high. Another man, whose life I had saved before, after he had been
tossed by a buffalo, attempted to spear the lion while he was biting
Mebalwe. He left Mebalwe and caught this man by the shoulder, but at
that moment the bullets he had received took effect, and he fell down
dead. The whole was the work of a few moments, and must have been his
paroxysms of dying rage. In order to take out the charm from him, the
Bakatla on the following day made a huge bonfire over the carcass, which
was declared to be that of the largest lion they had ever seen. Besides
crunching the bone into splinters, he left eleven teeth wounds on the
upper part of my arm.

A wound from this animal's tooth resembles a gunshot wound; it is
generally followed by a great deal of sloughing and discharge, and
pains are felt in the part, periodically ever afterward. I had on a
tartan jacket on the occasion, and I believe that it wiped off all the
virus from the teeth that pierced the flesh, for my two companions in
this affray have both suffered from the peculiar pains, while I have
escaped with only the inconvenience of a false joint in my limb. The man
whose shoulder was wounded, showed me his wound actually burst forth
afresh on the same month of the following year. This curious point
certainly deserves the attention of inquirers.

[Illustration]

THE MOSS ROSE

TRANSLATED FROM KRUMMACHER

The angel of the flowers, one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,--
That spirit to whose charge 'tis given
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the rose:
"O fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found, where all are fair;
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee."
"Then," said the rose, with deepened glow,
"On me another grace bestow."
The spirit paused, in silent thought,--
What grace was there that flower had not?
'Twas but a moment,--o'er the rose
A veil of moss the angel throws,
And, robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed?

FOUR DUCKS ON A POND

_By_ WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

Four ducks on a pond,
A grass bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing;
What a little thing
To remember for years,
To remember with tears.

RAB AND HIS FRIENDS

_By_ JOHN BROWN, M. D.

Four and thirty yea