ng to him a look the most
ferocious and sinister that can be imagined. On my way to the wagons I
shot a stag sassayby, and while I was engaged in removing his head a
troop of about thirty doe pallahs cantered past me, followed by one
princely old buck. Snatching up my rifle, I made a fine shot, and rolled
him over in the grass.

Early in the afternoon I dispatched men with a pack-horse to bring the
finer of the two buffalo-heads. It was so ponderous that two powerful
men could with difficulty raise it from the ground. The Bechuanas who
had accompanied me, on hearing of my success, snatched up their shields
and assagais, and hastened to secure the flesh, nor did I see any more
of them, with the exception of the two Baquaines, who remained with me,
being engaged in a plot with my interpreter to prevent my penetrating to
Bamangwato. Isaac did not soon forget his adventure with the buffaloes;
and at night over the fire he informed my men that I was mad, and that
any man who followed me was going headlong to his own destruction. At an
early hour on the 5th, I continued my march through a glorious country
of hill and dale, throughout which water was abundant.

[From Household Words.]

EARTH'S HARVESTS.

"Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War."

MILTON'S _Sonnet to Cromwell._

Two hundred years ago,[6] the moon
Shone on a battle plain;
Cold through that glowing night of June
Lay steeds and riders slain;
And daisies, bending 'neath strange dew,
Wept in the silver light;
The very turf a regal hue
Assumed that fatal night.

Time past--but long, to tell the tale,
Some battle-ax or shield,
Or cloven skull, or shattered mail,
Were found upon the field;
The grass grew thickest on the spot
Where high were heaped the dead,
And well it marked had men forgot,
Where the great charge was made.

To-day--the sun looks laughing down
Upon the harvest plain,
The little gleaners, rosy-brown,
The merry reapers' train;
The rich sheaves heaped together stand,
And resting in their shade,
A mother, working close at hand,
Her sleeping babe hath laid.

A battle-field it was, and is,
For serried spears are there,
And against mighty foes upreared--
Gaunt hunger, pale despair.
We'll thank God for the hearts of old,
Their strife our