the ould miser tould him to take 'em back, beca'se they did n't fit, and hurted his feet in the bargain. An' so poor Lanty had to thrudge home ag'in wid the brogues undher his arrum, and wid all the money the ould fellow paid him for thim, in an impty pocket. Now, as I was afther tellin' ye, he was walkin' across a piece av medder-land on the edge of the bog, an' bewailin' his bad luck, whin he had the misfortune to stub his fut agin a fairy ring by the side av the path, an' he fell at full length upon the flure. Av coorse ye know, me dears, what a fairy ring is? Then, faith, I need n't be tellin' ye that it 's the big tufts av grass in the medders that the Little People dance around on moonshiny nights. Whin Lanty got up ag'in, he was in a tearin' rage. "Bad luck to the Little People," says he, "a-puttin' the tricks on a dacent poor man that's goin' home wid a load o' throuble on his heart! I'd wring their "BAD LUCK TO THE LITTLE PEOPLE!' SAYS LANTY." necks for um," says he, "if I had um here betune me thumb an' forefinger." Well, afther a dale av mutterin' an' blatherin', Lanty got home to his cabin, an' was soon sound aslape, an' by the nixt mornin' was as merry as a fiddler at a wake, an' had forgotten all about his throubles an' difficulties. But, poor sowl, though he had forgotten, the Little People had n't; an' it was n't long afore the most perplixin' an' ixtrornary circumshtances in connixion wid his perfeshun began to deplate his trisury an' bewild her his narves, to sich an ixtint that, if it had n't 'a' bin for the comfort of the whiff at his poipe, there's no tellin' what he 'd 'a' been afther doin'. "Lanty O'Hoolahan, ye vilyun," says one of his custhomers a day or two aftherwards, "what d' ye mane by sindin' home to me a pair av brogues like thim? They 're harder to kape thegither than a drove av pigs; an' I could niver ha' worn 'em here if I had n't 'a' carried 'em in me hands an' walked barefut. It's mesilf that does n't know how sich tricherous brogues could ixist at all, onliss yez made 'em out av brown paper, an' shtuck 'em thegither wid pins." "Arrah, be aisy, Patsy," says me uncle, "an' how could I be makin' a pair av black brogues out av brown paper? Sure, they're cut from as foine a bit av English calfskin as ivver was tanned." "Then, be the powers," says Patsy, "if it ivver rains in England, the calf that wore that skin for a coverin' caught his death o' cowld, for sorra bit of wather did it turn." "An' what's the matther wid 'em at all, at all?” says me uncle. 66 Begorra, there's not enough left av 'em to make matarial for ixamination, let alone discussion," says Patsy, " and that 's the throuble," says he. "Shame on ye, Lanty O'Hoolahan, for a desavin' cratur! " says he. An' its thrue for yez, them brogues wor a sight to behowld. The welts wor a-gapin' as though they had n't bin aslape for a fortnight, an' ivvery siperate bit av the uppers was as full av cracks as Tim Maguire's head afther a faction fight at Donnybrook fair. Now, if ye 'll belave me, afore poor Lanty was over wid lamintin' the terrible misfortune that had befallen him, who should come in but Mr. Finnelay, the attorney, Colonel De Lacey's agint, alookin' moighty put out, an' as red as a beet. "Lanty O'Hoolahan, ye spalpeen!" says he. "Yer honor!" says Lanty, wid a gentale scrape. (He see throuble a-brewin', an' was bound to smooth it over wid perliteness; for it always tickles an agint to be called "yer honor.") "How dare ye spile me best London-made shoes," says he, "by convartin' 'em into a botch like this?" An' he held up afore him a pair av walkin'-shoes, wid the sowls hangin' to 'em by a thread or two, an' the heels clane gone intirely. "Musha, then," says me uncle, "but it's the pathriotic sowls they are, to be sure. It 's ivident they dispise to be bound to the Saxon toyrant or anny of his worruks," says he. "Ould Oireland need n't despair av freedom, whin even inanimate nature rebels ag'in the furrin yoke. It on'y confurrums me opinion that there's nothin' like leather." "T is a true word ye 're spakin," says Misther Finnelay. "I'll go bail," says he, "there 's nothin' that's annythin' at all like leather in them shoe-soles, more shame to ye, ye rogue." "Hark to the improvin' discoorse av him!" says "HOW DARE YE SPILE ME BEST LONDON-MADE SHOES?' SAYS HE." me uncle, admirin'ly. "See how he catches up me own words in a twinklin', an' bates me wid 'em. Sure 't is Parliament 's the place for a gintleman av ready spache like yer honor, an' its mesilf as would enj'y hearin' ye trate the Tories wid the rough edge o' yer tongue," says he. "Git out wid yer blarneyin"" says the agint, but he was plazed, for all that. "But what ails ye, annyway?" says he. "Sorra bit do I know," says Lanty, "barrin' it is that ould Kitty Flanagan has been overlookin' me shoes in rivinge for the illigant batin' I gave her ould man, the toime he broke me head, an' laid me up for the winther," says he. Howsomdever, afther this, things went from bad to worse wid him, so that he grew as thin as a shavin' off the hide av a skinned rabbit, an' as sad as a wathery pratie, until wan night, as he sat aslape in his cabin, a-watchin' the imbers av the pate fire, an' a-thinkin' over his desprit condition, he heard the quarest little "he-he " av a giggle that ivver a man clapt eyes on, comin' out av the other corner av the room. 'T was just as though a Jersey muskater had become a Christian, an' was thryin' his hand on an Irish laugh. uncle to himself, but so low that he had to watch the movements av his mouth to tell what it was he was afther sayin',-" but that's a strange soight, so it is," says he. An' he was just on the sthroke av jumpin' up an' hollerin' "murther an' thaves," whin he heard the laugh ag'in, an' lookin' beyant, where his bench stood, he saw a shmall head near the soize av a middlin' pratie (be way av makin' sure that the coast was clear) a-papin' out av the lig av one av Squire Kelly's new top boots, which Lanty was afther finishin' that avenin' ready for takin' to the Hall the nixt mornin'. Whin the little man saw that all was quoiet an' shtill, "All right!" says he, an' quick as a wink, the binch an' the flure wor covered wid a hustlin' crowd av little people, as big as me hand or littler, barrin' the dirrt, a-lapin an' tumblin' an' dancin' about like parched pays in a fryin'-pan, wid a shprinklin' av red-hot gunpowther thrown in to ballast 'em an' kape 'em stiddy. Some av 'em wor drissed in green, an' some in red, an' the lave av 'em had little chisels an' saws an' knoives in their hands, wid little baskets to hould the chips. Prisintly one av 'em wid a big feather in his cap, an' a coat all ablaze wid gould an' di'monds, says: "Ordher," says he, an' at onct the little folks wor a-stannin in rows loike a corps av Fanians adrillin' on the green. " "BUT THAT'S A STRANGE SOIGHT, SO IT IS,' SAYS HE.' An' at it they went, helter skelter, hammer an' tongs, wid chisels an' files, an' knoives an' spoke "The saints betune us an' all harrum !" says me shaves, butcherin' an' slahterin' the new top boots. Two av 'em wid a shmall cheese-cutter were anickin' the sti'ches around the sowls, while the others went to chisellin' grooves on the inside av the uppers, an' shavin' the leather so thin yez could see daylight through 'em down a coal-mine wid the lamps out. An' all the toime me poor uncle was a-lookin' at the little felluhs, wid his eyes shut for fear they'd see him a-watchin' 'em, an' quakin' an' thrimblin, while the cowld sweat poured down his back till he had n't a dry rag on him, barrin' his night-cap, which was a-soakin' wid the lave av his linen in the tub ready ag'in the nixt wash-day. "Bad luck to 'em!" says he. "There goes two pound an' the intherest for ivver! Be jabers!" says he, "there's one comfort, the boots wont hould thegither long enough fur the squoire to kick me out o' the house when I take 'em home." "Lanty O'Hoolahan," says he, still a-talkin' to hisself, "if it takes ye three days to mak them boots, lavin' out Sunday an' workin' two days more to even it, an' these thavin' little blaggyuards desthroy thim in the coorse av an hour or so, how long will it be afore y' are clatterin' down the road to ruin, wid yer joints greased for the occasion, an' wid the help av a convaynient landshlip ordhered exprissly to expedite the ixcursion?" "Wirra, wirra," says he, "what have I done to the Little People that they should thrate me so, wasthin' me substhance, an' desthroyin' me carackther, an' wearin' out the ligimints av me heart wid grief!" When jist then he remembered the misfortunate night when he shtumbled over the fairy ring, an' forgot his good manners, an' gave the Little People bad names, an' thritened their p'ace an' dignity. "That's it!" says he in terror. "'T is all over wid me!" says he. "If I come out av this shcrape wid me head on me showldhers, it 'll be by the mercy av Providence an' the help av me own wit, an' not from any good-will or lanience of the fairies." Purty soon the Little People finished their job for the noight, an' wor packin' up their traps to be off, when Lanty could stan' it no longer; an' casthin' away all considherations av fear or danger, he le'pt into the middle av the flure an' made a grab fur the crowd. Sure, he might as well have clutched the slippery end av a moonbeam, for they slid through his fingers like a shtream av ice wather wid the chill off, an' were gone in a flash. But, as luck would have it, the little chap wid the feathers an' di'monds in makin' a spring fur the chimney shtumbled over a lump av cobbler's wax on the edge of the binch, an' went souse into a pot av glue that was simmerin' be the side av the foire. Afore he could gather hisself thegither fur anither lape, me uncle had him be the neck. "I'VE GOT YE, AT LAST!' SAID LANTY." "Ye dispicable scoundhrel!" says Lanty; "what d'ye mane be thryin' to ruin a dacent thradesman as nivver did ye anny harrum?" "What did ye mane by thramplin' over my domain wid yer clumsy brogues, an' blatherin' an' threatenin' me paple aftherwards?" says the little chap. "D' yez know who I am?" says he. "Ye 're a rogue that 's jist rached the ind av a career av croime," says Lanty. "Faith, an' the laugh that follows that joke 'll be mighty onpleasant," says Lanty, "an' amazin' unhealthy fur the throat," says he. counthry, an' kep his carridge, an' had a change av brogues for ivvery day in the week, wid a pair av red morocco tops for Sundays an' saints' days. "What'll ye be for doin'?" says the little chap. Sure, the paple kem from all over Oireland to "Wringin' yer neck!" says Lanty. "We'll l'ave ye alone for the future," says he. "I'll go bail that one av yez will," says Lanty. "We'll make ye rich," says the little chap. "The man that has his hands on the neck av his worst enimy 'ud be grady to ask for betther fortune than that same," says Lanty. "We'll worruk for ye," says the little chap. "Thrue for you," says Lanty. "The dilicate attentions ye 've paid to me worruk 'll recave in the past as in the future the grateful acknowlidgmint av me pathrons,' as Barney Muldoon, the milk dealer, said in his last circilar to his custhomers, more power to his pump!" says Lanty. "I'm in airnest," says the little chap. "Ye'll be in glory in a few minnits," says Lanty. Well, not to repate the whole av the conversation, by way av makin' a long shtory out av it, the discushion indid by the King av the Fairies promisin', in considheration av his relase, that his paple should do all Lanty's worruk for him, so that he cud live the loife av a jintleman. An' niver was bargain betther kipt. In the daytoime Lanty sat down at his aise an' tuk his measures, an' cut out his leather, an' ivvery noight a busy crew av fairy cobblers was sprawlin' all over his cabin flure, aplyin' their elbows loike the drivin' rods av a stameingine, a-makin' Lanty's brogues and his fortune at the same toime. Afther a whoile, what wid the good-will av the fairies an' the increase av his business, Lanty kem to be the richest man in the settle in those parts, to be in the way av buyin' Lanty's wondherful brogues, ontil they ran rents up so high that the agint was obliged to go round collectin' em wid a laddher. "Now," says you to me, "if yer uncle bekem so rich, Phalim, how is it that ye left sich prosperity as that, an' kem to Ameriky to be a gardener? says you, "which, although it's a respictable an' gentale profeshun," says you, “is hardly comminsurate wid yer prospicts as the relative av a gintleman av yer uncle's wealth an' importance." An' it's precoisely the pint I'm in process av elucidatin'. Ye see, the family grew so powerful in riches an' inflooence, an' so excited the mane invy an' jealousy av an illiterate an' onrasonable pesintry, that it wor thought betther that some av us should l'ave the counthry, temporairily, to aquilize the aquilibrium. "An', in the nixt place," says me uncle to me, "Phalim," says he, "your janius is too ixpansive fur a conthracted shpot like Oireland. Ameriky is the place for you, an' I 'll be buyin' you a steerage ticket to go," says he. An', sure, I had to sell me pig and me bits av shticks av furniture to scrape thegither enough money to pay for it. "A steerage passage," says me uncle,“'ll tache ye aquality, an' instil raal ginuine Demmicratic sintimints into ye," says he, "an' be the toime ye 've bin in the Shtates long enough to be nathralized, they'll be afther makin' a Prisident or a police capt'in out av ye!" says he. THE ROMANCE OF A MENAGERIE. QUEEN is an elephant in a menagerie. Every boy and girl in the land knows her, because she is the mother of that very remarkable creature, the baby elephant" Bridgeport." Before she was the mother of the baby elephant, however, she was no more famous than any other of the twenty or more elephants which belonged to the menagerie. Why she was called Queen, I shall not pretend to explain, for I do not know. There is no knowledge that she ever, either wild or tame, held any rank which would entitle her to the name. Nor did the keepers show her any especial respect because of her royal name. How she did hate the trainer! and how much more fiercely she hated her keeper! If it had not been for the sharp-pointed iron prod, of which she was mortally afraid, she would have soon shown the puny human beings, who made her do such absurd things in the circus ring, that an elephant was above such antics. Indeed, the spirit of hatred was so strong in her that one day she could not resist an opportunity, when the keeper stood near her without his iron prod, to curl her trunk suddenly around his waist and give him a toss against a wall a few yards away. The keeper was badly injured, and Queen received a severe punishment, but for that she was too much excited to care. But if Queen hated her keeper, and indeed all the men about her, she had a soft place in her heart for Spot. He was an odd companion for Queen, for he was a dog; but they were sworn friends, and she was very lonely when he was away from her. Spot was on very friendly terms with all the elephants, but he realized Queen's special interest in him and always had an extra wag of the tail by way of greeting to her; while she showed her satisfaction in elephant language, which was by swaying her great body to and fro and emitting a prolonged rumbling sound from her capacious chest. Some time before, Queen had had a camel for her intimate friend, but the owners of the menagerie, without the slightest regard for her feelings, had sold the camel to another showman. Queen had expressed her indignation at the time by trumpeting defiance to all mankind and attempting to push her head through the brick wall of the building she was in. She also refused to perform, but a battalion of men finally persuaded her to change her mind. No doubt the experience with the camel made her suspicious, for if any length of time went by without a visit from Spot, she notified the other elephants, and together they made such a commotion that Spot would be immediately sent for. Once, when the menagerie was out West, Spot imprudently wandered too far away from the tents, and, being a good-looking dog, he was captured by some wicked person. Queen was the first to notice his failure to appear, and, as before, she suspected the keepers of having sent him away. In a moment she had communicated the intelligence of his absence and her suspicions, and then began the commotion, of which the keepers now knew the meaning perfectly well. High and low they searched for Spot, but, of course, he was not found. When performance time came, the elephants were marshaled out; but they said, as plainly as if they had used human language, "Bring back Spot, or we will not perform." Nor could any kind of force or persuasion induce them to yield. The next day and the next found them in the same obstinate mood, and it became perfectly evident that unless Spot could be restored to them, there would be no more performances with the elephants. A reward was offered and Spot was recovered. You know a dog's way. He barked and jumped and wagged his tail nearly off as soon as he caught sight of the circus tents. At the first faint bark, Queen's eyes lighted up, and she listened intently. Another bark, and she nodded her head as if to say "He's coming!" and then began to rumble and sway. All the elephants rumbled and swayed; and when Spot dashed boisterously in among them and bounded up and down the line, the elephants bumped against one another in furious glee, rumbling out joyfully, "Here he is! Here he is; just look at the dear old fellow!" And of course the performances went on all right after that happy reunion. But by and by, Spot, who was not a young dog, grew too old to live any longer, and one day he barked his final bark and wagged his tail for the last time. It took his big friends fully a week to realize that Spot was gone forever, and that week was devoted solely to mourning. To Queen, particularly, the blow was very severe, and it is said that, to this day, if the men snap their fingers and call for Spot, she will dolefully evince her sorrow for her lost friend. No doubt Queen thought she never could be happy again, and if anybody had suggested to her that she could ever love anybody else as she had loved Spot, she doubtless would have been indignant indeed. But just about this time a new member joined the circus to which the menagerie belonged, who was destined to be the dearest friend Queen ever had or would have until little "Bridgeport" joined the menagerie. Babies come to all sorts of queer places to light them up and fill them with joy; and right into the company of the careering horses, the shouting clowns, the tumbling acrobats, the giants, fat men, Zulus, dwarfs, and wild animals, came laughing little Donald Melville to begin his young life. Little Don could not help laughing. That is what he seemed to have come for, else why all those dimples? He had dimples all over him; every little finger and every cunning little toe had its own dimple, and so Don was charming to look at, and everybody loved him. Any other baby might have been afraid of all those fierce-looking animals in the cages; but Don was not. Why should he be? He meant them no harm! The very first time he was taken into the menagerie,—and he was not many months old then, he tried as hard as he could to pat the great tiger, but, to his astonishment, he was snatched hurriedly away from the cage. All of the animals pleased him, and he crowed and laughed delightedly as he was carried from cage to cage; but the elephants were evidently the particular wonders which pleased and interested him most, for when |