"The hounds which we call St. Hubert's hounds are commonly all black, yet, nevertheless, their race is so mingled at these days that we find them of all colors. These are the hounds of which the abbots of St. Hubert have always kept some of their race or kind, in remembrance of the saint, who was a hunter with St. Eustace." We wish saints had had a better occupation than the cruel one of hunting, and that those persons of the present day of the tribe of Nimrod, especially clergymen, had kinder hearts than to indulge in the sport of maiming and killing little birds, rabbits and other animals that come out in the fields and pastures in spring to enjoy their short lives in God's air and sunshine! We cannot reckon such clergymen as among the true saints!

We have some pure Scotch collies. One called Jap, promising to be a fine dog, a friend of ours, was given from one family to another. He was at first cross and suspicious of strangers. If a person showed any fear of him, he was all rage and defiance. He has improved on acquaintance, and takes kindly to his new friends, who pet him like a child. He is invited to his old friends' Thanksgiving dinner occasionally.

The most intelligent dog I ever knew was Bub, belonging to the genial librarian of Horticultural Hall, and no doubt remembered by many who frequented the place. Bub, unlike most dogs, was always ready to display his acquirements. "Now, Bub," Mr. B. would say, "show the lady how little children walk." The dog would lay flat on his belly and pull himself along by his paws the length of the room over the

cushioned seats. "Now, Bub, go play the piano," his master would say, placing a chair at the table. The dog mounted the seat, sat upright with his paws on it, and lifted first one, then the other, striking them on the table. "Now sing." Bub threw up his head with the air of a professional, and howled away till his master stopped him. "One evening," said Mr. B., "when sitting in the alcove reading, Bub came, got up beside me, and put his paws on my arm. I said to him, 'Now, Bub, if you want to do that, get a newspaper.' He immediately got down, went across the room, and came back with the paper. The next evening he came again (I had put all the newspapers away) but I said the same to him. He hunted round the room for some time, and not finding any, went to the waste-basket and brought me from it a piece of paper as large as my hand." Bub did not like to be washed. He soon found there was a particular day for the operation. When he was satisfied of this, and the day arrived, he was nowhere to be found. After a long hunt he was discovered in an out-of-the-way place in the building where he had secreted himself. This he did repeatedly. Bub was friendly to those visitors at the hall who noticed him or whom he saw often. One day when I went in, the dog was alone. I sat down and called him to me; he seemed glad to see me, as usual. In a little while a man respectably dressed, but having a wooden leg, entered and took a seat. Bub eyed him curiously. There was evidently, to his mind, something wrong; he looked different from other people. The dog was

quiet until the man rose to depart, when he flew at him, with fierce barks, in a perfect rage. Finding the visitor took no notice of him, he soon quieted. About two years ago Bub's mistress died, and after her death the dog pined away and soon followed her. Peace to his memory! We have his likeness, among others, in a collection we have been making of our dog friends. We should be happy to receive the photograph of any family pet belonging to any one who may chance to read this article.

We have read, of late years, a great deal of the Darwinian theory, and of our first ancestors. The French writer, to whom I have referred, says he knows not why we are said to have descended from the monkey, merely because he assumes an upright position, when the formation of the horse and dog is the same, and the mental qualities are far higher; and that he would. rather trace his descent from the latter. I agree with him in this.

There is one thing I dislike to hear any one saying -the dog is a thief, a savage, a coward, a sneak. Man should be the last to accuse animals of vices or failings that belong more properly to his own race. There is one savage regulation about dogs I wish were altered. It is this: if any one is bitten, then the animal must be immediately killed; as if this must be done to appease the injured one or his family. In nine cases out of ten, the person who is bitten, and especially if it be a boy, is to blame. The dog has only one weapon to defend himself with

his teeth - and

we cannot, in most cases, blame him for using them. Four-footed friends! how often have your love and life-long services been met by perfidy and cruelty! The inscription of the Roman dog kennel, “Cave Canem," should be changed in these instances to "Beware of Men !"

How many a solitary dweller in the busy city, or lonely inhabitant of the forest, from whom, by death or estrangement, all friends have fled, looking on the lifeless body of his last friend, his dog, can say with Byron, in his epitaph on his canine companion, “I never knew but one, and there he lies."

MY SCHOOLMATES.

My schoolmates - where are they now? Ask of the summer breezes where are the bright-hued petals it shook from the wild roses that lined the hedges; or of the autumn wind whence flew the thistle-down its rough gales swept around—or the gold and crimson leaves it sent floating from the trees. And yet the bright eyes, the rosy cheeks, the girlish forms are still there, when Memory takes me with her down the lane of long ago. And first among them, one of the dearest friends I ever knew, Emily, "Little Em'ly," whose musical voice is still sounding in my ear, the rosy flush on her cheeks; that flush which told of the Angel beckoning her away in her early girlhood, before the

cares of this life had come around her, or its pains and bereavements saddened. Before any "Steerforth" had crossed her path and taught her the meaning of the line, "And to make idols and to find them clay !"

The little Post Office comes to me now- the three correspondents, Emily, Harriet and myself. What imaginary individuals we personated! What thrilling accounts passed between us relating to the adventures of those personages. This recalls another post office which was placed for privacy in the attic of the schoolhouse and reached by a long, projecting board (at the risk of going through the plastering) over an unfinished part. How many notes and letters signed with the names of different animals, were stealthily carried up and over the dangerous causeway and dropped in a box beneath. No country post-mistress or master (for curiosity is not confined to sex) ever peered into a letter more stealthily than we. Two faces come before me now. One dark as Night, with eyes like soft-beaming stars, the other of the Saxon type, large blue eyes and light hair. They were very much older than J. I, shy and timid, but attracted by their beauty, would turn (unnoticed as I thought) and gaze on them often till the voice of one, "What are you looking at?" would turn my dreaming into a hasty flight. I have since solved the problem worked over then; the beauty of expression in one face determined it. The pleasant, kindly looks of one of the elder girls who sat in the desk before a young friend and myself, encouraged a few playful sallies on our part. Sarah wore her hair