strange," pecking at the little blue mark with his forceps; "the fang's in the wound yet. I never heard of that happening before. Shake him a bit; don't let him go drowsy."

His swollen limbs wobbled like jelly under the treatment. It was horrid.

The doctor gave a little dig, and then a little tug with his forceps. Presently he held up to the candle, in the clutch of the forceps, a long white spine, and regarded it curiously. Then he said in a hollow voice: "Do you know what it is? It's not a fang at all; it's a cactus-spike." "What!"

A strangely perplexed little group of men gazed into each other's faces with questioning eyes, under the stars that twinkled out over the snow-topped edges of the Sierras.

"Well, I am darned."

"All the same," the doctor added quietly, "he'd have died if you hadn't kept him going."

"Died! What of?"

"Snake-bite,-shake him up there; don't let him go drowsy."

"Snake-bite! Heavens and earth, I thought you said there was nothing in his foot beyond the thorn."

Then the doctor went up to Jock and laid a hand on each of his shoulders, and said, very slowly and distinctly: "You mark me, Jock Peters, we're in face of a bigger thing to-night than snake-bite. We're in face of one of the biggest and ultimatest facts of human nature, and one of its biggest mysteries, the influence of the mind upon the body. I've heard of something like this before, although I've never seen it, nor ever thought I should; and that in connection with a coolie and a cobra in India. In that case, too, there was no snake-bite, although there was a snake. The coolie saw the snake; it darted from beneath his feet, and at the moment (likely from the start he gave) a thorn pierced his foot,-just as it happened to the Greaser. And that man, too, the same as this man here, swelled up, showed all the symptoms of snake-poisoning, and died. This man we'll save. You, Jock, have practically saved him, by keeping him moving, and counteracting the poison by the brandy. Look at the man; isn't he

"By all that's blue he looks it," Jock admitted.

"But you don't mean to tell me," Jock began again, when we had succeeded in arousing some sign of life in Louie, "that all that," pointing at his distended features, "is the cactusthorn?"

"You're right,-dead; as dead as you or I would be, if we set to drink the same just now. But he, he's hardly drunk; he's sober. And he's better

and listened to its beating as he spoke.

"You've seen a strange thing to-night, gentlemen," he added, rising again, and addressing us collectively; "such a thing as neither you nor I are likely ever to see again. And I'll tell you another thing about it, gentlemen; it's a thing that you won't find you get a deal of credence for when you come to tell it to the boys. There's a fashion in this world for men to believe they know the way things happen; and the thing that happens in a way they don't know they put aside as a thing that didn't happen. So of this," the doctor adaed simply, "I should only speak, as among gentlemen, with a hand on the pistol-pocket at the hip."

After a while the awful distortion of Louie's face began to go down: "You can almost see it settling, like a batter pudding," as Jim Kelly said; and the fearful purple tinge died out of it. His heart was beating naturally again, and the doctor said we might let him go to sleep.

In the morning he was difficult to rouse, as he might be after so heavy a night, but the doctor said he would do right enough if we gave him rest for a day or two. And so he did, though his nerve was so shaken that we had to send him back to the plain again, where there are no rattlesnakes. It appeared later that Louie had cherished a morbid dread of snakes for a long while, ever since he had had a hand in the killing of one six feet long down in the Republic of Mexico; though after a couple of years on the ranche he had almost forgotten that there were such things. A man that is nervous about snakes should never go barefoot in the hills.

"It only shows what I told you," Jock Peters commented. "Strychnine is the thing for snake-bite, because it is a nerve-tonic. If a man could make believe he had not been bitten he need never die of snake-bite. If ever I'm bitten I shall make believe it was a cactus-spine."

This is a true story, although it's such a good one. If any one doubts it, he can see the thorn.

I From The Argosy.

A GLIMPSE OF MARIA EDGEWORTH. More than half a century ago, a party of happy young people were travelling by train in England. At one end of their carriage two elderly ladies were seated. One of these, small in person and with plain features, would probably have attracted little or no attention anywhere, so long as she remained silent. As soon, however, as she began to talk, the charm of her conversation and the intelligence and good humor of her countenance made every one forget that she was not blest with outward beauty. Strangers at the beginning of the journey, the travellers in time began to exchange remarks with each other, and books soon became the subject on which young and old evidently preferred to talk. last Miss Edgeworth's works were mentioned: they were great favorites with the young people, and they spoke warmly of the delight that "Simple Susan" and "Lazy Lawrence" had been to them in their childish days. Suddenly two of the party looked at each other and smiled, and one of them, turning to the little old lady in the corner, said:—

At

"We always feel guilty when we hear Miss Edgeworth spoken of, for when we were children we did such a dreadful thing; we cannot imagine now how we could have been so bold. We were very fond of drawing pictures of our pet characters, and of course were always trying to illustrate "The Parent's Assistant," and only think! We actually made up a packet of what we considered our best pictures, with our Christian names written under them, and posted it to Miss Edgeworth! What must she have thought of such children?"

Can we not fancy how the little lady's kindly face lighted up with pleasure, as she replied: "And I can tell you that those drawings are still carefully treasured, for I am Maria Edgeworth!"

The scene changes. It is the year 1844, the seventy-seventh of Miss Edge

visited London. It was in the early days of March, that with her halfsister, Mrs. Lestock Wilson, her beloved "Fanny," she made a call at a house at the entrance of Kilburn, at that time still a rural looking village with green fields, country lanes, and a little old hunting lodge which had belonged to Charles the Second still standing just off the highroad. The semi-detached villa which they entered had at its back a long garden, which during the three seasons of the year, used to be a blaze of color.

The smoke of London did not then cover every geranium and verbena leaf with black; the great city was still far enough away to cause those who went there to speak of "going to town." At the beginning of March, the spring flowers in the gardens were few and far between; but the little drawingroom was never without something pretty to look at and sweet to smell. In one window, on a table, stood a pot of tree-mignonette, which instantly attracted the attention of Miss Edgeworth. She went up to it, and putting her arms round it, exclaimed in her warm-hearted Irish way, "Oh, you darling!"

It was during this visit that the anecdote already related was told. It need hardly be added here that her hostess, who was an enthusiastic admirer of her writings and also as great a lover of flowers, insisted on the mignonette accompanying her visitors home. Before leaving the house, however, Miss Edgeworth said she would send to Edgeworthstown for a plant which she trusted would take root in the suburban garden. Some weeks later the following letter was received from

her:

"1 North Audley Street,
"March 30th, 1844.

"Dear Mrs. H.-My brother, Pakenham Edgeworth, undertakes to carry

make time for the pleasure myself. The packet contains a Celestial rose, what its botanical name may be I cannot say, but I suspect that called by any other name would look as fair or as red and smell as sweet. This is from my own garden at Edgeworthstown, from which I flatter myself you will like to have a vegetable love. My sister joins in kind remembrances to you. Your pot of mignonette-I mean the pot without the mignonette-is here at your orders, but I cannot send it by this opportunity, as my brother rides, and rides a mettlesome horse.

This letter is written in fine and delicate, but clear handwriting on a halfsheet of notepaper folded. The postscript has a touching interest, for the prophecy concerning herself was too

true.

At the end of April she left London, never to return to it.

The "Celestial rose" was carefully tended, and it climbed and twined and flourished in luxuriance, taking kindly to its English soil. The present owner of the letter feels strongly inclined, when at rare intervals she passes by the old house, to ring the bell and ask for permission to walk round the garden, even, perhaps, to beg for a slip from the Irish rose should the hand of time and of the stranger have dealt gently with this fragrant memorial of Maria Edgeworth.

bones

Bones of our sheep-like human bones they lie,

Each rowan-tree seems red with Christian blood.

fades,

All the bright sunshine lost in endless

shades.

First a dim twilight, then the day and night

AN END OF TRAVEL.

Let now your soul in this substantial world

light.

Never to see the earth Thou mad'st so fair!

Never to see the sun reflected there!
Never in Love's fond thoughtfulness to

trace

An answering smile upon a loved one's face.

To wait in darkness for the Light of Life, To grope thro' endless years of earthly strife;

To bear with patience such a burden laid Till all earth's darkness sink into the shade;

And passed the night, Heav'n's glory pierce the skies,

Shining more perfect to the sightless eyes.
Spectator.
H. C.

Thou, Abba, know'st how dear
My little child's poor playthings are to her;
What love and joy

She has in every darling doll and precious toy;

Yet when she stands between my knees To kiss good-night, she does not sob in

sorrow,

moored;

This spectacle immutably from now

And shall not I?

W. CANTON.