and finding grateful shade at the foot of a fine fir, we opened the saddle-bags and proceeded to regale ourselves, finding some snow that we brought from the top very useful to cool the rather heated claret.  After nature was satisfied we quickly descended past the previously busy scene, and when near the high road again came in view of some woodmen loading a cart with logs.  To do this the logs had to be brought to an eminence above the cart, and bullocks were employed to drag up the wood.  The men were treating them most cruelly, and once or twice they lowed so piteously, that we have translated it into

“THE OXEN’S APPEAL.”

  Working and toiling the whole of the day,
  Working and toiling without any pay,
  Only perchance a few mouthfuls of hay,
    From earliest dawn till late. 
  Held by the horns ’neath this cumbersome yoke,
  Firmer fixed thus than a “pig in a poke,”
  Feeling the “prong” and the lengthy stick’s stroke,
    Ours, alas, is a terrible fate.

  When straining our utmost, you bring the stick down
  On our miserable backs; and you swear, and you frown,
  Never thinking the sun is just “doing us brown,”
    As the furnace will do when we’re slain. 
  We cannot pull more than we can, you must know,
  And we cannot pull fast if we can but pull slow,
  So why should you spike us, and ill-use us so,
    And make our hides tingle with pain?

  We serve you well always, draw heaviest loads,
  And never complain of the worst of bad roads;
  While you in return use those blood-drawing goads
    At ev’ry conceivable time. 
  Be sure that no quicker or wiser are we,
  But we do sometimes think if we got our horns free,
  The position in which you would probably be,
    And you would not pronounce it sublime.

  So listen, we pray, to our modest appeal: 
  With kindness more proud of our work we should feel;
  And if those fierce blows you still ruthlessly deal,
    You’ll make our flesh horrible stuff;
  For though steaks are good beaten, that’s done when they’re cold,
  And we’re certainly not, nor as yet very old;
  But as some day we’ll have to be butchered and sold,
    We had better be tender than tough. 
    If you’ll try our plan—­that is enough!

At twenty minutes past one we had repassed the graceful Jardin des Quinconces, with the weeping willows overhanging the lakelet, and were within the cool precincts of the hotel.

Having a couple of hours to spare another morning, we wended our way towards the Orphanage, “deep in the lilac grove.”  Turning off from the road, we followed the narrow track over the rustic bridge, and were received anything but hospitably by a huge white dog.  We calmed him in time, however, and proceeded to inspect the buildings, but found nearly everyone shut up, though the little church—­elevated above the rest—­was, unlike them, thrown