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wm "T'"'* --'â- ..- â- *'«.. LJw-Jt- .ij».jim..,.- U05T ALICE - GHAl'TBR- 1. â-  , Why aid 1 marry ber? I often aekcd nyself the question, in the days that 8uocc«Aed our honeyuaooij. By right. I aibould have married no one. Yet 1 loved her, as I love lier still. She was, perhaps, the strangest char- acter of her age. In her girlhood I could not comprehend her ; and often think whea I ral« my eyea to her grave, quiet face, as she sit.s opjMwite me at <linner. that 1 do not compre- hend her yet. There are many thought* working in her brain of which I know nothing, and flaslu's of fooling look out at her eyt« now and then and go back again, as captives might steal a glimpse of the outer world through their pri- â- on bars, and turn to their brick-wall- ed solitude once more. She is my wife. I have her and hold her us no other can. 8be bears my name, and sits at the bead of my table ; she rides Ijeside me in my carriage, or takes my arm as we walk ; and yet I know and feel, all the time, that the darling of my past has fled from me for ever, and that it is only the gho^ of the gay Alice whom i wen in all the bloom of her bright youth', that lingers near me now. She was not a child when 1 married tWr, though she was very young. I mean, that life had taught her lessons which are generally given to the grey-hlaired. and had laid burdens upon her which belong of right to the old. She had been an unloved child, and at the age of sixteen she was left to her- self, and entirely dependent on lier own exertions. Friends and family BUe hud none, so she wa.^ accustomed laughingly to say ; but 1 have since found that her sisters were living, and in happy homes, even at the time when â- be accepted that awful trust of her- elf. and went out into the great world to fulfil it. Of this part of her life she never speaks; but one who knew her then has told me much. It was a time of struggle and pain, as well it might have been. Fresh from the life of a large boarding-schbol, she was little fitted for the bustle of a great selfish city; and the tears came to my eyes â- a i think, with a kind of wonder, on tbe child who pushed her way through difficulties at which strong men have quailed, and made herself a name, ajid a position, and a home. She was a writer,â€" at fin* a drudge, for the weekly press, poorly paid, and unappre- ciated. Jly-and-by. brighter days dawn- ed, and the wolf went away from the door. She was admired, read, sought after, andâ€" above allâ€" paid. Even then •be could not use the wisdom she had purchased at so dear s rate. She held ber heart in her band, and it was wrung ondt orture every day. "I ma^ as well stoo breathing as ((top loving." she would say, witn a happy smile. "Don't talk to me alKiut my folly. Let me ^o on with my toys; and. if they break in my hand, you can- not help It, and 1 sh<ill not come to you for sympathy." She w.«a not beautiful ; but something â€"whether it was her bright, happy face, or the rcstlesa gaiety of tier mannerâ€" Iwwitched people, and made them like her. Men did Uw maddeat things imaginable for her sake : and not only young men in whom folly was pjir- donable, but (huso who should have been too wise to be caught by the sparkle of her smile, or the gay ring- ing of her laugh. She did not trust them; her early life had taught her better; but I think sh.^ liked them for awbile, till some newer fancy came, and then she danced past them, and was gone. it was in (he country that I met ber first ; and there she was more her- self thin in the city. We were distant relatives, though we had never seen each other, and the Katiss sent me to spend luy summer v.-u'jition with my molber's uunt, in a country village, whvre she was already domesticated. Had I known this, 1 should have kept my (lisljinoe; for it whs only a four- teenth or fifteenth cousinship that lay between us, and 1 had a kind of horror of her. 1 hardly knew why. 1 was a. steady-going, quiet sort of law- yer, and hated to have my short boli- oay rest and quiet broken in upon by a fine lady. I Bi\id as much to my aunt, in return for her announcement of ? Alice Kent is here." with which she greeted me. She looker over her spec- tacles in quiet wonder as I gave her a slight sketch of the lady's cily life, W I had had it from the lips of "Mrs. Orundy" herself. ••Wellâ€" live and learn, they say. Hut whoever would think it was our Alice you are talking of, Frank I However. I II say no more about her I You'll have £l«nly of time to get acquainted with nr. In the mnoth you mean to pass were. And we are clad to see you, and your bed-room la ready,â€" the one you used to like," 1 took up my bat, and strolled away 10 have a look at the farm. IJy-«nd-by, J got over the orchard wall, and cross- ed the brook, and tbe high road, and WKinl out into the grove beliind the house, whose farthest trees were grow- ing on the side of the hill which looked •o blue and distant from my chamber window. It was an old favorite place ot mine. A broad wagon led through the w<M)fiB, out to a. clearing on the other side, where was a little sheet ot water, called The Fairy's Looking- glass, and a beautiful view of a lovely counlry. wjth (ho deep green hills ly- ing down in I tie distance, wrapiied in a. soft f leeoy raant le of cloud and lilwe. I could. think of nothing, when t stood tb^re, on a fine sunshiny day, but th*' 16fifc' gaze ot Ilunynn'ti Pil- grim througn the shepherd's ghi.ss. at the l)eiiuliful city towards which lie wim Joijrntyring. And it seemed .some- times <i8 if I could wander "ovc-r the tulls and far away," and lose inywif in qae of the fair valleys at the foot Ot. I base bills, and he content never t« come out nhd face the weary world any more. I v/alked slowly tb'roucb tbe woods. with' the sunshine falling through the green Joavea of the young leeches m chequered radiance on-.my path, draw- ing in long breMkiib ot libe frestif air, and feeling a tingling in my veins and a gl'jw at> my hejrrl, as if -the *lood" were /lowing newly tbere, lentil I came to the little circulor grove Df pines and h«mlo<ik» that led out upon the Fairy's ijooking-gluss. Something stirred «is I pierced my way through the branohcs. and 1 heard a low growl. 'A girl was luilf-sitting, half-lying in the sunshine l>eside the little lake, throwing pebbles into tbe water, and watching tbe ripples that spread and widened to the other shore. A great black Newfoundland dog was standing between me and' her. showing a formi- dable row of strong white teeth, and looking me threateningly in the face. She started, and looked sharply round, and saw me standing in the little grove with the dog lietween us. She burst out laughing. i felt thit I was cutting rather a ridiculous figure, but i put a bold face upon the nuitter. and asked coolly. "Are you Alice Kent ?" "People call me so." "Then I suppose I may call you cou- sin, for I am Frank Athertont" "Cousin Frank I We have been ex- pecting you this week. When did you come ?'' "Just now." She made room for me beside her. We talked long, about our family, our mutual friends, and the old homestead of tbe Atbertons, which she hod seen, though 1 had not. She told me about the house, and our cousins who were then living there, and I sat listening, looking now and then at her, as she sat with the sunshine falling round her, and the great dog lying at her feet. 1 wondered, almost as my aunt had done, if this was indeed the Alice Kent of whom 1 tiad heard so much. She was diressed plainly, very plainly, in a kind of grey material, that fell around ber in light soft folds. A knot of plain blue rilibon fastened her linen collar, and a gypsy hat, lying beside her, was trimmeowith the same color. Her watch chain, like a thread of gold, and a diamond ring, were the only or- naments she wore. Yet I had never seen a dress 1 had liked so well. She was tall, too tall. I should have said, bad she been any one else ; for, when we were standing, her head was almost on a level with mine, and slender, and quick and agile in all her movements. Her brown hair was soft and pretty, but she wore it carelessly pushed away Irom her forehead: not arranged with that nioety 1 sliould have expected in a city belle. Uer features v.cre irre- gular, full of life and spirit, but de- cidedly plain : her complexion fair, her mouth rather large, frank and smil- ing, her eyebrows arched, as if they were asking questions; and her eyes large, and of a soft dark grey, very pleasant to look into, very puizling loo, as 1 found afterwards to my cost. Those eyes were the only beituty she possessed, and she unconsciously made the most of them. Had she been a Car- melite nun. she would have talked with them: aiie could not have helped it. When they laughed, it seemed their normal stnteâ€" tbe bright Iwamiug glance tbtsy gave ; but. when they dar- kened suddenly and grew soltur and diaper, and looked up into the face of any unfortunate wi^Ut with an ex- pression peculiar to themselves, hea- ven help liim I Though 1 had knows ber only five minutes, 1 felt this, when 1 chanced to look up and meet a curious glance she bad fixed upon me. Bhe bad ceased to talk and was sitting, with her lipi apart and a lovely color numtling 'n ber ohoek. studying mv face iuteniiy, when our eyeu met. There was an electric kind of tibuck in tbe gaze. II saw the color deepen and go up to ber lurebead, and u shiver raji over me trom head to fool. It was dangerous for me to watc^i that Mush, t>ut I did ; and I longed to know its cmuae, and wondered what thought bad brought it. "Fred, bring me my hjit," she said to her dog aifeirting to yawn. "It is (imu for us to go home to supiior, i supiHjse. Are you hungry, cousin Frank f" "Yes â€" no," I answered, with my thought still running on the blush. She laughed good-mtturedly, and look thu hut from I lie Newfoundlomd, wlio hiid brought it in hLs mouth. "How foiid you 4ir« of tliiilt great dog, " I Slid, as we rose from our seat beneath the tree. "Fond of him f " tibe stooped down over him with a dudden impetuous movement, took hif* head between ber two handa. and kissed the beauty-spot on bis forehead. "Fond of him. cousin Frank f Why. the dog is my idol I He IS the only thing on earth who is or luis been true to me. and tbe only thingâ€"" She stopped short, and col- ored. '"Tbnt you have been tj-ue to," I said, finishing the sentence for her. "So people say," she answered with a laugh. Hut look at himâ€" look at thcBc 1>eauliful eyes, and tell me if any one could help loving him. My IKMjr old Fred I So honest in this weary world." •She sighe<l, and patted his bead again, and he stood wagging his tail and look- ing up into hiar fa(», witii eyes that wore OS she had said, lieautiful, and wluit won better far, brimful of love and honesty. "I doubt if you will keep pace with us," she said, after we bad walked a few steps ; "ond Fred is longing for a race ; I always give bSm one tbroucb tbe woods. Would you mind I" "Ob, dear, no I" TbiD next moment she was off like ttie wind, and tbe dog tearing after ber, barking till the woods rang again. I saw Ibier That night no more. CHAPTER II. I was as I have already said, a grave steady-going lawyer, verginfi towards a respect a Ijuu middle age, with one nn two gray hairs sliowing among my black locks. 1 had had luy dreams and fancies, and my hut, eager, generoutt youth, like mo»t olliei' men; and they had possCd away. Hut one thing I hiid missed (save in my dreams), and tttat was a woman's love. If I ever gave my visions a body and a name, they were totally unlike all the realities I had ever seen. The wife of-my fireside reveries was a. slight, delicate, gentle creature, with a pure ptile fiice, sweet lipe, the bluest and •learest of eyes, tbe softest and finest of gulden hair, and a voice low and sweet, like the murmurings of an Aeo- lian harp. And she sat by my chair ID silence ; loving me-ailently, and ber name was Slary. I dare gay. If I had met the original of this placid picture in life, I eihould have wooed and won ber, and have been utterly miserable. Ko. as a matter of coui-de, I fell into danger now. -Whan Alioe Kent- went staging and dancing through the bouse, lejiving every door »ud window opcflj. "100 tllm'vfoht'ri used often to lay down my pen and look 4fter h6r, and feel^ ad' ff the sun shone brighter for her iNjing tbere. When she niced through the grove or orchard with the great dog at lier heels, I smiled, and putted Fred on the head: when she rode past the house at a hand gallop on her gray pony, Fra Diavolo, and leaped him over tbe garden gate, and shook her whip saucily in my face, I laid aside my book to admire her riding, and never thought her unwomanly or un- graceful. We grew to be groat friendsâ€" like brother and sister, I used to .say to myaelf. How tbat glided gradually into loving, I could not have told. I met ber one day in the village street. 1 turned a corner, and came upon her suddenly. She was walking slowly along, with her dog beside her, and her eyes fixed upon the ground, look- ing graver and more thoughtful than 1 had ever seen ber before. At sight ot me her whole face brightened sud- denly ; yet she passed me with a .slight nod and smile, and took her way to- wards home. Seeing that flash of light play over her grave face, and feeling the sudden bound with which my heart sprang up to meet it, I knew what we were to each other. It was late when I reached home, after a musing walk. Tbe farmer and bis wife bad gone to bed, the children were at a merry-making at the next bouse, and a solitary light burned from tfie parlor window, which was open. The full moon shown fairly in tbe sky witjiout a cloud. I unfastened tbe gate and went in; and there in the open door eat Alioe, with a light shawl thrown over her sbouldeni. her bead resting on the shaggy coat of the New- foundland (log. His beautiful brown eyes watched me as I came up the path, but be did not stir. I sat down near her ; but on the lower step, so that I could look up in her faoe. "Alice, you do not look well." 'But I am. Quite well. I am going away to-morrow." "Cioing away I Whtere?" "Home. To London. Wellf What alia you. oousin Frank? Did you never bear of any one who went to London before I" "Yes: but why do you got" " Why t" She opened ber eyes and looked at me. "For many reasons. Firstly. I only come for six weeks, and I have stayed nearly three months; secondly, because I have business which can be put off no longer ; .and thirdly, beouuse my friends are wondering what on earth keeps me here so long (they will siiy soon, it Ls you, Frank). They vow they cannot do without me any longer, and it is pleasant to be missed, you know." "And BO you are going back to the old life, Alice I" And by-and-by I suppose you will marry f" 1 would not advise any man, he. he old or young, in case lie does not think It wise or purdent to m.irry the wo- man he loved, to linger with her in tbe doorway of a silent farmhouse, and bold her hand, and look out upon a moonlight night. The touch of the small slight fingers was playing the mischief with my good resolutions, and my wisdom (if I had any). "Alioe," I sold, softly; and I almost started, as she did at the sound of my own voice, it was so changed. "Alice, we have been very bapiiy here." 'Vei^." I took both her h.^nds, and held them close in mine. But she would not look at me, though her face was turned that way. â- "I'here i.s a great difference Iwtween us, dear Alice. I am much older than you, and much graver. I have never loved any woman but you in my life, while you have charmed a thousand tuvirts, and had a thousand fancies. If yoii were what the world thinks you, and what you try to make yourself out to be, I should s.iy no more than thisâ€" I love you. But I know you have a wwrt. I know you can love, if you will; and can be true if you will. And .so 1 be8o<M!h you to talk to me honestly, and tell UM If you cm love ine, or if you do. I am not used to asking such questions of Indies, Alice, and I may seem rough and rude ; but believe me, when I 8,iy you have won my whole nejirt, and I cannot be happy without you." iio*?' I ^'' l^^I^ve you," she said. »ut do you trust me, and do you love »ne f' She might trifle with a trifler, but She was earnest enough with me. I trust you, and I love you," she answere^l, frankly. "Are you wonder- ing why I can stand before you, and spe.uk so calmly » Hec^ause, I do not tfiinlc I shiUl ever marry you. You do not love me, as I have always said my husoand should love me. I am wayward and exacting, and I should weary your life out by my constant craving for tenderness. I was made to be petted Frank ; and you, though a loving, are not an affectionate man. You would wish me at the bottom of tne Ued Sea before we had been married a month ; and, lieoause you could not get me there, you would go to work and break my heart, by way of amuse- ment. I know it as well as if I had seen it allâ€" even now." She looked at me, and all her wo- man's heart and nature were in her 'â-  eyes. They spoke love and pa.saion, and ! deep, deep tendernessâ€" and all for me. .Something leaped into life in my heart at that moment which I had never felt beforeâ€" something that made my af- ! feotion of the last few hours seem cold ' and dead IxssiJe its fervid glow. I had heir m my arms within the instantâ€" closeâ€" -tJose to my heart. ,''AIice 1 if ever man loved woman with heart and sou)â€" madly and un- reasonably if you will, but still truly and honeslly- 1 love you, my darling" "Hut will it lastt O, Frank, wi'l it last f" I bent down, and our lips met in a Ion*, fond klsa. "You will be my wife. Alice?" She leaned her pretty head against my arm, and ber hand stole into mine again. "Do you mean that for your answer? Am I to keep the hand, dear Alice, and call it mine?" "If you will, Francis." It wa.s the first time she had ever given mo th.it name. But .she never called me by any other again until she ceasfKl to love me ; and it sounds sweetly in my memory now, and it will sound sweetly to my dying day, (To Be Continued.) . Iiearn to laujgh. A good laugh . is lietter than medicine^ ROA^FOWL. If the following directions of a prac- tical housewife are folftwed, a hen from four to six years old may be made not only as tender, but of richer flav- or than her descendants: The day before they are to be serv- ed'tske one or a pair of old hens and stew gently for four hnurs, allow to cool over night in the water in which they have been boiled, then roast in tbe usual way; that is, allow ten minutes to every pound, basting often with the drippings of roast beef or bacon fat, a large tablespoonful of which must be put in the pan with the chicken when first put in the oven. If young house- keepers would only awaken to tbe ne- cessity of basting fowls often, they would avoid the dry meat that is too often found at otherwise daintily served tables. Tbe stuffing for fowls is also a rook upon which too many young housekeep- ers split, failing to realize the value of l)ee feuet as teh foundation for the asme, using instead butter, wihich is far more expensive and much less satisfact- ory in its results. For a pair of chick- ens, take a cup of suet, finely chopped and free from strings, rub this between tbe hands into two cups of the crumt>s of a stale loaf, a tablespoonful of chop- ped parsley and teaspoonful of chopped green tbyine (or in the winter dried) and pepper and salt to taste; break an egg, without tieating into this, slir with a fork to s paste, pat into balls and fill the crops of tbe fowls to a sightly plumpness, the remainder to be pui in- side. Such a stulfing or seasoning as this will t)e crisp yei moist, instead of the sloppy mouthful of salted and pep- pered bread one too often finds served as bird stuffing. i For ducks and geese, nicely boiled on- ions, well drained and chopped with sage and pepper and salt to taste is the proper stulfing, and they must nev- er li; oifered wiluout a generous dish of tart apple sauce, the snowy whiteness of which i:i attained by beating in half tbe juice of a lemon to e«ch quart of sauce. With chicken and game cranberry jel- ly is piefeired by many to currant, and an easy and unfailing rule that is sure to "jell" is to boil a quart of the truit first for one minute with quarter of a teacupful of water, then prets through a bright tin colander or course hair sieve, return to tbe fire, let come to the Lioil with a large breakfast coffee cup heaping full of sugar and pour in- to the molu. This, made in the morn- ing, will be properly stiff by evening, and will be just to the quivering stage without Ijeiug too fi.-m. A liiick chicken soup should always be made from tbe broib in which a fowl has been stewed, as when Ibis is eaten the full uuurisbment of the chick- en is ol>tained. Made as folluws it is one of the uivsi delectable soups ever tasted, once tried it will \» a standing favorite, and is a recipe for which a notable co:>k is justly touious: Melt in a good-sized agate or porcelain-lined buucepan a heaping tablespuuuful of tmlter; when boiling hot, but nut brown stir in two scant lablespoonfuls of sift- ed flour, add salt and white pt^pper to taste, then stir slowly into a quart of I he broth and a pint of milk lioiling hot; stir until it is of the consistency of thick cream, and should invariably be served wi:h Crouton. The luat. nam- ed are merely made from thick slices of a stale loaf out into dice and thrown into deep, boiling lard to brown, SWEWING CARPKTS. Two thinofs are to b« observed in sweeping rarp^ts, and that is to do the^ Woik w.ll and do it .«lowly. In thi fiisi, place, if ihii sweeping is poorly done it may a.s well have lieen left undone, for the cariKit is still full of dust, uhich ri.ies at every step and lodges ou furni- ture and woodwork. If it is done in a hurry, the broom raises clouds of dust, which naturally settles liock again on tho carpet. If possible, tUere should be two bruuius, one for carpets and anuther fur geneml u.se.' The, carpet l)ro()in .ibould be a.s soft as can l)e procured. A stiff rough broom is extremely hard on any carpet, as it tears and frays it at ivery stroke. Before commencing to sweep all the furniture should U- removed to an- other room, and cloths may lie hung over the pictures. Th'U the wall should bo brusliad free of dust. A soft, clean clot b t ied over the broom makes a con- venient imiiliiiieul for wiping. If Iho carpi^ta are very dusty it may be neceasary to sprinkle over them some coarse salt, damp sawdust, tea leaves, or even tiny bits ot newspaper slightly dampened. These will attract and col- le<'l 111" dust, aud may Ik* brushed into the duMt pan at intervals. The corners should receive 8()ecial attemion. A wliisk l)ro.)iii IS uesi tor cleaning ihem, and al.^o along the sides of the room. Short, even .strokes uf the broom collect the dust as no long.huiried strokes ever would, l*.side» I hey raise cciinparalively little dust. The dust pan should be kept nehr by and lh« diwt brushed into it evei-j- lew feet. In this way the dust will uol be distiibuted from one part of the i-ooin to another. It possible, the windows should he oiiened. After the sweeping is fiuishiid, a few minutes should elapse U-for^v dusting com- nient'fM. This will give the dust time to settle. .\ ii'ai her duster is "an illusion and a snare." Nothing is better than a soft cloih, preferably cotton, with just a sus- picion of dampness in it. Such a dust cloth, if shook out of the window fre- quently during dusting will remove about all the dust. All the woodwork should receive attention before the furniture is put liook into the room, if the carpets are not sufficiently clean after a careful sweeping, a clothwrung out in water, in which has been mixed a Utile ummooia will brighten it up con.sidera.bly. A strohger solution of ammonia and water will very often re- move obstinate spots, . wl^ch â-  will not yield to soap ax|d lyat^^. There is more satisfaction in giving carpets a thorough cleaning than a hap- hazard one. In a room which is not in daily use, a careful cleaning should b» B)ifnaient for two weeks, exfieftt a little dusting no\^ and then. SOME GOOD RECIPES, Milk Jelly for Invalids.- Necessary ingredients; Half a cowheeli '6ne quart of milk, a two-inoh stick of cinnamon and sugar to taste. Take half a pre- pared cowheel aud cut it into small pieces, set it in a jar with the n^ilik and cinnamon. Put the lid on the jar and tie a piece of paper tightly over it, set in a slow oven to stew for three hours. Then strain off the milk into a basin, take off any fat with white paper and sweeten to taste. When cold this jelly should be served with a little wTiipped cream or stewed fruit. The cow-heel will make an excellent dish served with rich onion sauce. r Almond Cream Cake. â€" Sift one and one-half goblets uf powdei-ed sugar and one of flour, in which has been stirred a heaping teaspoonful of cream of tart- ar, and the beaten whites of ten eggs and stir gently; do not beat it. Bake in jelly pans. For cream, take ahalf- pinl of sweet cream, yolks of three egga, a tablespoonful of pulverized sugar, a teaspoonful of com starch; dissolvis starch smoothly with a little milk, beat yolks and sugar together with this; boil the cream, and stir these ingredients in, as for any cream caJce filling, only make a little thicker; blanch and cho^ fine a half-pound of almonds and stir into the cream. Put together like jelly cake whUe icing is soft, and stick in a half-pound of almonds split in two. Pluiu Pudding.â€" One pound of rale- ins, one pound of currants, half pound citron, one pound of l>eef suet, ten eggs, one pound sugar, one pint of bread- crumbs, soojieu in milk, a little salt, a nutmeg or mace, fluur added to make it stiff enough for the spoon to stand up right in it. Boil constantly five hours. Fig Pudding,â€" One-quarter pound fig;* chopped fine, one-quarter pound bread- crumbs, one-quarter pound brown sug>- ar, one-quarter p')und suet, one-quarter pound of candied lemon peel and cit- ron, one nutmeg, and five eggs, n:iiz thoroughly, put into a mold and boil or steam four hours. Mince Piea.â€" Three pounds of raisins, stone and chop a little; three pounds of currants, three pounds of sugar, three pounds of suet, chopped very fine; two ounces candied lemou peel, two ounce* candied orange peel, six large apples, grated; one ounce uf cinnamon, two nut- megs, tbe juice of three lemons, and rinds grated, aud a half a pint of brandy. Fuglish Mince Meat.â€" Two dozen greening apples, pared, cored, and chop- ped fine; two pounds of raisins, stoned and chopped, two pounds currants,wash- ed and dried; two pounds of beef suet, chopped fine, without flour; one pound minced pe<>l, chopped fine; half pound blanched sweet uluiunds, chopped fine; a quarter pound of mixed spice, on© pound of white sugar; mix well, put in piveerving pan at Daok of stove; let tha mixture get well heated through to boiling point, uccasiunally stirring. Place in jars; when cold, seal; will keep any length of timi>; hall the quantity may be used. It apples are not juicy enough,wben the mixture has reached boiling point, add a little puiv vinegar. IN THE ANIMAL WORLD. rrcsllarUlc*. TrulU and Habllii cf t:« or Ike WIU AulninU. The hog is a very sagacious beast. No coustrictiuK snake is poisonous. The wolf is muie cunning than ti>s fox. The horse is more stut)l>orn than tbo mule. Sume species of snakes are born cait- nilials. The dog is the must intelligent of all animals. No lad-teiniM>rrd man can break a horse to perform. One l)a!>y elephant will boss a whole herd of Idg ones. The while clover is rank poison to the hippopotamus. The wild buffalo is often more than a match for a lion. The elephant is aimoet as amphibious as the hippopoiannis. The elephant luu pu.>-h many time* more than it can (lull. The giraffe is dumb and was never known to utter any sound. The polar Ijear is untamable. He is ab<u partial to a sun bath. Th,' hippopolamus can he acclimated to live in very cold water. Some elephants are exceedingly food of plug tobacco and bad whiskey. The .smallest mouse will cause the biggest elephant to quuke with fear. Panthers when taken young make very docile and affectionate pots. The rhinoceros :s I he most formidable* and pugnacious «f all wild tieasts.. Don't trust to the fallacy that wild beasts can lie oontiulled by tba human eye. A snake would starve to death rath- er than eat anything except living prey. The parrot is but one among many s^iecies of birds that can be taught to speak. America is the only country in which a laliy elephant was ever born in cap- tivity. All animals are quick to recognize fear or ill-temper on th« part of their ke;'pi'.r8. Lions born in captivity are more dan- egi'ou,H and harder to train than cap- tured ones. Johanna, the giantess gorilla, is in- sanely jealous. She. would kill a doz- en unarmed men. With a single Idcrw of bis insignifi- cant tail an elephant can knock out th* strongest man. Elephants form the strongest att^ich- nienls for the horses and dogs with which they arc a.ssuci<tted. Wild l)easts vary in theAr moods, 'rhcy often get tho blues, at Which tivoeB the keei>ei8 give them » (/idn IjcttU