's
wool. The skin, too, of the yak, when prepared in the native way, makes
a very good soft leather.

The yak is also used as a beast of burden. In Ladakh it is harnessed to
carts, and made to draw ploughs, but in other places it is usually
loaded with packs. In Thibet a clumsy wooden pack-saddle is laid upon
the yak's back, and the packs are fastened upon each side of it. Though
at times restless, the yak is very sure-footed and plodding, and does a
fair amount of work considering the nature of the country. An English
traveller, who once drove a pair of loaded yaks in Thibet, noticed that
they showed a great reluctance to go any way but their own. By-and-by he
found that they were selecting the way, which, although it was
considered to be a high road, was only marked here and there by a few
footprints. So long as he allowed the yaks to go their own way, they
went on willingly, and the traveller soon discovered that it was best to
leave them alone and simply follow them. Once or twice when he had lost
the track, the yaks led him back to it.

Not only are yaks used for draught and for carrying loads, but they are
also ridden, a special saddle being then used. Along the roads between
Pekin and Lhassa, a yak will carry its rider twenty miles a day, it is
said, or it will carry a load ten miles. Much quicker journeys may be
made, however, by taking fresh yaks at certain posts or stages. In this
way the traveller already referred to was able to ride one hundred and
seventy-five miles in five days, the two longest days' journeys being
forty-five and forty-two miles respectively.

GOING TO BED.

As up the stairs to bed I go,
A tiger chases me;
He's somewhere in the dark, I know,
Although I cannot see.

From step to step I quickly jump,
But oh, how slow I seem!
And I can feel my heart go 'Thump!
It nearly makes me scream.

The tiger can go faster, much,
He gains at every stride;
He's sure to get me in his clutch--
He's almost at my side!

I dare not give a look behind,
I fear his savage glare;
His cruel teeth I hear him grind,
A-tingle goes my hair!

At last I reach the landing wide--
I'm at the nursery door;
I shut it tight, and, safe inside,
I pant upon the floor.

But Mother often laughs at me
For getting such a scare;
And, somehow, when she goes to see,
The tiger's never there!

MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

IV.--THE B