Greek. The applause bestowed upon his
clever tricks, together with too much self-
satisfaction, perhaps, and the intoxication of
success, had developed to an extraordinary
degree the manifestations of his crafty nature.
My mother, who, according to the terms of
the Civil Code, was responsible for the acts
and deeds of my fox, asserted sometimes, in
an undertone, that she might have bought a
handsome horse with the sum total of the
indemnities which my mischievous brute
had cost her for murdered chickens,
plundered soup-boilers, and tame rabbits artfully
made away with. At last, a price was set
upon his head; but who, in our presence,
dared to undertake the execution of the
sentence?

A kite of courage, when the thing was
proposed to him, did not shrink from the
enterprise. He was a redoubted bird, the
terror of all the cats and poodles of the place,
and proudly conscious of fifty victories. He
challenged the fox to single combat, and the
lists were opened with my consent. The
kitchen was the field of battle. The first
attack was terrible. Surprised and frightened
by the aggressor's impetuosity, Reynard
disgracefully turned tail, and sought a retreat
in the darkest corner of the room. The bird
then pounced upon the enemy's rump, slashing
away with all the power of his beak. But
that portion of the adversary, the only part
he could work upon, was also hairy and
invulnerable. Satiated at last with his apparent
triumph and the uproarious applause of the
delighted public, he left his quarry, perched
upon the back of a low chair, and soon was
dozing like a gorged buzzard. The spectators,
supposing that all the fun was over, discussed
the superior gallantry of carnivorous birds
over carnivorous quadrupeds; and the debate
became so animated, that the actual
combatants were completely lost sight of, till a
fearful scream re-echoed through the place.
We turned and looked, and—heart-rending
sight!—the kite lay prostrate on the floor of
the arena, beating the air with his dying
wing, and contracting his claws in a final
convulsion of agony.

How the death-wound had been dealt, I
was the only person able to say. It was a
feint borrowed from the famous combat of
the Horatii and the Curatii. The fox had
fled, in order to induce the bird to pursue
him, and waste his strength upon his padded
buckler. As soon as the kite was tired and
had given up the contest, the cunning brute
turned his head, observed the position, and
measured the distance. Then, darting forward
with a terrible bound, which no one foresaw
and no one heard, he seized the unsuspecting
creature in his mouth, and pierced him
through and through with a single bite. The
whole affair was the work of a moment.
When we looked to see where the murderer
was, we perceived him under the kitchen
sink, contemplating the maid as she washed
up the dinner plates, like a complete stranger
to the tragic event.

Further on, I will show you some creatures
which stand as the symbols of literary men.
You hear the bell which is ringing at this
moment; it announces to them their feeding
time.  * * *  Here the loud sound of some
heavy body falling plump between my feet,
diverted my attention from the speaker's
harangue. I looked on the floor to discover what
had occasioned the noise; and there, sure
enough, lay a half-open, thick octavo volume,
whose aspect was perfectly familiar to me. I
stooped to raise it from the ground. On listening
for the continuation of my conductor's
address, and the sequel remarks on literary
animals, the Illuminated Menagerie had
entirely disappeared, and I was sitting in my
arm-chair in my snug little study, exactly
where I ought to have been—namely, on the
north coast of France, instead of at Paris, I
knew not how.

"Monsieur est servi!" shouted a female
voice, in a very unusual tone of displeasure.
"The dinner has been on the table for ever
so long, and everybody is tired of waiting. I
have rung the bell till my arm quite aches.
The soup, made of a magnificent veal ankle,
is now as cold as fountain-water; and the
omelette, in which I surpassed myself, dashing
it off in a moment of enthusiasm, is no
better than a bit of buttered sponge. It is
cruel of you, Monsieur Feelsone, to serve me
so," continued my landlady as she entered the
room. "But, ah! I see the cause of the
indifference to meal-times which has lately
over-clouded your spirit. I behold the reason of
the ungrateful return which you make to-day
for my kitchen labours. It all arises from
that ugly, wicked treatise. In vain I lie
awake all night, contemplating a happy
combination of dishes; in vain I ransack the
waters, salt and sweet; in vain I send
emissaries to marsh and wood, all to procure you
fish and game. Now-o'-days you care no
more about them than if they were slices of
bread and butter. But if matters are much
longer to go on in this way, I shall wish
Phalansterianism at the bottom of the sea. M.
Victor had a great deal better attend to his
patients' maladies, than keep sending to Paris
for books by the dozen, to corrupt your mind
as well as his own. I shall soon be looked
upon as a complete nobody in the house, if
comfortable lodging and liberal board are
treated as things not worth attending to.
Philosophy is to have the upper hand!
Worlds of Birds! and Minds of Brutes! I
wonder what nonsense will next be thought
of? I am sure all your friends are sick of
the subject. For my part, if Dubois—"

''Madame Dubois." I calmly answered, "I
plead guilty to having fallen fast asleep. But do
not be too angry with our books; for I assure
you that, if ever you let lodgings in Harmony,
you will have a much wider and more honourable
scope in which to exercise the culinary