the Lebanon, against whom everybody seemed
to feel a spite. Some kicked, some beat, some
stoned it. I was sadly puzzled to account for
so much wanton cruelty, until a friendly
mountaineer informed me that the body of
the horse was known to contain the soul of a
very wicked old Turk, against whom, as a
Turk, nobody dared lift a finger, but for
whom everybody had a stick at hand now
that the strutting son of Turkey had become
a horse. In Egypt, I remember, there is a
belief that certain small white lizards,
common in a house, incorporate the souls
of wicked donkey-drivers. This superstition
has arisen out of a resemblance between
the sound made by the harmless little lizard,
and the click of the tongue with which it
is common for drivers to urge on an ass or
horse.

The Arabs in our village were a lazy set of
people, but with no industry could I ever
learn to imitate their luxurious method of
drinking. They have an earthen bottle, called
a " goula," with a small round pipe by way of
spout, and they will take this goula full of
water, hold it above them at arm's length,
throw their heads back beneath it, open their
mouths gently, and let the water trickle down
their throats in a continual stream. They
will slip, in this way, more than a pint of
water down their throats like oil, without
closing their lips, or making any visible
movement of deglutition. What the physiologists
may say I do not know. The fact is a fact,
and it is a fact that I choked myself, like a
goose, very seriously, in an ambitious attempt
to drink like a Druse.

As for the laziness of Druses. I will give
you a good notion of that—  an unexaggerated
fact. One day, while I was sporting among
the mountains, I came upon some men who
were making a stone hedge, while there were
others digging a ditch in soil of the lightest
kind mere loose mould. They were at work
with wooden spades of ordinary size, and to
each spade there were allowed three men!
Two men were at the handle, and to the lower
part of the handle ropes were attached, by
which a third man helped the other two in
lifting up the spadeful of soil. How many
Druses make a navvie?

A HOUSEHOLD WORD

TO MY COUSIN HELEN

PLEASANT are thine eyes, clear Helen,
  Sunny, soft, and kind;
Of a true warm heart the token,
  And a quiet mind.
Few have seen their looks of welcome,
  Few thy heart hath known,
Round thee dwelling, sisters, kindred,
  All thou call'st " thine own."
Cherished yet,—a scarce-fledged nestling—
  By the Parent Dove,
Still thy soft glance, where it falleth,
  Meeteth love for love!
But, when thou shalt pass the portals
  Of thy childish years,
  When the narrow circle widens
  Of thy hopes and fears,
  When great crowds of alien faces
  Those sweet eyes shall see,
When " the World " shall greet thee, Helen,.
  Then, how shall it be?
As the Sun, at early morning,
  Sees the leaden streams
  Glisten with a tender radiance
  Borrowed from his beams;—
As the Moon, at midnight shining,
On the sad grey waves,—
Sees her own smile onward creeping
  To the dark sea-caves;
As an Angel's presence lighteth ,
  Dull and common ground;—
So the spirit of thy childhood
  Still shall linger round
When thy untried steps shall wander
  Forth from HOME'S calm roof;
Goodness shall be there to guide thee,
  Evil, stand aloof.
Still those eyes shall keep their sunshine
  Free from crime or care,
Still be gently raised to Heaven
  Full of Jove and prayer;
And the coldest, the most worldly,
  Pronest to condemn,
  Can but look upon thee kindly,—
  As thou look'st on them!

FRENCH PROVINCIAL NEWS

An Englishman is so spoiled by the freedom,
the ability, and the voluminousness of his own
country newspapers—for we will now leave
London and Paris out of the question—that
he will hardly condescend to take up one of
those flimsy, brief, and (so to speak) silent
journals, which he sees now and then during
his progress on the Continent; especially as
there has been of late so much said about
the restrictions laid upon the French press.
" These papers can contain nothing instructive
or interesting," think most travellers; " they
are not worth looking at; they are the most
barren of waste paper."

Such had been my thoughts for many
weeks, when a marriage took place in my
neighbourhood, between a man whose strength
seemed to be all running to moustache, and
an active bright-eyed bourgeoise, who will no
doubt carry on his business should she
become a widow, and who will meanwhile take
three-quarters of the trouble of the concern
off his hands. One of the local papers was
handed to me, on the supposition that I might
like to see the news! In politeness I must
look to see how they had announced the poor
little man's marriage.

Well, well! This part of the paper is not
so badly arranged, though it differs considerably
from the English fashion. Births,
marriages, and deaths is our order of precedence;
the French begin with "Publications of
marriage." How would you like that, young