net. One evening, surprised by storm, I took
shelter in a little village in the neighbourhood
and slept there. At dawn I was
aroused by the cries of "Matanza!" and
soon found my way into a boat. We went
out on that occasion, to a small draught,
with only seventeen men. The watchmen
told us, when we reached their boat, that an
enormous shark was in the net, scaring away
the tunnies that approached it. The nuisance,
therefore, had to be removed. As we lifted
up the net, I noticed how cautiously the men
put their fingers to the meshes as the outline
of a great hammer-headed shark, fourteen
feet long, became visible. As the water about
him became shallow, the monster stirred up
into fury flung himself on his back, opened
his mouth to the full width, and showed his
handsome pair of jaws. The lashings of his
tail caused the boats to totter, and the foam
flew about us so that sometimes, as we heard
afterwards, we were invisible to the people
on the shore, being, as it were, enveloped in
a cloud. The creature's tail knocked off the
hat of a man standing near me and shot it
far away into the sea; a little lower, and he
would have had his ears boxed very seriously.
With much trouble we succeeded in slinging
a rope round the shark's neck, and with our
united efforts hauled him up into the main
boat. The head fisherman then thrust a
pocket-knife into his heart, and the blood
flowed as from a slaughtered ox. In his last
struggle his tail struck one of the oar benches
and sent it up quivering into the sky.
Inspection after death disclosed the existence
in the shark's stomach of a young dolphin
about as thick as a man's thigh, divided
by clean bites into three pieces and half-
digested.

THE LEGEND OF BUCHAREST.

ONCE upon a time there lived, in one of the
seaport towns of Bulgaria, an Armenian
merchant, celebrated for his riches in lands,
houses, brilliant stuffs, and precious stones—
but more celebrated still for the possession of
a beautiful daughter, whose name was Guzla,
known among the youths and maidens as the
Star of the East. Her fame, from a very
early age, spread throughout the whole
country, and she had more suitors for her
hand than Penelope of old. It is said even,
that a Moslem prince offered to abjure his
religion for her sake; but, as she is supposed
to have lived before the time of Mahommed,
we may question the truth of this tradition.
Her father, Boukor, often talked of marrying
her to some noble person of whom he could
approve, and was delighted to count up the
number of times he had been able to refuse
what the world called advantageous offers;
but, as refusal succeeded refusal, the public
began to think that he had no mind to
settle her after all. However, Guzla at
length determined to choose for herself; and
one night, when the winds blew and the dogs
howled as if there were spirits in. the air,
she and Young Severin fled away into the
storm.

Boukor grieved for his loss with the bitterness
of aged grief; and, turning on himself,
heaped reproaches upon his own head for his
selfishness. Why had he not detected earlier
what was passing in the mind of his gentle-
spirited daughter? Why had he not understood
the reason that had paled her cheek
and made her eyes downcast? Why had he
not guessed her thoughts of love, and won
from her a confession by kind words? These
questions came too late; but he determined to
do what he should have done at first—namely,
endeavour to overtake the young fugitive,
and bring her back to her nest. The difficulty
was to know in what direction she had
fled. No neighbour could give him any
information.

The old man was waiting, perhaps, for a
revelation, when the neighing of a colt from
the stable came to his ear. Kebir was
complaining of the absence of its dam, Zarah. The
truth now was manifest. Guzla had taken
her father's favourite mare to bear her on
her love-journey. She was most probably by
this time far away; "but by St. Pacomo,"
so swore the old gentleman—"it would have
been wiser for her and her lover not to have
separated two parents from two children. The
deserted infant shall aid the vengeance of the
deserted father." The vengeance? Yes, old
Boukor was making terrible vows in his
own mind, and revelled in anticipated
slaughter.

Boukor called his head-clerk, committed to
him the management of his affairs, filled his
purse with money, and mounted a good horse,
not inferior to the stolen Zarah. This done,
he gave orders to drive the colt out of the
stables. What he expected came to pass.
Kebir, after frisking about a little, began to
snuff the air and paw the ground, and then,
with flashing eyes, and ears thrown back,
away he went towards the north. Boukor
was after him in a moment; and, though at
first left far behind, soon gained ground, and
came up with the colt, which still continued
its pursuit.

In this way they travelled five long days,
during which they halted occasionally,
beneath the shadow of trees, on the green grass,
to rest and sleep. The colt took the management
of these halts, and if its tired master
prolonged them overmuch, reminded him of
his duty by an anxious neigh. At length,
the poor little animal's strength began to fail.
Instead of galloping or trotting, it crept slowly
along, pausing every now and then to look
wistfully from the blue horizon to the face of
the aged Boukor. On the sixth day it could
scarcely move, and at last lay down to die;
The merchant mourned over it, and, picking
bunches of moist grass, endeavoured to make
it munch them; but it would not. Then he