crazy now. He let out a
roar that made my bones rattle, an' he opened out his last link o'
speed. Now he commenced fur to gain on me, hand over fist; so I made up
my mind to do somethin' desprit. I put the helm hard a-starboard, an'
steered the colt into a narrer channel wot led right down to the bay.
The bull he tried to cut short goin' round the corner, an' he run into
the lamp-post, w'ich the same he knocked clean down into Parker's
basement, where Johannes Pfeiffenschneider, the cobbler, works, an'
scared Johannes so that he sp'iled Miss Beasley's Sunday shoes, an' lost
putty nigh all his trade.

"Down at the foot o' the street war Mark Rogers's oyster sloop _Betsey
Jane_, lyin' alongside o' the wharf. On the wharf war about ten million
oyster shells, all piled up. 'Now,' sez I to myself, sez I, 'here's
where I've got to stop the bull.' I steered the colt right straight at
that reef o' shells, trustin' to our speed an' our shaller draft to
carry us right over. There war a smash, crash, biff! an' over we went.
Then I jumped up, grabbed the box o' scrambled heggs, an' hove 'em
straight in the bull's face. Waal, gol bust me if that there bull didn't
look like the gran'father o' all omlets. He was clean blinded fur a
minute, an' he kicked out with all four legs in the middle o' the reef,
till the air war white with flying oyster shells. He kicked so many of
'em into the bay that Mark had to dredge out a new channel. Then he got
his eyes clear a minute an' he seed me a-laffin'. He jes made one jump,
an' he got under the waggin' with his head. The next thing I knowed I
war in the bay. That there bull jes picked up waggin', colt, an' me, an'
he hove us straight off the dock an' into the bay."

"And what happened after that?" I asked.

"Waal, we had to swim out, o' course. It killed the colt, that cold bath
arter bein' so heated, an' the waggin' was busted into kindlin' wood.
An' the bull? Oh, yaas, the bull. Waal, he was puffickly satisfied, an'
he went up along the side o' the road an' eat grass jes as if he'd never
did nothin' else in all his life. Now, my son, you know w'y I don't git
a new hoss an' waggin. I bin there, an' w'en I bin to a place wot's not
to my likin' I knows enough not to go back. Git ep!"

SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

LOST IN A MOUNTAIN BLIZZARD.

Tired as were the occupants of that lonely camp after a day of
exhausting climbing through the timber, thei