are intervals. This is
a sort of high-pitched laugh thoroughly unsuited to its softness, a most
cynical and derisive sound which in so kind a beak seems to have neither
meaning nor purpose. But I overlook its rare laugh in consideration of
the cooing with which it blesses us and the general friendship which it
has vowed to this house.

* * * * *

RECALLED.

[Illustration: The second great sale on behalf of the wounded will be
held at Christie's (8 King Street, St. James' Square) from the 6th to
the 19th of April, and from the 26th to the 28th. The entire
proceeds--no charge for their services being made by Messrs. Christie,
Manson & Woods--will be handed over to the British Red Cross Society and
the Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem. The exhibits are
still on view to-day (April 5th).]

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Husband._ "Darlint, 'tis yer own Michael that's come
home to yez!"

_Wife._ "Sure, Mike, ye're not afther thrying anny of thim personating
thricks on me, are yez?"]

* * * * *

THE BOBBERY PACK.

Andy Hartigan's dead and gone
Over the hills and further yet,
But he drank good port and his red face shone
Like a cider apple of Somerset.

Ten strange couples o' hounds he had
(Gaunt old brutes that had hunted fox
Back in the days when NOAH was a lad),
Touched in the bellows and gone at the hocks--

Hounds he'd stole from a Harrier pack,
Hounds he'd borrowed an' begged an' found,
Grey an' yellow an' tan an' black,
Every conceivable kind o' hound.

He called them "harriers," and a few
_Were_ harriers--back when the world began--
But they weren't particular where they drew
An' they weren't particular what they ran.

I mind him once of a bygone morn
Ruddy an' round on his flea-bit horse,
Twangin' a note on his battered horn
An' cappin' them into the Frenchman gorse.

They pushed a brown hare out of her form
An' swung on her line with a crash of tongues;
But a vixen crossed an' her scent was warm,
So they ran her, screechin' to burst their lungs.

They ran her into my lord's demesne,
Where my lady's fallows were grazing free;
They picked a stag and followed again,
Singing like souls in ecstasy.

They chased the stag up over the ridge
With lolling tongues an' with heaving flanks;
They lost him down