[PICKING BERRIES.]
BY MARGARET SANGSTER.
Away to the hill-side on swift little feet,
Trot quick through the meadows in shadow and sun;
Broad brims and deep crowns over brows that are sweet,
And round rosy cheeks that are dimpling with fun.
And home from the hill-side on slow little feet,
With baskets as heavy as faces are bright;
And who will be first the dear mother to greet,
And see her surprise and her look of delight?
But she never will dream, by the berries they bring,
Of the millions they left where the sweet berries grow,
Away on the hills where the merry birds sing,
And the brook dances down to the valley below.
[BLOCKADED BY A LION.]
BY DAVID KER.
"Now, monsieur," says old Major De Launay, pointing to the vast jungle of monstrous reeds fringing the African coast far as the eye can reach, as the Tunis steamer heads seaward out of Bona Harbor, "if you want some sport, take a gun and go in among those reeds, and you may be sure of not having long to wait before you find yourself face to face with a lion."
"A lion?" echo I. "Why, I thought they had all been killed off long ago."
"So they have everywhere else along the coast; but just here, as you see, it's a wild kind of country, and Monsieur Yellowmane has it all his own way. There are plenty of brave fellows among our Arabs here, and we Frenchmen don't consider ourselves cowards; but I can tell you that you won't find a man in all this district, Arab or Frenchman, who would go through those reeds after night-fall—no, not if you were to offer him a thousand francs."
"Wouldn't you do it yourself, then, M. De Launay?" ask I, rather surprised at such an avowal from a man whose reckless courage is a proverb throughout the length and breadth of Algeria.