he could have known, would have been very glad, and Mary would have been so miserable that it was well she did not know. , " I could like to .see Myles a rat, said. Edmund at last; "I nc fcr see him now, hardly. He's quite different from what he was." ~ ~ „. "He's not happy, said Mary. "I don't rightly know what ails him, but its summat very bad, I'm sure." '• Oh, he doesn't like bein' out o work. No more should I, if I was him. He's ne'er bin u«ed to such pinchin' work as tins. They keep him a long time at yon shop." " Ay, they do. Harry Ash worth said he'd conic and sit wi' thee to-neet, Ned. Would thou like it ?" Edmund assented, with a look of pleasure, and there was silence, while the afternoon wore on, and at last Mary's head began to droop. She was weary with sorrow, with working, and with watching. The atmos phere of the room was close and heavy, although Mary had conscientiously tried to follow 0 out the doctor's directions about keeping it ventilated, She could not keep her eyes open, but slept in her chair until Edmund's feeble touch on her arm awoke her, and she started up. "Eh, whatisit.lad?" " I could so like summat to drink, Molly," said he gaspingly. " And I think there's summat not rect wi' Myles. I heard him come in and sit quite still for a bit, and now he's gone out again, without comin' up here, or waitin' for his tea or any thing." Thoroughly awake, Mary hurried down stairs, and found emptiness and solitude. She could see that Myles had been in. She could see the chair that he had drawn up to the table and pushed away again, and she wondered and was uneasy at his going out thus, without word' or message. . The kitchen, too, felt close. She threw up the window, and set the back door opjn to let some air in. Then she roused the fire, and set the gently singing kettle upon it,and brought out the tea-things. She pre pared some tea for Edmund, and took it up stairs to him. He had said he was Tery thirsty, and he took the cup eagerly, and put his lips to it, then put it down again. " I feel very faint, Mary ; I eon't take that. I mun hare a little -bran "

He had fainted, and it was some time before she succeeded in restoring him to consciousness. " Eh, I wish Myles was here ; I wish Harry would come," she kept murmuring to herself, looking with anguish upon the poor worn face, which had now the stamp of the approaching end set upon it in un mistakeable characters. At last a knock at the outer door informed her that Harry Ashworth had come. She ran down stairs and let him in, drawing him into the kitchen, and when they were there sat down upon her rocking chair and began to cry heartily. " Why, Mary, what ails thee.lass?" said Harry, taking her hand, " Myles is gone out—ldon't know where —and yon poor lad upstairs hasn'trso much longer to be here," said Mary, looking at him with her tearful eyes. " Thou munnot leave me yet awhile, Harry." Whether the presence of a great mutual sorrow broke the barrier which nad hitherto existed between these two, I know not. As Mary begged him not to leave her, their eyes met, and something in those eyes gave Harry the courage he had never before Been able to summon to his aid. It was as if by a mutual impulse that they bent towards each other, and their lips met-for consola tion and reassurance; and Harry, with a wonderful sense of strength and courage, pat his arm round Mary's waist, saying:

" There's nowt I'd like so well as never to leave you at all, Mary, if thou could look at such a poor, deaf, marred chap as me. Sometimes I think thou could, and some times I'm sure thou couldn't. Dost think thou could make up thy mind to tak me ?| "I made up my mind long ago what I'd do if ever tuou asked me," said Mary naively. ' "And what was that?" "Why, to takeih.ee for sure," she an swered. Harry, smiling, looking on her with amaze and admiration, ventured on another kiss, and said: " Eh, but I have been a fool not to speak to thee before." She smiled a little, and then, the remem brance of the troubled present returning to her.said: "Imvery happy, but we mun think of poor Ned, just now. Thee go upstairs and tell him what thous done. He always were suspicious about thee. It'll cheer him up like, and I'll come after thee in a minute or two." . ■ Just for a few moments the news had the desired effect upon Edmund; ho shook hands with Harry, smiled, and looked what he had not voice enough Ip say. But the same chill look of coming death was upon his face; and Mary, as Myles still did not come, could not rest until she had been out and brought the doctor back with her. The doctor was a busy man. He made a very brief visit-r-said nothing much in the sick room, but ordered some restorative, and, when Man' followed him downstairs and tremulously asked his opinion, said brus quely, but not at all unkindly: "My good girl, you must make up your mind to lose Mm. I cannot even assure yon that he will live till morning." Kestraining her tears, Mary went upstairs again, and with Harry resumed her watch by the sick lad. They were slow and solemn hours. They saw the end approach ing under their very eyes ; they saw death's grey seal stamping its impress more and more visibly upon the features, and one on either side the narrow little bed they sat, while it grew deep night, and still Myles did not come home. "What can be keeping him?" the girl uneasily wondered again and again; but she dared not speak her wonder, for every time that Edmund roused from the lethargy which wa3 settling more and jnore heavily upon him, he looked round with an anxious gaze, and a vague astonishment at the absence of that brother who had been his stay and protection all his weak and painful life.

Midnight passed, and still he came not; and still the face on thojpillow grow greyer and more deathlike. Two o'clock passed, and yet all was as it had been. Towards half-past two, Mary, going softly to the window, raised a. corner of the bund, and beheld the first flush of dawn in the east, as

it may be seen at that hour on a June morning. Her heavy eyes looked across the houses, across the town, to where the pure sky, with a coel, bright light, Bhowed the ridges.of the moors. S&e looked lack into the room. Harry's eyes-had followed her, and hung upon her faec ; and Ed mund's eyes, too, were opened wide, bright, and clear. His voice had regained, a last flicker of strength, as he said distinctly: s ■ "Wind up the blind, Molly, and- open) the window a bit. Let me see the sun rise." ,

Speechless, Mary complied. A waft of pure, fresh morning air was borne into the " room through the open window, Thea there was a pause. From where he lay, • Edmund could see the broadening rose-flush in the east, and then suddenly the chimes from the : spire rang out ; three wa#i solemnly tolled, and in a. moment there .'•' Tang out upon the slpeping town, resting from its troubles, tlic sweet old tune, ".Life\ let us cherish!" Mary heard the tune, ".Myles's tune," as she called it, and won-. dercd longingly where he was. She re-i turned to the bedside, and Harry went to ' the wiudow. Edmund had closed his. eyes,, again, and another quarter had .chimed,] when Harry exclaimed- " He's th ere! He's coming!" ■ ' "■■ f\ In a few moments nioro Mylcs stood in the room. There were very few words more. They all stood round the bed, and Edmund ' held his brother's hand. In the watching him, the others had no time to notice the it haggard look on Myles's face. Day grew broader, and life waned. Four was chim ing melodiously, the first stir of life -was' audible, as Edmund quietly breathed his last.

Mary was sobbing—the siinrise was over ' —and day, full, glowing, and brilliant, poured in upon tho dead face. . (To be Continued.)

Essay on the Dog. ■■• - '■ '«tXtt|t The dog is a digitigrade carnivorous mam. mal. This will be news to most persons, ■ who had always supposed that a dog was simply a dog. It has been bruited about that the dog in the best friend to man among the brute? creation. 'iX,

He pants after the thief. When once he fets hold of the thief's pante, lie makes reaches. . ~ ,'"j A barking dog never bites; that is to say, when he begins to bite he stops bark ing. Conversely, a biting dog nevar barks, i and'for similar reasons, : ' | Thehair of a dog will cure his bite. This ' in a cure-ious superstition among hair brained young men who are fast going to ' the dogs. Dogs are dentists by profession. They insert teeth without charge. The sea dog loves his bark. Did yflft" ever see dog that didn't t ■ rj T Tho bark of a tree is unlike the b( itk of a dog. Even a dogwood know this. Dogs are not always kind, though there are many kinds of dogs. Every dog has his day, although dog'days last but a few weeks in the year. There must be a Sirius error here, | i The dogs' star is the dogs' planet. ,■ They planet so that their days come while the, star is in the sky. They do not fear it. It is not a Skye terrier.

When a ddg enters a pitched battle he uses the dog's 'tar. Brutus said, "I had rather be a dog andj bay the moon than such a Roman." He had seen the dogs roamin' around on the bay. ' : ■'■''' They never got over the bay. i Sea? A living dog is said to be better than a dead lion. There's no lyin' about this, but a dead dog is dog gone bad. Tray was a good dog, but tres is worse than the duce when it is against you. Dogs were the original Argonautß. They, have never, given over their search for the] iloas. The bull dog is a Stubborn fellow. He is not easily cowed. A great many stories about the dog have obtained currency. Tho_ man who has left a part of his clothing with the dog lias cur rent. See ?

Puppies are born blind. They are not see doga then. - / ! There are many types of dog, including! dogucrrotype. But perhaps we had better paws here. Howl this do for the dog!—" Boston. Transcript."

Chained Himself.—How a Texas, Farmer Arranged for his Death from Hydrophobia.

A Dallas, Tex., letter say 3 : "A tragic death has just occurred in our neighbouring County of Hill worth relating* and worthy of Virginius or any other Koiiian father. One year ago George Arnold came to Dallas j on private business, and while walking the streets was bitten by a worthless cur which waa frothing at the mouth, and showing other symptoms of hydrophobia. Mr Arnold became alarmed atu^ very much; excited when convinced in his own mind the dog was mad. He werij to a physician, and had the wound severely cauterised. Then, going home, he was still very uneasy, and dreaded hydrophobia bo much that he hunted up a madstone and had it applied for several weeks, off and on. Ho took' every otherprecaution which was suggested, resting all the time under a mortal dread that the virus had gone into his system, and would sooner or later kill him. He had a wife and several small children living on a rather isolated farm, and the* thought that he might; suddenly lose his reason and harm his little babes horrified him. Tbe other day he began: to experience strange feelings, andatonce| concluded his time had come.. He then procured a twelve-foot trace chain and strong lock and went to the woods. •■ < After writing his wife a calm letteV, in which he ! told her what was about to happen, giving directions as to his wisbeß after death, and pouring out a volume of love for her and her children, he ran the chain round a tree, drew it through the large ring at the c ad, and then wound the other end around lus ankle, so tight that it would not slip the foot, locked it with the lock, and threw the key far beyond his reach. The body was found two days after, still chained to the tree. There was all the evidence necessary to show the Jior. riblo death from hydrophobia. The ground was torn up to the full length of the chain, the nails of the fingers wrenched oft all his front teeth out in scratching and biting the tree, and every thread of cloth ing off his body. , . ... i " The body was dreadfully lacerated with these, the only weapon the madman couia use. He had judged rightly what would, have been the consequence had he remainea at homo, and knowing that there was no human skill that could have cured nun, preferred death alone and in that way to doing harm to those so near and dear w him as a wife and children.

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, NOVEMBER 19, 1881,

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Messrs E. Cox and Son, Dental Surgeons, 4, Wyndham-street (between the National Bs.nk of N.Z. and Messrs Wkitaker, Rua« sell, and Buddie), Auckland, N.Z.HAW«I