drifting snow. But they cannot, with all their care, prevent some daring adventurers from perishing; nor can they always find the bodies of the lost, until the mild weather of spring partially melts the snow. The body of the Martigny hunter remained enshrouded in the deep drifts of the Alps, until the following spring, when one of the kind hearted men from the hospice, was guided to the spot by one of these wonderful dogs. Poor man what terrible thoughts must have passed through his mind, when he found that he should never see his wife and children again. He was found in a standing posture, with the alpenstock, or mountain staff in his hand. It was evident that before he yielded to the benumbing influence of the cold, he had made desperate efforts to regain the path he had lost. When we returned to Martigny, our guide showed us the humble cottage where the unfortunate hunter resided. Near the door, a group of children his children, the guide said were laughing and frolicking. Had they forgotten the sad fate of their father? It would seem so. And after all, it is wisely ordered that light-hearted youth can forget their sorWhat a sad and gloomy place to live in would this world be, if oblivion did not soon dry up the tears of childhood and early youth U. F. rows. HE rat is a very unpopular little gentleman. He wears a sleek coat is his whiskers faultless; his eyes keen, bright, and black; his tail long, slender, and beautiful. With such a fine exterior, one would suppose the rat would have many friends. Yet it is quite otherwise. No one likes the little rogue. There is so much mischief in his eyes, toes, and teeth, that nobody loves him. So much is he disliked for his bad habits, that if the entire rat family should perish in a single night, there would not be a tear shed over their ashes. Mischievous I have tried Once I re The rat is a shrewd little genius, full of craft and cunning. as he is, he contrives to evade punishment by using his wits. all sorts of traps in which to capture him, and often in vain. collect being much annoyed by a family of rats which infested my dwelling. After trying traps in vain, I resorted to a home-made trap. Taking a flour barrel, I poured two pails of water into it. Then I fastened a sheet of brown paper over the head, and cut two slits across it with a pen knife. I next sprinkled some meal over the paper, and, leaving it near the haunt of the rats, waited the issue. In the evening, a young rat smelling the meal, sprang on to the paper, which, being cut through, bent down and let his ratship into the water. The little fellow was fairly caught that time. I trapped several young rats in the same way, but the old ones - ah! they were too old to be caught, even in a flour barrel. The rat is not without courage. An English gentleman, while living in Africa, once heard a violent hissing and squeaking in a room below the one in which he was seated. He took the key, and, followed by his servants armed with sticks, went to see what was the matter. On opening the door, he saw a rat and a serpent fighting a mortal combat! On one side stood the rat, with flashing eyes, preparing to spring anew upon his adversary. On the other was the serpent, with head erect, waiting for the attack. The rat leaped upon his foe, and bit him severely in different places; but the fang of the serpent was more deadly than the teeth of the rat. Hence, after a severe conflict, the rat fell foaming, and swollen to a great size, and died in a few minutes. The victorious serpent glided away to her nest. Nor is the rat without a touch of kindness in his nature. At least it would appear so from a story related by a writer on the habits of animals. He says that a clergyman, walking across a meadow one evening, saw a great number of rats migrating from one place to another, as they are known to do sometimes. He stood still, and let them pass close to him. His astonishment was great when he saw an old blind rat which held a stick at one end in its mouth, while another rat had hold of the other end of it, and thus led his blind companion. This was ingenious and kind. Perhaps the old rat had a dutiful son, who was thus showing the love he bore to his blind old father. If this was so, the young rat might, with good grace, rise up and reprove many undutiful boys, whose hearts are dead to the claims of filial affection. But there is too much mischief, too great a love of destruction in the rat, to permit him to redeem himself in public opinion by occasional acts of courage and kindness. The fellow has a bad nature and a bad name, and his only safety is found in dark holes, and out of the way corners. Yet, bad as he is, I would rather endure him, than be vexed by the folly and pranks of a downright wicked child. Depend upon it, the earth bears up worse creatures than a roguish rat. F. F. THE UNGRATEFUL SON. OME years a prodigal, and wasted his father's substance. He became dishonest, and it took all the old man's property to save that boy from prison. Thus the folly of the son reduced the father to poverty. The sorrows of the poor old man now multiplied. His wife died. He became first sick and then blind. Poor, friendless, blind, and sick, he became the inmate of an alms-house. One day his prodigal son passed near that alms-house. He was told of his father's condition. His father sent a message to him begging him to come and see him. But no-cruel boy that he was he would not even visit the broken hearted father who owed all his sorrows to his son's folly. Now mark that son's fate. That very day on which he refused to see his father, he took cold in his eyes, which resulted in blindness. Blind and penniless, he soon became a pauper. And on the same day that he was borne into the alms-house, his father's corpse was carried out for burial! He was then placed in his dead father's room, made to occupy his bed, and in a short time was placed beside him in the grave! What a sad picture. I almost weep as I gaze upon it. I call up the tens of thousands who read my Magazine, and ask if there can be one among them all who will ever tread in the steps of the Ungrateful Son. I gaze into the lovely assemblage, and a voice loud as the roar of many waters comes back to my heart saying, "No, Uncle Forrester. We are not ungrateful children. We all love and reverence our parents." An old man's loving benediction upon you, my children, for that delightful response. May you all be true to it in word, heart, and deed. F. F. |