was scarcely able to effect his escape by flight.
But the best hen-story is one in Mr. Jenyns'
"Observations." A hen was sitting on a
number of eggs to hatch them. An egg was
missing every night: yet nobody could
conjecture who had stolen it. One morning,
after several had been lost in this way, the
hen was discovered with ruffled feathers, a
bleeding breast, and an inflamed countenance.
By the side of the nest was seen the dead
body of a large rat, whose skull had been
fractured— evidently by blows from the beak
of the valiant hen, who could endure the vile
act of piracy no longer.

Mr. Jenyns relates a good owl-story. He
knew a tame owl, who was so fond of music
that he would enter the drawing-room of an
evening, and, perching on the shoulder of one
of the children, listen with great attention to
the tones of the pianoforte: holding his head
first on one side, then on the other, after the
manner of connoisseurs. One night, suddenly,
spreading his wings, as if unable to endure his
rapture any longer, he alighted on the keys,
and, driving away the fingers of the performer
with his beak, began to hop about upon the
keys himself, apparently in great delight
with his own execution. This pianist's name
was Keevie. He was born in the woods of
Northumberland, and belonged to a friend of
the Reverend Mr. Jenyns.

Good bear-stories are numerous. One of
the best we take from the " Zoological
Anecdotes." At a hunt in Sweden, an old soldier
was charged by a bear. His musket missed
fire, and the animal being close upon him, he
made a thrust, in the hope of driving the
muzzle of his piece down the bear's throat.
But the thrust was parried by one of the
huge paws with all the skill of a fencer, and
the musket wrested from the soldier's hand,
who was forthwith laid prostrate. He lay
quiet, and the bear, after smelling, thought
he was dead, and then left him to examine
the musket. This he seized by the stock, and
began to knock about, as though to
discover wherein its virtue consisted, when the
soldier could not forbear putting forth one
hand to recover his weapon. The bear
immediately seized him by the back of the head,
and tore his scalp over his crown, so that it
fell over the soldier's face. Notwithstanding
his agony, the poor fellow restrained his cries,
and again pretended death. The bear laid
himself upon his body, and thus remained,
until some hunters coming up relieved him
from this frightful situation. As the poor
fellow rose, he threw back his scalp with his
hand, as though it had been a peruke, and
ran frantically towards them, exclaiming—
'' The bear! the bear! " So intense was his
apprehension of his enemy, that it made him
oblivious of his bodily anguish. He eventually
recovered, and received his discharge in consequence
of his loss of hair. There is another
bear-story in this work, which savours— just
a little— of romance. A powerful bull was
attacked by a bear in a forest, when the bull
succeeded in striking both horns into his
assailant, and pinning him to a tree. In this
situation they were both found dead— the
bear, of his wounds; the bull, (either
fearing, or, from obstinate self-will, refusing,
to relinquish his position of advantage) ot
starvation!

The best cat-and-mouse story (designated
"Melancholy Accident— a Cat killed by a
Mouse") is to be found in "The Poor Artist,"
the author of which seems to have derived the
story from a somewhat questionable source,
though we must admit the possibility. " A cat
had caught a mouse on a lawn, and let it go
again, in her cruel way, in order to play with
it; when the mouse, inspired by despair, and
seeing only one hole possible to escape into—
namely, the round red throat of the cat, very
visible through her open mouth— took a bold
spring into her jaws, just escaping between
her teeth, and into her throat he struggled
and stuffed himself; and so the cat was
suffocated." It reads plausibly; let us imagine
it was true.

The best spider-and-fly story we also take
from the last-named book. " A very strong,
loud, blustering fellow of a blue-bottle fly
bounced accidentally into a spider's web.
Down ran the old spider, and threw her long
arms round his neck; but he fought, and
struggled, and blew his drone, and fuzzed,
and sung sharp, and beat, and battered, and
tore the web in holes and so got loose. The
spider would not let go her hold round him
and the fly flew away with the spider!"
This is related on the authority of Mr.
Thomas Bell, the naturalist, who witnessed
the heroic act.

SMITHFIELD RACES.

KEEN lovers of the glories of the turf are
not to be dejected by a foggy morning. Friday
opened with a cutting north-east wind, a
grey sky, and a heavy atmosphere; but our
glass stood at fair weather (the works having
been removed, as we afterwards ascertained,
by a high-spirited boy, then home for the
holidays); so we assumed our sporting attire,
and sallied forth, light at heart, for the enjoyments
of the day. Everybody knows that the
road to the races is usually enjoyed more
keenly than the contests of the horses upon
the course; and on this occasion the journey
was not altogether a dull one. Omnibuses,
loaded with well- pomatumed clerks, were
crawling along the way; a few carriages,
filled with "nobs," were here and there hemmed-
in by the equipages of our turf friends,
and sparkling dialogues of a technical nature,
as to the skill and appearance of all parties,
were going forward briskly. It was a happy
sight, however, to notice the real sporting
boys on their way to the races, in turn-outs
of various degrees of elegance. In the Blackfriars
Road, particularly, the sight was one to