ater, and every day less and less, till in a fortnight I could wash him
without fear of his becoming a _solution_, or fluid extract of dog, and
thus resolving the mystery back into itself.

The mare's days were short. She won the Consolation Stakes at Stirling,
and was found dead next morning in Gibb's stables. The Duchess died in a
good old age, as may be seen in the history of "Our Dogs." The S. Q. N.,
and the parthenogenesic earth-born, the _Cespes Vivus_--whom we
sometimes called Joshua, because he was the Son of None (Nun), and even
Melchisedec has been whispered, but only that, and Fitz-Memnon, as being
as it were a son of the Sun, sometimes the Autochthon {autochthonos};
(indeed, if the relation of the _coup de soleil_ and the blaeberry had
not been plainly causal and effectual, I might have called him _Filius
Gunni_, for at the very moment of that shudder, by which he leapt out of
non-life into life, the Marquis's gamekeeper fired his rifle up the
hill, and brought down a stray young stag,) these two are happily with
me still, and at this moment she is out on the grass in a low
easy-chair, reading Emilie Carlen's _Brilliant Marriage_, and Dick is
lying at her feet, watching, with cocked ears, some noise in the ripe
wheat, possibly a chicken, for, poor fellow, he has a weakness for
worrying hens, and such small deer, when there is a dearth of greater.
If any, as is not unreasonable, doubt me and my story, they may come and
see Dick. I assure them he is well worth seeing.

_HER LAST HALF-CROWN._

_Once I had friends--though now by all forsaken;
Once I had parents--they are now in heaven.
I had a home once----_

_Worn out with anguish, sin, and cold, and hunger,
Down sunk the outcast, death had seized her senses.
There did the stranger find her in the morning--
God had released her._

SOUTHEY.

Hugh Miller, the geologist, journalist, and man of genius, was sitting
in his newspaper office late one dreary winter night. The clerks had all
left and he was preparing to go, when a quick rap came to the door. He
said "Come in," and, looking towards the entrance, saw a little ragged
child all wet with sleet. "Are ye Hugh Miller?" "Yes." "Mary Duff wants
ye." "What does she want?" "She's deein." Some misty recollection of the
name made him at once set out, and with his well-known plaid and stick,
he was soon striding after