One day when he had a holiday, and his Papa had gone a hunting with his friends, he strolled off with his concertina to endeavour to lure a fox out into the open.  He approached the hole where he had previously seen the fox, and sat down, and began to play vigorously on his concertina, and to sing at the top of his voice, “The Bells go a-ringing for Say-rah! Say-rah! Say-rah!” Presently he saw a huge Fox poke his nose out of the hole.  He was delighted!  He sang and played with renewed energy, and began to walk away, still singing and playing.

The Fox followed, snarling, and snapping, and appearing very angry.  The more he played, the more the Fox snarled and snapped.  At last the animal became furious, all the hair on its back stood on end, and it began to make short runs with its mouth open at the young musician.

It sprang upon him!  He was terrified!  He dropped his song and his concertina at the same moment, and scrambled up the nearest tree.

The Fox’s fury then knew no bounds; he trampled on the concertina, he bit it, he tore open the bellows, and having reduced it to a shapeless mass, bore it away to his hole.

When the coast was quite clear, FRANK descended, and slunk home.

The next morning one of the keepers found a dead fox.  It had apparently died of suffocation, as sixteen ivory concertina-stops were found in its throat.

FRANK now has entirely ceased to believe in Ancient Mythology, and has been even heard to hint that he considers Dr. LEMPRIERE a bit of a humbug.

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“LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR.”—­An animal very difficult to secure again when once off ... and that is ... “a pony,” when you’ve lost it on Newmarket Heath.

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LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

NO.  IX.—­TO CROOKEDNESS.

I dispense with all formal opening, and I begin at once.  I want to tell you a story.  Don’t ask me why; for, even if I answered the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, you would hardly believe me.  Let me merely say that I want to tell you a story, and tell it without much further preface.

[Illustration]

Two days ago I chanced, for no special reason, to open the drawers of an old writing-table, which for years past had stood, unused, in a corner of an upper room.  In one I found a rusty screw, in another a couple of dusty envelopes, in a third a piece of sealing-wax, half-a-dozen nibs, and a broken pencil.  The fourth, and last drawer, was very stiff.  For a long time it defied my efforts, and it was only by a great exertion of strength that I was at last able to wrench it open.  To my surprise I saw two packets of letters, tied together with faded ribbon.  I took them up, and then remembered, with a start, what they were.  They were all in their envelopes, and all were addressed, in the same hand-writing,