suspicious-looking characters made off, probably in fear of them. The whistle sounded, and the train started. It had evidently waited for this affair of mine to be looked into. The moral of it is, that there ought to be a public notice at the Turin station, telling people to be provided with French as well as Italian money.

After the first excitement was over and I had detailed the adventure in full to my friend, or to my camarade," as a luggage porter had designated her on one occasion, Mrs. Malso had a little recital to make. An American sort of adventuress had got hold of her who told her that she was travelling with a waggon and "orse," and she wanted to sleep in the waggon truck for the sake of coolness; such a beautiful bed, she said, with plenty of straw; it was very hard lines they would not let her. There was a young lad with her, in charge of an ugly little dog; we never could quite make out whether he was groom or a son. She said she had left Florence "all of a heap," paid her debts, and come away within four - and - twenty hours. 'They were a parcel of thieves and rascals-and she was going to Paris, where she could speak the lingo. She complained that she could not have the dog in the carriage, and declared she would cheat them before the night was over— which was true, for at one of the junctions we found her administering a tumbler of water to a covered-up basket, from which uprose a sleepy little shaggy head. She seemed a good-natured sort of person enough, for she made friends all round in the waiting-rooms; and in the same tumbler which served as a drinking bowl for the dog she carried a draught of cold water to a poor old peasant woman.

66

We knew nothing about the Mont Cenis Tunnel, for we slept till we got to its further end, where we awoke to find ourselves in the midst of snow-streaked mountains; no more fireflies flitted around us, the air blew cold and chill, and I was glad to get into a velveteen jacket. The scenery is very glorious along this route, quite excitingly grand. We watched it till We watched it till we were fairly overcome with sleep, and when we awoke we were nearing Aix-les-Bains.

JUNE 16TH.-How I wish that I had not had to write the latter part of my journal so hurriedly and superficially; one misses so many little points which are the word-pictures in the page, and the little episodes which give life to the description. My "camarade reminds me of our early walk to the Capucine Hill. At a little wayside shrine to the Madonna lay a wayfarer fast asleep upon his face, very probably a pilgrim on his way to the chapel above. staff leant against the shrine and his hat lay by his side. He had made himself a pillow of some grass, and had gone to sleep, feeling quite sure, so Mrs. M- says, that both he

His

and his possessions were quite safe in "Our Lady's keeping."

We were rather amused at the Duomo at Turin, at being accosted by a valet de place, who told Mrs. M- that he had accompanied her to visit a certain church twenty years ago. She looked rather doubtful, and said, "No, I think not" but he confidently added: "Oh, yes; you were with a monsieur un peu âgé avec une barbe longue." This description accorded so well, that we neither of us could help smiling, and she felt sure that he really must have acted as guide to herself and Mr. M- —, "the dear canonico," as Father C▬▬▬ called him. When he said good-bye to us in Rome; "Give my love," said he, "to my dear canonico, he is very goot fellow."

Our little Tasso oak, grown from the acorn picked up under the poet's tree, reminds us of Rome at every stage of our journey. It goes by the name of "Little Tasso," and is Mrs. M- L's first care on our arrival at a new hotel. We think he has done wonders in the way of putting out shoots and leaves; for he still grows in his pomatum pot, and the chief part of his life has been and is spent in a leather handbag; and his food, up to the present moment, has consisted of nothing but water and pink blotting-paper. To-day, for the first time, he has been treated to a little earth which came from the Pope's garden around some little ferns which have succumbed to the heat, so he is at least in his not native soil. It is a wonder to me that he has been burnt up in the heat of the last ten days.

I do not know how high the thermometer stood at Aix-les-Bains. We rested there midway between Turin and Dijon, and after our noonday siesta, woke up nearly suffocated, although we occupied a large room with windows looking in two different directions. It is a beautiful little place, lying amongst the mountains, and I suppose its sulphur baths, with their various appliances of douche, spray, vapour, &c., &c., must be beneficial to the rheumatic and other patients; but those who are not suffering from such diseases, had better, I should say, go there out of the season than in it. We went over the bathing establishment and saw patients, who might well be called patients, sitting in a sort of baker's oven atmosphere, in every variety of attitude, undergoing the steaming of a hand, or a foot, or a throat, &c., and looking anything but happy. One dark hot chamber, in which, I suppose, the whole body has to be stewed, goes by the name of l'Enfer. The water comes from the spring boiling, and has to be cooled before it can be used at all. The victims who undergo the treatment are carried to and fro in funny little sedan chairs, and swathed in blankets. There is a shrine in the little church, dedicated to "Notre Dâme des Eaux," and here we found many

votive offerings hung in grateful acknowledgment of cures performed by the waters.

Towards evening we left for Dijon, and now I suppose the romance of our tour must be considered to be at an end. The little old town with its comfortable "Hotel du Jura," makes no bad resting-place after the various excitements and fatigues of our pleasant journey from Rome. We have left behind us the region of fans, the flower women of Florence, the picturesque peasants of Turin, who come in from the suburbs in their large straw hats and blue streamers, half smothered in the baskets of roses and bunches of tall white lilies, which, in the early morning, they bring into the markets of the town. Churches look tame and uninteresting, and antiquities are not. However, this is all the better for me, for I am knocked up, and am glad to have nothing to do or to see.

JUNE 17TH.-My "camarade" has been to early mass in the cathedral, where she saw a benediction of bread for the sick. Three large loaves about the size of the top of a round table were borne on two men's shoulders to the altar, where they were censed and sprinkled by the priest, cut up into small morsels, and then carried in baskets up and down the aisles, preceded by the Suisse or verger, gorgeous in blue and silver, cocked hat and halberd. The congregation helped themselves according to their needs, many of them taking portions home, probably for sick relatives or friends. Mrs. M- brought a piece for me! but it was so sour and awful in flavour altogether that I was afraid it would rather make me sick than well, and was glad to betake myself to my unblessed coffee and milk-rolls.

JUNE 18TH.—A terrific storm broke over

Dijon last night, and it has a little cooled the air, for which we are very thankful, as we have a long journey before us this evening to Paris.

JUNE 20TH.-We did not see much of Paris during the day we spent there; it looked gay and bright as usual, but we were too tired and hot for any unnecessary exertion. We both thought the French people had become very democratic and radical in their manners, and thereby not at all improved; the Parisians seem desirous of retrieving their lost fortunes by charging exorbitant prices for everything, which does not seem very worldly wise. However, I suppose that the present taxation is so high that they cannot help themselves. The one church that we managed to look into was the Madelaine, which usually has the air of a theatre; but at the time, there happened to be a solemn Requiem Mass going on, and the music was very sweet and beautiful; the singing more melodious than any we had heard in Italy, we both thought.

It is odd what an inferior and almost worthless air the quincaillerie and bijouterie in the shops wore in our eyes, so long accustomed as they had been to the imitations of worthier models in Rome. We were looking for some little memento to take home, but there seemed really nothing to buy. Mrs. M M- at last fixed upon a Japanese cup and a domino box.

The

We arrived gasping at Amiens yesterday evening, and intended trying to reach Boulogne to-night-the next stage will be home. stream of tourists is, of course, all turning in a contrary direction, just starting for their summer rambles; whilst we were thanking God for having brought us safely to the end of our long winter sojourn and travels.

O not be startled: I am not about to give a long catalogue of birds! But being naturally grateful and a great lover of the feathered tribe, which God has given to cheer us, I intend to record a few recollections of two or three birdfriends that have endeared themselves to me, both in Europe and America. When I was a child, I had a passion for birds. My father's grounds were very large, and covered with trees, and I remember a grove of white lilacs where almost half of my childhood was spent. If I had strolled or strayed anywhere, before seeking its fragrant shade, I was sure to go there at last. In the early part of April these lilacs were in bloom, and looked like mass of snow under the soft, tranquil light of the moon. How often have I sat at the window gazing at them, while from somewhere among their elegant clusters, rose as an anthem the enchanting, rapturous notes of the nightingale. There were two nightingale nests in those trees. I knew exactly their place, for it was part of my daily occupation to find out birds' nests. Only, I was very careful not to betray my secret, and that of the birds, to certain boys, who in spite of all possible exhortations to the contrary, would surely have gone bird-nesting. Think of the horror of that! Bird-nesting among lilac branches or rose bushes! The nightingales, therefore, had a safe friend in me; and I felt proud each time that I passed before their lovely little home, that its peace was in a measure entrusted to my discretion.

When my brothers and sisters were at their studies in the schoolroom, I used to begin my morning walk. Each branch and twig of every tree in the garden was known to me, with all the treasures of life they sheltered. One day my mother called me, and as I came running across the lawn, I frightened a little bird which seemed to fly from under a tuft of wild-thyme at my feet. I looked, and there was its nest, built on the ground! Oh! how I feared afterwards that the old magpie, which so often strolled about that very spot, might find it out, and destroy all the pretty blue eggs that were so daintily arranged in it.

Nightingales have nothing prepossessing in their appearance. Their plumage is grey and dull. But they have a soul in their rich thrilling voice. Their singing is something indescribable.

It is a gushing outpouring of jubilant, joyous praise, different from that of any other bird.

Another day I had gone to pluck some blushroses from a creeping bush that festooned the lower windows of the house. The sprays were so thickly interlaced together, that it was difficult to distinguish between leaves, buds, or the clusters of the tiny, rosy-white beauties. They were all so pretty! I was too little to reach very high, and yet it seemed to me that the roses which I could not get were by far the most lovely of all! That illusion does not strictly belong to childhood, however, and children are not the only ones who, in trying to secure that which God has placed beyond their easy reach, lose the enjoyment of nearer treasures.

Well, I went into the house where the gardener kept his tools, and I brought out of it a small ladder, on which climbing very cautiously, I soon found myself able to choose my favourite

roses.

What was my delight, when, bringing the scissors close to a beautiful bud, I saw partly hidden under it a nest, a little nest, with the mother bird sitting on it! I wanted to look at it a long time, but I did not dare; and coming down, I hurried away from the spot with my garlands, and with one more secret in my heart, too!

I used to fancy that birds not only knew the names of all the flowers as well as I did myself, but that they loved some of them more than others. And I wondered, and wondered, till my little head ached, how humming-birds looked? In Europe, there are none of these winged gems. Oh! if only one little humming-bird would have come to our garden, how happy I should have been! One night I was made very sad, because my mother told me that I need not pray for either the birds or the flowers. I could not understand why I was not to pray for them; and as I believed that God could do anything He chose, I did ask Him to send us some hummingbirds. I waited a long time for them, though they never came. But years after those budding days of life, I did see humming-birds, countless myriads of them, and in their own home, too!

One morning early, I was walking under the mango trees and the broad-leaved bananas in a beautiful garden, among the mountains of Brazil. At the end of an avenue was a sort of summerhouse or bower, with seats in it. Bright coralpeas, and deep violet-blue passion-flowers, covered

the ground on both sides of the path, and the richest of crimson honeysuckle threw its dazzling, brilliant blossoms, all over the trellis. I went in and sat down. I had not been there one minute, before, looking almost on all sides at once, I saw what I thought to be the flowers themselves taking wings, and fluttering with such rapidity, that they flashed like lightning before my bewildered eye. I tried to look at them steadily, yet I saw nothing,-nothing but a mist of rainbow-tinted wings, that darted here and there, flying from under a leaf the very moment it had disappeared in it, and then thrilling the air into a tremulous music sound. I stretched my hand forward to catch one of those marvellous

creatures, but did not succeed at first. Before long, however, one was taken in a hat, where it seemed a fluttering blaze of fire, till I let it go.

Humming-birds are rarely in repose. They seem to be a part of the air in which they live, and rest nowhere. Their activity is extraordinary; and as they abound in Brazil, one who resides there has ample opportunity of noticing their singular habits.

I remember one very wet morning. It had rained all night; not by fits and starts, and lazily, as sometimes it does in northern latitudes, but rained as it rains only in the tropics-madly

as if the very clouds had burst all their fury upon earth in anger. I could not possibly go