not prepared to find him tracking the footprints
of lions in the snow, sometimes three feet deep,
and more; to hear of his braving pelting rains
that lasted for days, snow-storms idem, biting
and benumbing north-east winds, and frost
descending ten degrees centigrade below freezing
water, all in pursuit of "the Saïd," as the Arabs
reverently call him. It follows, that his blankets
were as necessary a part of his equipment as his
guns.

To pay their respects to a family of lions who
were nightly making terrible ravages, he and his
friend Bombonnel, at the close of February, '63,
pitched their tent amongst the Beni-Oudjana.
For several days they had changes of temperature
through the three degrees of comparison of
the adjective "cold." Either they had come too
soon, or "ethereal mildness" was coming too
late; and the worst of it was that the lions (who,
though not over-nice, still have an eye to
creature-comforts) were induced to quit the mountain
for the plain.

The tribe whose flocks and herds they had
come to succour, had migrated to the hills,
expecting gentle spring. When, however, they
could stand it no longer, they determined to
return to the lowlands again, in spite of the
labour and the perils it involved. The defile
took place at ten in the morning, passing in
front of the sportsmen's tent. The procession
was headed by the women, walking with naked
feet through snow above their knees. They
carried their children behind their backs, whilst
in front, on their bosoms, they held lambs and
kids. Following the track they opened in this
way, came mules, oxen, and asses, laden with
chattels, and then sheep and goats, bleating with
all their might and main. The pilgrimage was
closed by the Arab men, who, gravely seated on
their horses, got together the lagging animals
whom fatigue or caprice had caused to straggle.

The Algerian lion, at least, is a hardier animal
than is generally supposed. With plenty of beef
and mutton and horseflesh, he has no objection
to roughing it occasionally. Indeed, were any
enthusiast to wish to naturalise lions and
panthers in England, it is evident that it is not
our climate which would prevent the success
of the amiable experiment.

                 MABEL MAY.

                          1.
I WAS weary all thro' of the thousand and one
Wants, wishes, and wretchedest sorts of strife
Within and without, which some call life,
                             Mabel May,
When I climb'd to the cloud on the mountain cone,
And lay on the bare black rock alone
In the watchful twilight vast and grey,
                           Mabel May,
And yearn'd for the yet unarisen light,
As a wretch yearns, wrong'd by a woful night,—
To plunge in a passionate gush of sight,
And leap at one bound of a rapture bright
Into the burning heart of the sun,
And be lost, as a star, when the dark is done,
Drops faint in the fount of the full-pour'd day,
                           Mabel May.

                           2.
And, lo you!  all round me, all o'er me, he rose,
The august, godlike, glory pure,
Which not even the eagle's eyes endure,
                               Mabel May.
He smote, like a trumpet, the slumbering snows
To a burning blush from their pale repose
Wide awake, and——How shall I say,
                            Mabel May?
My very eyes ached with the interminate
Splendour for which they had lain in wait.
Was it joy, was it pain, was it love, was it hate,
That agony born of a bliss too great?
And I stagger'd beneath the blind bright blows
Of the bare-orbed Beauty, and sought for who knows
What phantom hand, to guide me away,
                              Mabel May.

                           3.
So it ever hath been, so it ever shall be,
Since man was made for the lot of man.
In the curse of his course since his course began,
                             Mabel May—
Our soul to feel, and our sight to see
Is afire and athirst. Then it comes: and we
Are made sport for the powers we have brought into play,
                             Mabel May.
We desire: we are strong: we are proud of the pain.
Scale the summit, and breathless behold, but in vain,
What we cannot endure. We are lost by our gain,
And o'erwhelmed at the point where we seem'd to attain;
We are slaves to the force we ourselves have set free,
And unmade by the might that we make. Who is he
That stands fast and looks full in the face of his day,
                              Mabel May?

                           4.
So I turn'd me anon, by the downward track
To the valley beneath, never lifting again
My looks left dim by the dazzling pain,
                           Mabel May;
With, above and behind me, the mountain black
And broad, still keeping the sun at his back;
And dejectedly follow'd my dismal way,
                            Mabel May,
With no care now what the chance might be
Of the next thing I should be forced to see,
When the dance of those colours that, dazzling me,
Danced on before, should disperse and flee,
And leave me a smart from the torturous hack
Of the Sun-God's triumphing knife, alack!
Like that poor Satyr he stoop'd to flay,
                             Mabel May.

                          5.
But how did it happen? For suddenly there
The sweet vale beneath me lay wash'd in a wave
Of luminous beauty, warm, solacing, swave;
And the birds broke out in a rapturous lay,
                             Mabel May;
And a million mild wild odours were
Afloat in the moist fresh morning air,
Suddenly silently; whence came they,
                             Mabel May?
While on each grass blade, in a silver bell,
The bright dew trembled before it fell,
To the warbling pure in the sweetbrier dell
Of that delicate harper, Ariel;