He buried it in his garden, and told his friends that they were to bury him in the same grave when he died. Over the dog's grave Byron placed these lines: Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty

without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of a man without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Boatswain-a dog'

Perhaps the finest race of horses in the world is to be found in Arabia. For beauty and speed, for fidelity and sagacity, we think no animal is equal to the horse of the Arab. The Arab is very fond of his faithful creature. The coarse bit and the cruel whip are not needed by him. The horse is allowed to feed about his master's tent unbridled and free. The children play with it without any fear of being hurt. It knows the sound of its master's voice, and is always obedient to his call. Sometimes the whole wealth of the Arab is in his horse, and affecting stories are told of their mutual attachment. We will now relate two of these stories.

The chief of an Arab tribe was taken prisoner in a skirmish with some Turkish troops. Being shot in the arm, he was placed upon a camel, while a soldier mounted the Arab's horse. At night, when the party camped, he was securely fastened by a leathern strap and thrust outside one of the tents. Not far off his horse was

tethered to a tree. Determined to free his favourite animal if possible, he managed to roll over and crawl to the tree. Here he bit through the cord which held his horse, and, after the custom of his nation, spoke to it thus: 'Go, thou art free, though I am a slave. Return to thine own tent, which thou knowest well. Tell my wife that I shall see her no more; lick the hands of my little ones, on whom my eyes shall never look again.' The horse recognised the voice of its master; but instead of going when it was free, it seized him in its teeth by the strap with which he was bound. Lifting him in this way, the horse bore him away from the camp, and slackened not the pace until it reached home, and dropped his master gently at his own tent door.

The next story will show that the Arab has an affection for his horse which gold cannot buy. The French consul at Alexandria was very anxious to send a splendid specimen of the Arabian horses to his sovereign, King Louis XIV. For this purpose he bargained with a poor Arab, whose sole riches consisted in the possession of a magnificent steed. When the purchase was to be concluded, the Arab dismounted from his horse, and took the bag of gold in his hand. Looking now at the gold, and then at his horse, as though undecided what to do, he addressed the animal thus: 'Who is it that would buy thee? To whom shall I give thee up? Will not the stranger beat thee, and tie thee up? No, no; I will not sell thee, my beauty, my jewel!' Then, throwing down the gold, he sprung on to the back of his horse, and was quickly out of sight.

It was concerning this incident that the following beautiful lines were written by the Hon. Mrs. Norton :

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED. My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,

With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye!

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed;

I may not mount on thee again;-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind;

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;

The stranger hath thy bridle rein, thy master hath his gold;

Fleet-limbed and beautiful! farewell!-thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold!

Farewell! Those free, untirèd limbs full many a mile must roam,

To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger's home;

Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed prepare;

That silky mane I braided once must be another's

care.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright,

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;

And when I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I startling wake to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,

And the rich blood that's in thee swells in thy indignant pain,

Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting vein!

Will they ill-use thee?-If I thought-but no, it cannot be ;

Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free;

And yet if haply, when thou'rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn,

Can the hand that casts thee from it now command thee to return?

'Return!'-Alas! my Arab steed! what will thy master do

When thou, that wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?

When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the gathering tears

Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears?

Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot alone,

Where with fleet steps and joyous bound thou oft has borne me on;