must content ourselves with observing the company after they are seated at table. They are arranged by families. First are the brown and yellow Lions that have come from far over the sea. Their home is in the deep, dark forests, where the light of the sun is almost shut out by the thick leaves, and where men have never been. They are the lords of that country, and all the other beasts bow before them, and call them kings; so little Whelp, you see, belongs to the royal family.

Next is seated the Panther, or, as he prefers to be called, the Silvery Lion' of America, with his two younger brothers, Dusky and Tawney. They dropped down from the trees only a minute ago, right into the midst of the party; and it is old Silvery who brought the alligator which he is now tearing in pieces with his sharp teeth and claws, giving, now and then, some more tender parts to his brothers who have n't yet the strength to bite through the hard skin. This family have long, slender bodies, though short and stout legs; and we may hear Tawney remarking to his neighbor, Mr. Lynx, that he has often been through a whole grove by leaping from tree to tree, and not touching the ground. "You should have seen Silvery drop down on that alligator yesterday, as he lay asleep in the swamp. Why, he had n't even time to wake up, before we had dragged him up on the tree, dead as you see him now.”

Mr. Lynx puts on a very fierce look, saying, "Nothing new to me, sir; you can't tell me or my family anything new about leaping. seen us yesterday, when the hunters were after us! went ten feet at every bound, and —”

You should have Why, my wife and I

"Hunting, did you speak of hunting?" growls the next neighbor, before Mr. Lynx can say another word. "I have the best way of hunting. I do it all myself. When a man tries to hunt me, I turn and tear him in pieces; and as for the deer and monkeys, why, I make short work with them.”

The poor little Manx cat, who sits near by, shakes herself almost under the table with fright.

Then a fierce, growling voice from the other end of the table breaks in with, "I do better than that! I don't wait for men to come to me, I go to them.. You should see me in their villages. They do not try to fight, they only run and hide; but I find them out! I find them out!" and he shows all his fierce white teeth, and grins horribly.

At this the poor kittens can control themselves no longer, and up go their tails over their backs as big as any squirrel's. They had been sitting on them ever since their cousin Manx came in, so that she might not feel bad at having none; but now their terror has overcome their politeness.

"O, they are so thin!" whispers Maltie to little Manx. "I know they will eat us up before they go. If they do have such pretty stripes and spots, I don't like them."

But Mr. Lion has noticed their fright, and has already cautioned their savage visitors, Mr. Leopard and Mr. Tiger, to be more gentle, or all their smaller relations will run away.

So there is no cause for fear, little pussies; they are only trying to show off, as we have seen many persons do who should be wiser.

Still Mr. Leopard is carrying on a low conversation with his next neighbor, little Miss Jaguar, while Mr. Tiger sits sullen and silent, and we hear

tore - killed, how They must be tell

now and then, "We hid in the bushes, - sprang · good monkeys' tails are with antelopes' legs," &c., &c. ing about their hunts; but we won't attend to them now, for before us are the young beauties among cats, Misses Tortoise, Angola, Maltese, Egyptian, and dear little Miss Manx, whose pretty head and gentle manner fully make up for her lack of tail. There are the famous "Cheshire cats,” grinning from ear to ear; and perhaps "Puss in Boots" is round that corner, but I can't see. Their talk is of rats and mice and milk, and even of ribbons for the neck, and I think I hear old Mrs. Tabby speaking of a scarlet collar with a bell; but there is so much talking now, I may mistake her. Still of one thing I am sure, — little Blackey is telling Mouser, that, if she will just slip under the table with her where it is dark, she will show the little fires which she keeps in her fur, and which don't burn her at all. They are sliding quietly down, when old mother puss rises to speak.

After some hesitation, being unused to public speaking, she tells the company that matters of a strictly private nature, family matters, will now be brought before them for discussion; among others the question, "Why cats, when giving fine concerts at night, have old shoes and such worthless articles thrown to them, instead of nice meat, as a reward? How this great mistake of mankind is to be remedied."

As these questions are best discussed in private, it is requested that all who do not belong to the family will leave the grove.

Since we have been so decidedly requested, I suppose we must go, and therefore cannot report the discussion of these important family matters. We can only hope that they won't eat each other up before the dinner is ended, and that all may return safely to their homes.

When our pussy disappears next Thanksgiving day, we shall know where she has gone. We won't tell her that we have found out her secret, for it might trouble her, poor little puss!

M. L: A.

“H

FIRST LECTURE ON HEAT.

BY MY LORD HIGH FIDDLESTICK.

IS name is Force," squeaked the little traveller, "but for the sort of person that he is, I cannot exactly say, your Royal Highness, seeing that he is sometimes as great as a giant, and at others as fine as a thread; only that he is the worst used and best-natured individual in your Majesty's dominions; for there is not a ship or a house, a road or a garden, made, or a dinner got, or so much as a cup of water drawn, without his help. He is wanted to do everything, every minute of the day, all over the earth; and he does it without grumbling; and now mark how he is paid! Every time that he gives anybody a neighborly lift, from sawing a stick of wood to dragging a train, he disappears. He is destroyed. All day long he is smashed, blown up, choked, your Royal Highness, under your Royal Highness's very nose, under everybody's nose, made away with, done for, murdered, used up, in a hundred thousand places all at once, by Christians and heathens all alike, which your Majesty will see is quite improper. For, if it is so very bad to choke, blow up, and murder a man once, how much worse to do all these things to a person all the time! and if your Highness would protect even a thief from such abuse, how is it that there is nobody to say a word for poor Force, who wags your very heads for you? and whose blame is it ?"

When the little traveller said, "Whose blame is it?" he looked hard at the King. The King was quite thrown out of countenance, for here was a very bad case, you see, made out against somebody, and he looked severely at the Lord High Fiddlestick, because it was understood that, when anything happened to be right, the credit was due to the King; but when anything was wrong, the blame fell to my Lord High Fiddlestick. As the King looked severe, the courtiers looked severe also, and as if- come now, this was really too bad, and a little the worst thing they had heard yet about my Lord High Fiddlestick. But my Lord High Fiddlestick only crossed his pink slippers comfortably one over the other, and said:

"Your Majesty, there is no one to blame here. The gentleman is quite right and entirely wrong."

The little traveller jumped up. He was wrapped from head to heels in a long overcoat, full of pockets. Out of one pocket he took a bit of iron and a hammer. He laid the iron on a table, and pounded it with the hammer. "There!" he said, "Force did that; but now where has he gone, my Lord High Fiddlestick?" Then he pulled at his mustache, and stamped his foot, and got out a saw and a piece of wood, and had off an end of the wood before you could wink. "Force did that, too,” said the little traveller; "but, if he did not die in the doing of it, can you tell me where he is now, my Lord High Fiddlestick?" Then he drew out a pistol, and, aiming at the third leg

of the King's extension table, sent a bullet at it as savagely as if it had beer the Lord High Fiddlestick himself.

"Force did that, too," screamed the queer, angry little man, "and now where is he? I am not to be put off with a riddle about being quite right and entirely wrong. If he is dead, as you are to blame for whatever happens in this country, you ought to be hung at once; and if he is not dead, I will trouble you to show him to me."

"Good Mr. Traveller," answered my Lord High Fiddlestick, picking up the saw," will you feel of that? It is cold, is it not? and the wood,-- that is cold, too. Well, now suppose you saw us off another bit of wood. Thank you. Feel now of the wood. Is it cold, just as it was before? No? You mean to say that it is warmer? Touch the saw. That is warmer, too. Very good. Here are your iron and your hammer. Will your Majesty touch them? You see they are cold enough. Now, my friend, favor us with a little more of that lively pounding which you say your friend Force died to do. How are your iron and hammer? I declare!-feel, your Majesty, - they

are both warm. Now for the pistol. Here is a target, but stop! feel the bullet. It is cold, of course. Fire away! Very good. You, or your friend Force, hit the target fairly; but the bullet! feel it, Mr. Traveller. Your Majesty perceives that it is quite hot, this bullet which was cold a moment ago!"

"What if it is?" growled the traveller.

My Lord High Fiddlestick put his hands in the pockets of his green satin gown, and laughed.

"Ah, Mr. Traveller, you have not learned yet all the tricks of your friend Force. Just now he pounded a cold bit of iron with a cold hammer. Then he was gone, nowhere to be seen, dead, you said! but you found Heat in the iron and the hammer. You sawed a cold piece of wood with a cold saw. That done, whisk! Force was lost; but there was Heat in the wood and saw. You fired your cold bullet at a cold target. Off went Force, but there was Heat again in the bullet. Whenever you lose Force you find Heat. What does that mean? You say that Force is sometimes a giant. Did it ever occur to you that he may be a giant with two heads under his hood? Let us follow this giant a little farther. He is pulling a train at the rate of thirty miles an hour. You put on the brakes, the train stops. Force is gone from the engine, but what do you find at the wheels, where the brake rubbed on them? Why, so much heat that you see fire and sparks; and the engine-driver sends a man to rub grease on the wheels of the train. Why? Because, if the wheels turn around with difficulty, the engine cannot pull the train so fast; Force, who should give all his attention to urge the engine, must give a part of his strength to the wheels; and just as much as he gives to the wheels, just so much is lost to the engine."

"As if every school-boy did not know that!" growled the little traveller. "Wait a minute," said my Lord High Fiddlestick. "You say every schoolboy knows that; but, when Force goes to the wheels, what shape does he take? He is there, turning the wheels in spite of themselves, and the engine is missing him, and these ungreased wheels show that he is there. How? By their heat. You miss Force from the engine. The last time he was seen, he was going to the ungreased wheels. You go to the wheels. You see no Force there, but a stranger; but if it is the giant Force that you have lost from the engine, this stranger will be a giant; if Force is at his pygmy tricks, the stranger will be a dwarf; and in either case he will tell you his name is Heat. While you are staring at him, you observe something familiar about him, and you say, 'Pray, Mr. Heat, have I not seen you before, somewhere about the engine? You are the fireman, perhaps !' 'Exactly,' answers Heat, 'I was in the fire under the boiler.' Under the boiler! Why, that is where our lost Force came from. Put it all together. You put Heat under the boiler, and Force comes out, and pulls the train. You miss Force, and, when you go to look for him, you find Heat in his place. Is it not reasonable, good Mr. Traveller, to think that, as Heat can turn into Force, Force can turn back into Heat again?"

"Your Royal Highness," cried the little traveller, jumping up in a great rage, “I hope your Royal Highness won't listen to such stuff as this. Heat a person, indeed! Heat is a fluid, and it is called caloric. I see my Lord High Fiddlestick is laughing, but he won't laugh long. Here is the dictionary, and the word in it to prove what I say; and the ungreased wheels were hot because they turned so hard that some of their caloric was squeezed out of them; and when the hammer came down hard on the iron, some of the caloric was squeezed out of that, and all the old philosophers say so; and if you want us to believe that Force is not burned in the fire, and blown