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“ It was pitiuble to see him, Gladys ; he "was like one distracted ; he called conch» ually to Anice. his dead love, that it was fil‘oml no lack of care that he had lost her 0 lih . “ The whole country was aroused, woods were beaten, ponds and lakes were dragged, rewards o‘tl‘ered, but all in \'aiuâ€"â€"\\'e never heard one word of Anice Vane. My father was like a madman. “ ‘ I have lost. Anice‘s child,‘ he moaned from morning to night â€"‘ I have lust her THE MYSTERY OF THE HOLLY TREE “ My father almost lost his reason ; he was like one distracted. He would not be lieve that she had run away. Why should she go?â€"whither should she go? Some accident had happened, he declared. She had gone into the grounds, and had fallen into the lake, or she had been murdered by robbersâ€"anything was preferable to the belief that she had left us. “ She was not at the breakfast-table. and my father, whose fondness for her was something wonderful. sent up some little delieney. which he insisted upon her eutin . Aftern few minutes Tiru e buck wi | the tray, saying she eonl make Miss Vane hear. The“ I felt fr tencdmnd rim upstairs. I tried to force open the door. but all in vain ; and theul sent for the equine. He came in hot haste, his face white and hie hands tremhli “ The door was hmkeu ope ~t. “'0 Opt found the room empty ; there w. of Aniee‘s presence. She had 1 thereâ€"nothing was out of place. She lmd taken neither clothes uor jewels with her. Conjecture as We might, there was no nu- swer to our thoughts; there was nothing to be learned or gained from those empty rooms. from child comfort. him ; he never seemed to sleep, to out. to rest : only one thing moved him and drove him almost mad with indignationâ€" the idea that she might have eloped. He would not suffer it, he would not allow it. ; There were not wanting malicious people‘ who said it was strange Miss Vane should disappear on the same day that Sir Guy and Arthur went away, but it was danger- ous to hint at such a. thing before the squire. His anger linew no bounds. * " I thought tln- same. and went away. \Vhon lht S-lnire mine homa, his first idcn was to ask fur Anise. I told him that she was ill. nnl lwl ganu to her own room. \Ve nelth .r uf ns suspected anything wrong. Quitnenrly tlm next morning. Tirzn. my maid, cnun: to me. and runarkml how strunw it was there was no sound from Mia; ‘.' snc's mum. I thought she was still asleep, and mu! no calla} {or_!9ar. " ‘ Do they forget,‘ he \vonldficry, ‘ that Anicc was but a fsir young child, innocent as an angel, untrained in gnilc and deceit, incapable uf leaving her home and Inc 1' Do they know that they are speaking of two English gcntlcxnon who would disdain to rob me of my child as they would to pick my p0ck_ct 1" ..i p .- I “ \Vhen winter can. my hthcr grew worse; all the comfort of our home was destroyed. When the wind blew uni the rain bmt. against the window, my father cmld not find one moment's rent. 3'1“ due time letters came from (my and Arthnr~fiuyb was flill 0f wonderment, Arthur's full of indignation. The squire read them through with quivering lips, and then threw them down with an air of triumph._ “ ‘hci‘c is the answer to all cahunny,’ he said : ‘ read these, Philippa. You see Guy and Arthur both offer to do all that they can to help in the search. English gentlemen are not such hypocrites and cheats. I fear Anice is deml.‘ A she. 9' ” In the ions v «lurk winter ni ghts I heard him walking up and down the 1"corridor nl ways callinb v hei name. and crying out that he haul lost the child of his dear, dead ” One day nenrthe end of March the rain had poured down in torrents, n cold north wind had been blowingâ€"all was cold, dark ' and desolate. My {other had been more : wretched than usual, and I persuaded him 3 to have a bright fire in the library. and to , let. me read to him. It was night, then. and ‘ quite florid. l I l,,,5,l l I ,,,I “ Months passed. and no tidings came of the lost one. \Vith wonder, with pit- and compassion. Guy mentioned her in 51 his letters : but. he, like ourselves, seemed per- feetly unable to inn-sine what had become of her. Arthur never failed to mention her: but it was with indi rebion against some one or other which cOnId hardly understand. i‘TIWherc is Anicq! Can the rain be family; on her? Oh, Philippa! where is love. “ Time brought no tidings of her. She seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. The long months brought no comfort to us; there were times when I feared that my father would lose his rea- son. 1".-- , “ More than once I funciml l hem-«1n souml outside amongst the treesâ€"a rustle as of some one moving. I went to see, but all was dark and still. â€"‘7‘VV'Vl‘l-1en I tried to comfort him ; but it was {lgcm‘y work, .Glud‘ya. A... I. “ Smhionl '. on the silence of the night- uir, thcromso a long. low. pitiful moan. 'l‘ho squire started from his chair with a cry. I wont, to the window, and, opening it, stcmml out on to the lawn : my father follmvml Inc. "'l‘here, on the. grass. lying prostrate.i drenched with rain, shivering with cold. dying, as we. believed. lay Aniee Vaue.’ With a cry such as I nearer heard before, my father raised her. Gladys. it was the most awful si vht that ever met human eyes. The. rain hadllyeaten upon her. and he. in coughing. had hroken a blood-vessel? 'l‘hc squire raised her in his arms and carried her into the room ; he laid her before the tire. and rang for hol ). I have seen fond mothers with sick ciihlren: hut-l new-r saw anything like my father‘s tenderness to her. “ ‘ She has come. hack to me, my .-\niee my poor Wounded lamb !' “ llnt .-\niee Was deaf to all his loving words She was taken in her own room. and laid upon the bed. lloetma and lllll‘sos were smmnouedâ€" everything that was pos- sible to human skill and human service was done for her ; but it was in vain. 'l‘he doe- tm, mm ,1“. was dyingI of iothnnmation of the lungs, brought on vy the exposure to CHAPTER VLO ((‘oxnxvnnJ K...» “‘ Ho persuaded meâ€"I loved him so long, he persuaded 1110.’ a u ‘ .u > “ ‘ Who pen-sluaded you 2' he asked ; but, Gladys. the poor child mentioned no name. She tried to turn toward me. “ ‘ My darling, why did you leave us ?' he said. To our surprise, she whispered something. Bonding down, we caught the words: “ ‘ He pretended to love you, Philippa,’ she gasped, ‘ but he did not. It was me he loved all the time; he prayed me to go away with him, and I went. “'0 were marriedâ€"I am quite. sure. I remember an early morning and a thick fog, and we stood together to be married, for better, for worse, and I afterward traveled with him.’ “ The squile’a face flushed until overy vein in his templeg “Ina swollen. ' “ Anice heard the nameâ€"a crimson flush lit up her face, her eyes opened wide. . “ ‘ Guy !’ she said, and then fell back dead. i “ ‘ It was Guy 'Brmklyn,’ repeated my father ; ‘ and I pra Heaven to unish him as he has injure this poor chih . The Itraitor, the hypocriteâ€"-to pretend to love you, and to betray her ! He shall answer for it with his life.’ “ ‘ I went up to him and seized his arm. “ ‘ You are utterly wrong, father,’ I said. ‘ She did not accuse Guy.’ ' “ But my father stood erect and proud, holding the dead hand iuhis. “ ' My dead lovo'a child,’ he moaned- ‘ how shall 1 answer for her?‘ “ Aniee never recovered sullicicntly to tell us her story. On the noon of the day fol- lowing the u niro was kneeling on one side of the. bed-~ was on the other. Theclmnge that. had come over that. lovely young face was terrible to behold-4t was livid, with great drops of perspiration on the brow. It was terrible to hear the labored breath. The squire, my father, completely lost his self-eontrolâ€"he cried like a child. “ The efforts she made to say this much were fearful ; now her cheeks grew crnnson, and she punted for breath. i .. ‘ I will do so,’ he reglied, calmly. ‘1 'nover thought, never elieved the poor ‘child had elolied. I repudiated with scorn Emu] contempt the idea that my ward, or your lover, hml heguiled her from us. There ‘were but t\mâ€"â€"Gny Brooklyn and Arthur Brandon. By her own confession shone- compnnicd onehmnl‘ was_ basoly betrayal. “ ‘ He told me I must not write, or you would know, and fetch me away. I prayed him to let. me send one line, and he would not; then four months ago he told me I waslnot his wifeâ€"mot reallyâ€"and I went mm .’ the cold. and from oxhnnstien, caused by the breaking of n bloml-vessel. There was no hope of anving her life ~no hope, even. of ever hearing her story. After u. few hours we felt. sure that she knew usâ€"--her eyes lingered on the sqnire‘u face so loving- l . lie subbed like uchild over her. and ollo )ntont her hands to him, and tried in open , but the weak white lips could utter no words. V “ The doctor told us she could not live beyond sunset uf the next day. “‘ She must have sull‘eretl tortures of hunger and euhl.’ said one of them, ‘ to bring her to this.’ “ When the squire heard that, he beat his breast nlul tore his hair like one beside himself. “ ‘ No wonder,’ moaned the squireâ€"‘ my P09"! lgetmyed cl‘lild.’_ “ ‘ I went mad and run away from him, I do not know where,. I have been wan- dering in some large city, and I have been hun ry and cold ; and then some one told me I must die, and I longed to come home and die at your feet. Iimlked through the cold and the min. and when I reached the house I was afraid. I stood outside your window where the bright “relight shone, and then I fainted.’ “ My father's tears foil like min upon her face. “ ‘ I was married,’ {she saidâ€"‘ I am so sure of it ; but he wlll come back, and he will want to marry you, Philippa. He loved me best all the time.‘ "The squire could contain himself no ‘f‘ \Vlm is it. 2" he cried. ‘ Tell me who is it.’ “ But she did not seem to hear him ; she was logkingyistfqlly at me. “ ‘ He WT“ want {0 marry you, Philippa, but he loved me best. You will not let him forgqt’mg ?'_’_ u- a n vs II I t? ‘ Is it that villain, Guy Brooklyn, who has done this !’ _my father cried: “ ‘ I tell you it was Guy : no one else pre- tended to love you. She uttered his name. Hebe uiled her away with him, and now he wil return and want to marry you for your money; the curse of the living and the «lead shnll rest upon him, Philippe, if you listen to him. lka at that face mul hate him. v“ ‘ Give him the right given to every ac- cused one,’ I said. ' Let him defend him- self.‘ “ Gladys, I wept and pleaded in vain ; my father _w_oulq not. {QM-me. ‘ I an)" that, jud ing from her own words, it was Guy Broofilyn. Iwill write to both. bntahonld tho nmn that she has accused swear by all that is most sacred, I shall not l)cllL‘\'0 him. She is dead and the dead keep their own secrets. “’0 will think he is justified in denying it now : he will think his secret may remain hidden, but it shall not. ' “ All attempts to soothe lIiIII \\ cm in min by the side of that unhappy giIl. llcw rote tno letters, one to Guy and one to Altluu. Arthnr' s Iciily cmno first-wit was II simple, indignnnt enigxl. “0‘ You wish to know tho truth,’ he wrote: ‘cmnc down in Dover. where I have hccn living, and IIka such inquiries us you will. I dmnnml it man right, um] um cuntont to abide by 3:01": ticcision.’ " Before Anicc wu's buried, my father wont. He told me on his return thutho hnql mmlc the most complete and searching investigation into Arthur Brandon's nfl‘nirs uud Inmlonflifv, nml \msquito mnvincml of his iunm'onu‘. or ' N ~ ~ ..-. ,-,, as you will. I demand it aaa right, and Who could helphcr? Nothing but proof am content to abide by your decision.’ of the innocence of Sir Guy. Was he muo- “ Before Aniee was huried, my father cent? Yes; thou h appearances were went. He told Inc on his return that he i against. him, I with not. think him guilty. had made the most complete and searching The man whom l‘hiliipa Carleon lored investigation into Arthur Brandon‘s atl‘airs i could not be anything mt just, pure, and and mode of life, and was quite eonvineed upright. \\'ho,then,was uilty? leould of his innoeenee. not tell» not Siany, not Krthur llrandon, “ Aniee was hnried under the large ey- ‘ if the. word of either of us was to he he- press tree. in Aherdaro churchyard. and in I. lieved ; yet surely some one must have lured the afternoon of the day Guy arrived. 1the. poor girl ;\\\‘uy»~-8mue one. too. who That Was his answer to my father‘s letter. ‘prettnded to love Philippa. It was an Uh. (iladya. never while the sweet summer ’ enigma I eould not, Solve ;' my whole sun shines. and fair llowers ldoom, shall I . thoughts hetame engrossed in the one idea forget that terrihle scene. My father \Vnuld 2 -- how eould I help her 1' not speak to him in the house they must: Christmas was coming round again, and go to Anlco'u grave ; and I, fearful of some grgut traquy followed them: “ ‘It cannot be,’ said my lover, proudly. ‘I have borne more from you, Squire Car- leonI thunl Would have borne from any other mortnl mun. I have my faults, like others; but i never yet sullied my lips with n lie ; und I repeat to you that I um innocent. Since 1 first became acquainted with and loved your daughter, I have never even given one thought to any other wo- mnn ; the whole world is blank and empty to me except where she is. You have most cruelly misjudged me. I tun us proud as you, Squire Carleen. Standing here hy poor Aniee’s grave, I repent that l um us in- nocent'us yourself of all wrong toward her. Will you retract y ur words 1" “ ‘ No.’ replied the squire, ‘uever !‘ “ My lover's face turned very white. “ ‘\Ve must remain strangers, Squire Curleon,’ he said, hunghtily, ‘ until you do so.’ Then he turned to me. ‘l’hilippu,’ he said, ‘you believe in my innocence. I can see you have faith in me. I shall keep my’troth plight to you until you release me. U \[u {ml-liar a‘rnn.‘ Inn nnnrnv nu'nv “ My father drew me angrily away. “ That poor dead girl warned us that you would come back and try to marry Philip- pa,’ he said, that you shall not do so. She has always l) ecu a true. obedient, loyal (laughter to me, and I forbid her, in your presence, under pain of my cursc, eVer to marry ypu.’ “ My fathér's an arwas stern and deep ; be accused Guy of aving lured Auice from herholnc. mul of deceiviu her. He said the curse of Heaven woult [all on the be- “ I take my dismissal from no lips but lwrs,’ he said, proudly. ‘ I bltl you fare- well, Squire Czu'leon; the day will come when you will do me justicc.’ troycr of the innocent. Ho bade him ro- nonnuo all thoughts of me, for he should never marry In€~~thut we should be ported from that. hour. Surh terrible words he said to him ! Uh, Glu'ys. maul ever {or- get them? Then. when the squire had given vent to his furious nngor my lover re- plied. He looked «so noble, no trueâ€"~how uouldnny one doubt him! He raised his right hand to lit-oven, and swm'oho was in- noccnt. “ He turned sway, and my father has never seen him since. That is two years _ ago ; and oh, Gladys, how will it end 1’ He I is innocent, I am sure ; but my father will never believe it. Time will not clear up the mystery of that blighted late and early death. No one may mention Guy's name before the squire, so intense is his hatred, and anger ; for he believes implicitly that} the death of Aniee lies at his door. I know he is innocent, but I can never marry him, 1 fearing my father‘s curse. My father loves Anice's memory dearly. On the day she was buried we collceled everything helL n;- ing to her, and placed all in the room where she had died ; then he kissed the white pil- low where her head had lain, and locking the door, threw the key into the depths of the lake. He could not hear to look at her portraitâ€"the innocent, fair young fare al- . most maddcned him. One day, while he was from home, I sent it away, and he has never spoken of it." “ It is a strange, sad story,” I srid, when she had finished. “ They are both so proud," she continu- ed, sadly. “ My father is proud in his anger and what he thinks just indignation â€" my lover is proud in his injured innocence. They will never speakâ€"~nm'0r meet again ; and my heait will be broken between them." U “at pluilinnn if vnn men uni-n nf his: in- l ‘- ‘ Do you believe me 1" he asked, look- ing steadily in my father 3 face. " ‘ 1 do n n,’ replied the St uiro. ‘ She accused you. Her last won was your nuluo.’ H ‘ Th nannnf. kn ’ nah‘ nnulnvnr nrniunv " No," she repliedâ€"“ hot n nihst my father’s will. I would not, and dare not. I hold obedience to one's parent as a. rent and sacred duty. I did one thing t not I thought my unbroken treth plight to Guy excusedâ€"I.wrote to him essuring him of my unchanged. devoted love, telling him of my entire faith in his innocence ; and I told him that once a yearâ€"on Christmas eveâ€"he might write to me, and once a year â€"â€"on my birthdayâ€"I would see him for n few minutes.” “ Is that the secret of the holly-tree 2" I asked. " Yes,” she replied. “ We dare not send letters by the ost, and I would not bribe servants. “'e lad often lelt little notes for each other in the clefts of that old holly- treeâ€"we used to cell it our post-oilice." “ But, Philippa, if you are sure of his in- nocegige,__yoy are a_t_ libeiity to many him." V “ “'as it in going to nice-t him that you dropped your bracelet, Philippa 3" I asked “3‘99: D“ Yes ; I could not remain with him more than ten minutes. He looked so ill, 30 altered, my heart ached for him. 0h, Gladys, how will it end '3" “ If you do not marry, you will lose your fortune, Miss Carloon." “ Yes ; but I care little for tlnt. \Vhat could money do for me when fate deprives me of my love ?” “ Suppose that, at any time, anything should happen that would tend to prove Sir Guy‘s innocenceâ€"what then '3" “Then all would be well ; but I have prayed for it so long, and it has not happen- ed yet. 1 am growing old in my youth. patient instead of hopeful. resigned instead of happy. There is the beltâ€"we must go now. " It was such a. and story ! Now I under. stood the trouble that seemed to underlie every moment of the squiro'a life; nowl saw why lovers might come and lovers might go, but the smiles of Philippa. Cur. lum wuro for none of them. lloved her demly, but I was powerlesa to help her; her youth and her heuuty Would wane. and day by day her unhappi- uess would increase. \tht eouhl I do for her? I would fuin have seen her happy, but the sacrifice of my life could not have helped her. CHAPTER VII. she would be twenty-four in January. Only one ear more, uni \hio unguificout furtum- won 1! be swept. away from her. It “us not Only flu: loss] deplored; but. it was Mable to think of her youth and her uutyâ€"her wasted life, her unhappy luvu. lcould uut unduru .to think that. the re- maiuder of her life must puss in this fash- ioufqhe fa so bcuutiful, so giftud. “ I do not know," she replied : I am not quite sure. " “ Do youâ€"-prny pardon the questionâ€"do you think he was the one who wronged Auice Vane 1' ' “ I do not know, Gladysâ€"Heaven only knows. Some one \1 as guilty. It \\ as not 1113 ' 1m. e1- ;tlxe squim says it “as not 1113 cousin Althurâ€"I dare not; decide.” But what would I do to help her? I 1' 1 could but. find out the secret of Ani-e the‘o flight 1 Was it likely that] cuuld discover a secret that luul lmlllml the most clover men 2 If love couhl work wmulcrs, then [could du much. hut at the best. it. wo_uhl be gruplng in the {lurk 1qu 6‘ cu' - “ Candidly, I do not see how he could have been guilty ; but it was not Guy. I saLuo mung." ‘ Nor would she. Thinking over all that had been told me, I could not form any opinion. I leftmy decision until he came. He arrived one bright July evening, and I was prepossessed in his favor. He was tall, with military erectness of figure, an easy carriage, and a very handsome face. If there was any faith in his appearance, it was that he was “ too brown.” His eyes and hair were brown, the mustache that shaded his lips was brown. lie had a care- less laugh, and talked in the highest spirits. He was very‘cordial and kind to me. I went uuu'dusv" to the lumberroom, and turned her portrait to the light. I looked at the blue eyes, with their shadow of sad- flmgswat the sweet red lips and the golden uu'. The squiPO s'ecmed pleased ; even Philip. pa liked the prospect of a. visitor. “ Philippa," I said to her that evening, “ are you pleased that your cousin is com~ “ If you could but speak and tell me with whom you left King's Norton," I said ; “ if you could but clear the dark shadow from l’hili|.pu's life 3" That emit?! day the squire seemed much cxuited by thqlafrivalpt tlgg Jmstlbagx ‘ ‘ “ l’hili'ppa," he cried, “ liere is a" letter from Arthur. He is coming homoâ€"six monlhs’ leave of absence. See that his rooms are _prcpurcd._” “ But what do you think about him 2’" I 1)ep§i_§ted:_ _ “ I feel fike a schoolboy coming home, uncle,” he said. “ “Hunt 3 happy, beauti- ful home it is l” “ There has been a. deep shadow on it, Arthurâ€"one that has darkened it forever for me." The young man’s face grew very grave, his voice took quite another tone. “ Poor Anice !" he said ; “how dreadful it was! I suppose that you have no clew, uncle 2" “ I know who did it I" cried the squire, sudden passion flaming in his faceâ€"“ I know! Never mention the subject to me a patient man, and 3:3 tin, Arthur I cannot hear it." I thought Mr. lmndon seemed very much inclined to obey. The evening was spent more happily than any I remembered of late, but next morning, while the young snldier sat watching Philippa. at her drawing he said, suddenly : “ Philippa. if you have no objection, I should like to see poor Anice \ ane’ a grave. Will you and \Iiss Ayrton accompany me 3" “ Yes," she replied, gravely ; “ I am quite willing.” We went ; it was a. pleasant walk through the summer woods. The sun was shining, a thousand birds made music in the spread- ing trees, the wild-flowers were all in the fairest bloom. Arthur Brandon and Phil- ippa talked all the way of Anice. Once he stopped under a large tree. (T0 ms coxrmimn). --unuâ€" ‘\ W‘hutu' A student of natural history gives a most interesting account of a battle witnessed by him between two colonies of_black ants, one of which occu ied the space betWeen the ceiling and mo ofa little shed near his house, and the other a sheltered place some hun- dreds of feet away. The nest in thereof was the one attacked, and a broad, woodm step beneath it was the scene of the conflict. 0n the mornin of the battle, the large, soldier ants of t ie colony in the shed were out on the wall and lloor in great numbers, a strong force holding every approach to the step, while smaller bodies were formed in regular lines on the top of it. Pretty scon there appeared, streaming along the fence from the distant nest, a horde of warriors, numbering man thousands, which presently descended to tie ground, and threw for- ward an attacking column. The skirmish that ensued was exceedingly brisk, the antagonists rushing upon each other, and, with their strong jaws, cutting oil" here a leg and there an antenna, until the floor was strewn with dead and dying. Mean- time, the main body of the enemy was mov- ing deliberately onward in close array, not less than 15,000 strong. When this phalanx reached the step, re imcnt after regiment of the defenders pourct down upon it, and the carnage became terrific. Slowly, but surely, the superior numbers of the invaders com- pelled the brave garrison to retreat, until the step had been ained. Then a number of guards, who but not previously been en. gaged in the fight, ran quickly up to the nest, from which, nmoment later, afresh army rushed, and, descendin the wall, fell upun the fee. The latter, t ieir shattered ranks unable to withstand the fury of the t charge, wavered and fell back. The battle dusted altogether about five hours, and en- } ded in the total rout of the attacking party" ‘\\‘hen the lightin was over, the Workers ' came down from t 10 nest and carried away their own dead, but the corpses of their , rnemies they left to rot upon the field. Trump ---(Jun‘t you spare a little Christmas [rt-sent for an old soldier who lost his 103 in the (Ihurge at (,‘ohl liarhour, Virginia ‘! ('iti/mn ~|3utlonk hero, man, last, month yull toll mu ynuiost that leg in the lmttio of ('m‘inth, Mississippi. Trumpâ€"~80 Itiiti, S0 1 «th : hutthc (‘ennny for this month snya tiw imttlc of Corinth \Ytls fought nt (old ‘l-iul'hiur, mull ain't the mmf to go lmuk on the history of my country. Battle of the Insects. Travel on the shown of Hudson's Buy in mid-winter cannot bu called pleasant, al~ thJuah t'w Hakim". and occasionally tho Jumpuny's otlicers. indulge in it. '1 here is not a two or shrub to break the force of the galops hit comqs bowling down from. tho Arctic circle with a temperature of perhaps 30° below zero. Horses and cattle are un- known on these inhospitable shoes, the dog supplying their place as a beast of burden. The sled used by the Eskimo is known as a komitik. It is of peculiar construction. Its ordinary length is about twelve feet and its width about two and a half. The iloor is made of slats placed about three inches apart ; and can are laced securel with seal thongs to”? the runners, whic i are shod with bone aken from the walrus. Ivory is also used in some cases. In order to make tho kometik run more easily the bone shoeing is covered by a thin coat- ing of ice; this latter is continually wear- ing oil, but may be renech very easily In order to do so the kometik is overturned (whether loaded or not, for if loaded everything is securely lashed on), on or b some lake or other source of \ratu‘. A - though the ice may at at any Illllflil} six or seven feet thick, a native with a seal spear will very soon cut a hole through it, and having done so will first of all let the do vs drink. Then tilling his own spacious mom I he \\ ill go to the kometik and, having scrap- ed tho old broken ice shoding ull‘, deposit the water along the runner in a line stream and with as much precision as if it \rerc pressed through a straw. 'l‘ho temper- ature, being probably down to 30 ° the water of course freezes very rapidly and in a few seconds forms a smooth hard sur- face. The number of dogs in a team va- ries from four to twenty, and depends upon the condition of the animals, the snow, the load to be drawn, etc. Each dog is attached to the kometik by a single line, the length of which varies directly as the merits of its owner. Thus the best dog in the ack is chosen as the leader, and has a line 0 20 or 25 feet in length. In order to have control of the team it is necessary to have a whip of rather extraordinary dimensions. This in- strument of torture has only a short wooden handle of length about 18 inches, but what it lacks in stock is made up in lash, for this latter, made of the hide of the square flipper seal, is about 30 feet long. An Eskimo can, of course, handle his whip with great dex- terity, being not only a le to strike any particular dog in the pack, but any part of its body, and with as much force as the case may require. Zeuxis was one of the most celebrated of painters. His last. great work was the pic- ture of an old woman. The face of the anti- quated dame displayed all of the deformities and defects which make age deplorable. The form was lean and shrivelled. The eyes were bleared and the cheeks hung ghostly on the cheek bones. The gums displayed were toothless. The mouth was sunken and the chin was far protruding. These great de- formities were presented in a style of such ludricrous combination that when Zeuxis, as is usual with artists who have completed a great work. drew hack to contemplate the otl'spring of his fancy. he was excited to such an immodcrate fit of laughter that his joy was turned to pain and he died on the spot. \Yncn the famous comic poet Philemon reached a. very advanced age he happened one day to see an ass out up some figs which a. boy had left upon the ground. The boy returned and stood wondering what had be- come_of the figs. Vfi‘: The Ass has eaten them,” said the aged wit; “ go now and fetch it some water to drink.” The old man was so tickled with the fancy of his own jest that, if we may place any re- liance on history, he also died of laughing; The cream of this jest consisted of its being his own. The Size of the Spider's Thread. I have often compared the size of the thread spun by a full-grown spider, with a hair of my beard. For this purpose, I placed the thickest art of the hair before the mi- crosco , am from the most accurate judg- ment could form, more than a hundred of such threads placed side by side could not equal the diameter of one such hair. If, then, we suppose such a hair to be of round form, it follows that ten thousand of the threads spun by a full-grown spider, when taken together, will not be equal to the size of a single hair. To this, it we add that four hundred young spiders, at the time they begin to spin their webs, are not largu' than a lull-growuonc, and that each of the. 0 minute spiders possesses the same organs as the larger ones, it follows that the exceed- ingly small threads spun by these little crea- tures must be still four hundred times slend- erer, and consequently that four minute spider threads cannot equal in substance the size of a single hair. And if we further con- sider of how many filaments or parts each of these threads consist, to compose the size we have been computing, we are com- pellcd to cry out, “ Oh,what incredible min- uteness is here, and how little do we know of the work of nature !" One superstition which is firmly believed along the coast of the Maritime Provinces is that of the phantom fleet of St. Mary’s Bay, a wild and rockhouml inlet on the toast of Newfoundland. In August, 1862, a ttrrible storm swe )t over the Newfound- land coast and the iomewardbouml fishing fleet, 100 vessels in all, put into St. Mary’s Bay for shelter. There every one of them went down and now when the fog is thick and the storms are high over St. ary's Bay the fishermen believe first a ostly fleet sails thereâ€"the phan s of the lost vessel. I have seen fishermen ready to swear that when seeking shelter in the hay they have seen through the fog and storm that unearthly ileet sweep by and have heard the shouts of men whose hones for years have heen the sport of the icy waves that break on that stormbouml coast. Sheâ€"«I don‘t see why women shouldn‘t make as gnod swimmers as men. lieâ€"Yen â€"--lmt you sec 0 swimmer has to keep his mouth shut. Anastasia (about in he marriml)«“ Ned, socif this reads all right for the invita. lions: ‘ Your presence is rcquostcd~â€"‘ “ Dcvoted ln'nthcr~”8tnp there, sis ! It isn't grammatical. You mean: ' Your presents are requested.’ " flow the Eskimo Travel. Laughing to the heath. A Phantom Elect. I ad 1