whether the ten thousand bees which were stinging him meant it. They did.

The mule turned loose. I never saw anything to equal it. He was enveloped in a dense fog of earnestness and bees, and filled with enthusiasm and stings. The more he kicked the higher he arose from the ground. I may have been mistaken, for I was somewhat excited and very much delighted, but that mule seemed to rise as high as the tops of the pepper-trees. The pepper-trees were twenty feet high. He would open and shut himself like a frog swimming. Sometimes, when he was in mid-air, he would look like he was flying and I would think for a moment he was about to become an angel. Only for a moment. There are probably no mule angels.

When he had got up to the tops of the pepper-trees I was called to break fast. I told them I didn't want any breakfast. The mule continued to be busy.

When a mule kicks himself clear of the earth, his heels seldom reach higher than his back; that is, a mule's forelegs can reach forward and his hind-legs backward until the mule becomes straightened out into a line of mule parallel with the earth and fifteen or twenty feet therefrom. This mule's hind-legs, however, were not only raised into a line with his back, but they would come over until the bottom of the hoofs almost touched his ears.

The mule proceeded as if he desired to hurry through.

I had no idea how many bees a hive would hold until I saw that bee-hive emptied on that mule. They covered him so completely that I could not see any of him but the glare of his eyes. I could see from the expression of his eyes that he didn't like the way things were going.

The mule still went on in an absorbed kind of a way. Not only was every bee of the disturbed hive on duty, but I think the news had been conveyed to neighboring hives that war had been declared. I could see bees flitting to and fro. The mule was covered so deep with bees that he looked like an exaggerated mule. The hum of the bees and their moving on each other combined in a seething hiss.

A sweet calm and gentle peacefulness pervaded me. When he had kicked for an hour he began to fall short of the tops of the pepper-trees. He was settling down closer

to the earth. Numbers were telling on him. He looked distressed. He had always been used to kicking against something, but found now he was striking the air. It was very exhausting.

He finally got so he did not rise clear of the ground, but continued to kick with both feet for half an hour; next with first one foot and then the other for another half an hour; then with his right foot only every few minutes, the intervals growing longer and longer, until he finally was still. His head drooped, his lip hung lower and lower. The bees stung on. He looked as if he thought that a mean, sneaking advantage had been taken of him.

I retired from the scene. Early next morning I returned. The sun came slowly up from behind the eastern hills. The light foliage of the pepper-trees trembled with his morning caress. His golden kiss fell upon the opening roses. A bee could be seen flying hither, another thither. The mule lay near the scene of yesterday's struggle. Peace had come to him. He was dead. Too much kicking against nothing. -Californian.

FUNERAL CUSTOM IN EGYPT.

It is said that in Egypt funeral processions bearing the corpse to the cemetery pause before the doors of the friends of the deceased, to bid them a last farewell, and before those of his enemies, to effect a reconciliation before they are parted forever.

Rest ye-set down the bier,
One he loved dwelleth here.
Let the dead lie

A moment that door beside,
Wont to fly open wide
Ere he drew nigh.

Hearken!-he speaketh yet:
"Oh, friend! wilt thou forget

(Friend more than brother!)
How hand in hand we've gone,
Heart with heart linked in one-
All to each other?

"Oh, friend! I go from thee,
Where the worm feasteth free,
Darkly to dwell.

Giv'st thou no parting kiss?
Friend! is it come to this?
Oh, friend, farewell!"

Uplift your load again,

Take up the mourning strain!
Pour the deep wail!

Lo! the expected one
To his place passeth on--
Grave! bid him hail.

Here dwells his mortal foe;
Lay the departed low,

Even at his gate.

Will the dead speak again?
Uttering proud boasts and vain
Last words of hate?

Lo! the cold lips unclose.
List! list! what sounds are those,
Plaintive and low?

"O thou, mine enemy!
Come forth and look on me
Ere hence I go.

Curse not thy foeman now.
Mark, on this pallid brow
Whose seal is set!
Pard'ning I pass away.
Then-wage not war with clay-
Pardon-forget."

A TRAMP AND A VAGABOND.

What house do you say?-the Ship at Stock!
Why, there, I must ha' bin blind

Not to know it agin; but 'tis years ago
Since I left these parts behind.
Here, master, bring us a pint out here,
If these good gents don't mind.

Look warmish, do I? And so would you,
If you'd only ha' come my track,
A-tramping it here from Grays to-day,
With this horgan on yer back;
And I'm not so young as I used to be
When these gray hairs was black.

How long 'ave I bin on the road? Let's see:
"Tis a twelvemonth werry near

Since I fust took up with the horgan line
Along with this younker here;

But afore that I'd bin tramping about
Close upon forty year!

My beer, is it? Thankee. Well, here's luck!
Yes, master, as you say,

"Tis rather a longish time, no doubt,
Though it seems but the other day
That I was a little boy at home,
Out yonder by Rayleigh way.

Heigho! if I'd minded mother's words,
That was meant for my good alone,
I'd bin a decent, well-to-do chap,
With boys and gals of my own,
Instead of a poor old homeless man,
A tramp and a vagabone!

Here, drink, lad!-Well, it wasn't to be:
I shouldn't ha' done for homely wear,
Treading your quiet mill-hoss round

To good gray hairs in an easy-chair:
I've a touch of gipsy blood i' my veins,
That pants for the sun and air.

Tramping it merrily east or west,
Town or country, or down or dale,
Beggar and gipsy, peddler and thief,
Out of the workus into the jail:
That was the life I lived and liked
When life was cheery and hale.

And yet there were moments, too,

When my heart was touched with ruth At thought of the poor old mother at home, And my wasted, shameful youth. Ah, masters! there's nothing pays so well As honest labor and truth.

I'd share my crust with a pal,

And my heart would often sigh O'er a battered drab in a lodging-ken That had laid her down to die,

Babbling of mother and youth and home"O mother!" was allus their cry.

Is the boy my own? Well, yes and no;
He is, and he isn't, mine.

Here, Will, lad, go you and play a bit
On the green there in front o' the sign:
A fine little fellow for five year old,

And as good and true as he's fine.

Poor laddie! I mind his mother well,
With her patient, wistful face;

A meek, blue-eyed, white slip of a girl-
A lady by birth and grace-

That was sought, and ruined, and throwed aside
By a villain doubly base.

Let's see-'tis three year ago, or more,

Down there by the Hertford beat,

That I used to meet her fust on the road,
So shrinking and pale and sweet,
With her baby-boy that she loved so fond,
'Twould touch yer heart to see't.

Dear heart! I could read the story well
That had steeped her life in gall:
The bonny girlhood, dainty and sweet,
The love and the bitter fall,

A blighted name and a passionate flight,
And a tramp the more-that's all!

She'd a little box of ribbons and sich,
That was daintily ranged and piled;
And the country folks they took to her like,
She seemed so gentle and mild;

And the women would buy a trifle or so

For the sake o' the pretty child.

But the boy looked drooping, as well he might,
With their scanty food and pay,

As I'd notice when I stopped on the road

To give 'em the time o' day;

And the young un would know me, and prattle and smile In his pretty baby way.

Yet she seemed to be shy o' the lodging-kens,

And afraid of the likes of we,

And would creep o' nights to a shed to sleep,
Though we wouldn't have hurt her, yer see—

Not even the women, and some o' them
Was as bad as bad could be.