Moral: Total Abstinence from Horseflesh
through the whole length and breadth
of the scale. This Pledge will be in course
of administration to all Tee-Total processionists,
not pedestrians, at the publishing
office of ALL THE YEAR ROUND, on the first
day of April, One Thousand Eight Hundred
and Seventy.

Observe a point for consideration. This
Procession comprised many persons, in
their gigs, broughams, tax-carts, barouches,
chaises, and what not, who were merciful
to the dumb beasts that drew them, and
did not overcharge their strength. What
is to be done with those unoffending persons?
I will not run amuck and vilify and
defame them, as Tee-Total tracts and
platforms would most assuredly do, if the
question were one of drinking instead of
driving; I merely ask what is to be done
with them? The reply admits of no dispute
whatever. Manifestly, in strict accordance
with Tee-Total Doctrines, THEY
must come in too, and take the Total
Abstinence from Horseflesh Pledge. It is not
pretended that those members of the
Procession misused certain auxiliaries which in
most countries and all ages have been
bestowed upon man for his use, but it is
undeniable that other members of the Procession
did. Tee-Total mathematics demonstrate
that the less includes the greater; that the
guilty include the innocent, the blind the
seeing, the deaf the hearing, the dumb the
speaking, the drunken the sober. If any of
the moderate users of draught-cattle in
question should deem that there is any
gentle violence done to their reason by
these elements of logic, they are invited to
come out of the Procession next Whitsuntide,
and look at it from my window.

LOST AND FOUND IN THE SNOW.

HIGH up, below the summit of the Brocken,
chief of the Harz mountains, is a flat moorland,
the Brockenfeld, wild, dreary, far from men.
The nearest town belongs to the miners of
Andreasberg, three hours distant, and the
weather is not often friendly to much intercourse.
The air of the Brockenfeld is nearly always cold,
the trees are stunted and overgrown with a long
grey lichen, which apparently protects them from
the wintry blast, and looks like the beard of an
old man. No flowery fields are here; no corn,
not even potatoes, will thrive in this dreary
home of cold weather, starved and deformed
trees, long damp moss, reeds, and sedges.

Only a rare wanderer passes this way, or an
emigrant trailing in canary-birds, which are largely
bred among the miners, and brought down to
Harzburg, thence to be despatched over Europe
in the tiny wicker cages we often see them sold in.
Or perchance in the height of summer visitors
from Harzburg, who are using the saline baths
there, or consumptive patients from the fir-
needle cure of Andreasberg, will drive to the
Brockenfeld to see the famous Rehberger
Graben. Such visitors put up and dine at the
forester's house, the only habitation in this
district.

It was occupied some years ago by Paul
Smitt, whose post was a tolerably lucrative one,
the Hanoverian government having made some
amends in payment for the lone position. But
even the good pay tempted few to accept the
situation.

When it was offered to Paul he accepted it
eagerly. It was the very spot for him. He was
a tall, sturdy, fine-looking man, his handsome
face bronzed with long exposure to the wind
and weather; only when he lifted his sugar-loaf
shaped green huntsman's hat was there a bit of
fair skin visible along the top of his forehead.
His quiet blue eyes lay deep in his head, shaded
by somewhat overhanging brows which gave a
stern appearance to his face. He had always
been grave; as a boy he had not mixed in the
sports of his companions, but kept aloof and
apart from them to study his forester craft. He
loved his profession for its own sake, but there
had been a time when he had loved it also for
the sake of another, hoping by steady work
sooner to bring about the doubling of his happiness.
He had served his apprenticeship under
a lowland forester, who encouraged and loved
the studious youth, and did not see with any
dissatisfaction that he worked harder after the
forester's pretty daughter, Beatrice, came from
her city boarding-school. Old Emil Bergen
was glad to think that a young man he liked so
much might become his son-in-law, and relieve
him of all further care for his one motherless
child. He therefore brought the young people
as much together as he could, and once when
a ticklish matter had to be reported down in the
town, instead of going himself, he sent Paul,
thus putting him in the way for promotion.

It was then, before he left for the town, that
Paul spoke his mind to Beatrice. He had been
working in the wood all the afternoon looking
after the welfare of a young spruce nursery,
when she passed him with a bunch of wood
camelias in her hand.

"Oh, Paul," she said, seeing him, " look how
many of these I have found. They are my
favourite flowers, I love their simplicity; they
thrive in out-of-the-way places; they are not
ambitious" she added with a smile. " Not like
you, Paul."

"Do you dislike my ambition?"

"Oh no, but you sit evening after evening
over your books, studying how to improve your
position in the world, and I think you might
have given us more of your company."

"And for whom do you think I work so
hard?" he asked, looking straight into her face.

How should I know?" she said, saucily,
though she blushed and looked down.

"Do you care to know?" he resumed, and as