While searching volcanic sand, Mr. Mantell came upon an immense egg-shell, for which he said that his hat would hardly have been large enough to serve as cup. But the size of a bird does not always indicate what that of the egg is, so this may not have been one laid by a dinornis. Thus, the Apteryx, or Kiwi, of New Zealand, a curious, almost wingless bird, lays an egg which is about a quarter of its own weight.

Madagascar, in the past centuries, had also its big bird, which has been named Oepyornis, but only fragments of its bones have been obtained, and a few eggs, mostly broken. It is reckoned, however, that, the average egg of the Oepyornis must have been a foot long, and about two feet round, six times as big as that of the ostrich. There was a fine bird, yet not equal to these giants, named the Great Auk, which used to be found at the North of Scotland, and elsewhere. It was a good swimmer and diver, but has vanished.



CROWDED OUT.

A family of mice, consisting of father, mother, and three sons, living in a large log-house, near the shore of a great American river, went to sleep one night without a thought of what was going to happen before the morning. Angry words and bitter spirits, I am sorry to say, were uppermost with them. Jealousy, Covetousness, Spite: these three evil spirits stirred up the brothers, and the grey-whiskered parents, although they said little, remembered that they too had often, in bygone days, entertained the same three evil spirits, and thereby set a very poor example to their children.

So, jabbering, biting, clawing, they fell asleep this night—squeaking, scratching, and snarling forth their wicked feelings even in their dreams.

What an awakening was theirs! Four or five square inches of half-decayed flooring-board was their sole home. The keen air blew about them from all quarters: the morning sky hung dull grey above their heads, and surrounding them everywhere was the river—cold, rushing, and troubled.

Yes, the floods had come, and the log-home of the mice, like many another, was now a dismantled wreck—floating, a plank here, a log there; and upon their bit of soddened plank huddled the unfortunate family.

Where were now the three evil spirits? Not on the poor little raft: there was no room for them. Jealousy? why, there was not a pin to choose between the refugees, and they knew it: there was nothing to be jealous about. They had no room even for their tails, which, almost unheeded, were soaking in the water behind them, and getting nibbled now and then by the little fishes. No, there was no room for jealousy.

Covetousness, too, was crowded out. There was nothing to covet; they had divided that bit of boarding up so equally that if the father mouse had tried to take a survey of the other side of the river he must have upset his second son in turning about. All were cold, all were wet, all miserable, starving, and despairing! No room for Covetousness? I should say not. And the spirit of Spite, the ugliest, most hateful of them all, was banished with the rest. It was the only good this trial could do to these poor mice—to bring them face to face with their wicked feelings, and by their common sorrow teach them their need of and dependence on each other. There was no gleaming of little white teeth, no biting, no clawing, any longer!

So the day wore on, till evening, cold, grey, and dark, was spreading over the troubled waters. Fortunately, they were drifted by the flood very near the shore, where it jutted out into the river, and at last, very, very miserable, and weak, and hungry, one by one the five suffering but penitent mice sought and found a shelter for the night in a hollow tree, the bottom of which was full of dry leaves, and as warm as an oven.



They found a delightful old farmhouse the next day, and, living in one of the sweet-scented hayricks for a time, until they could find out about the kitchen and the cook, this now happy and loving family learnt to think gratefully of that otherwise dreadful day when, adrift on the river floods, they had bidden good-bye for ever to Jealousy, Covetousness, and Spite.



MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

XI.—A COLORADO RAILWAY.



They called it the 'baby road,' when the first rails were laid near Denver City, the capital of Colorado, in the spring of 1871; and every one agreed it was a brave baby that could start upon such a wild journey. Over the lonely, snow-topped mountains, through the gloomiest gorges the route would lie. Here the whistle of the engine would be answered by the cry of the condor, or deep in the lonely pine forest would startle some ambling grizzly bear. It was in the days when the settler was still subject to attacks by marauding Indians, and civilisation had only a slight foothold among the savage byways of Colorado.

The 'baby road' was started under the guidance of a party of wealthy men from Philadelphia, and the first steps were quite easy. Denver City lies on flat ground at the foot of a long range of majestic mountains. Along the side of these the line was laid, past Pike's Peak, which rises from the plain to a height of fourteen thousand one hundred and forty-seven feet, and on to the city of Pueblo. Here the road turns westward, along the side of the Arkansas River, and a few minutes later disappears into the shadows of a mighty gorge through which the river flows. And here the troubles of the engineer began. From the sides of the stream the granite walls of the canon, or gorge, rise perpendicularly for three thousand feet. Nearly the whole of the space between the base of these cliffs is taken up by the river itself, though for several miles a sufficiently wide ledge was found to lay the rails upon, just out of reach of the roaring torrent of water. But, by-and-by, a point was gained where the 'ledge' suddenly ended, and for some hundreds of yards the River Arkansas took up the whole space.

Then the engineer had to think. First, it seemed advisable to use gunpowder and blow away the face of the cliff until sufficient space was made to carry the railway. But the gorge is so narrow, and the rock is so hard that the plan did not seem a good one. Finally it was decided to build the railway along a hanging bridge. And this bridge is surely one of the most curious ever erected. From the cliff-face on either side, iron girders spring at an upward slant, like an inverted V, and from the point at which they meet, steel rods descend. These are securely fastened to the river-side of the bridge. The other side of the bridge is built into the cliff-face. Thus it is neither a suspension bridge nor an arch bridge, but is sustained by the strength of the overhead girders. To make this structure, the workmen, with their tools, had to be swung in cages against the cliffs, and it was no easy task, in such a confined space, to manoeuvre the girders into their proper positions.

One of the principal desires of those who were laying this railway, was to get it done quickly. There were wealthy mining regions to be reached by it over the high mountains, and to reach them quickly meant prosperity. Improvements could come afterwards. Consequently it would never do to make tunnels if they could be avoided, even if great distances had to be travelled. In England, tunnels do not count for very much because our mountains are not large, but in Colorado a tunnel would be a serious thing, particularly for a 'baby road.' When the walls of the deep and gloomy canon at last widened out into the broad valley, the engineers found themselves faced by the still vaster wall of snow-capped mountains. As it was impossible to go through them they would have to be climbed. The only way to do this was to go up them in a zig-zag—backwards and forwards. Miles and miles are often traversed to make only a little progress, and if after looking out of one window you cross the carriage to look out at the other, you must not be surprised to find yourself quite close to some place you remember passing half an hour ago. But you are higher up the mountain, and by-and-by a point is reached at which the trees have ceased to grow. The patient engine has dragged its train into the snowy region, too high and cold for spruce or fir to live in, and a little later the line begins to descend on the other side. The laying of this zig-zag railway was far more difficult than it looks, for great skill had to be exercised in choosing the proper places for the curves, and managing the road so that no parts of it were too steep. On one such railway in America the train travels more than four miles between two places only one mile and a quarter apart in a direct line.

Our 'baby road,' in crossing the mountain just described, climbed to a height of nine thousand three hundred and forty feet—at that time the highest point ever reached by a railway; and the first train passed over it on 16th June, 1877. Among these mountains, in certain places, where, in winter, avalanches of snow are likely to occur, long sheds like tunnels are strongly built over the railway. So terrible are these avalanches at times that the wind they cause in rushing down the mountain-side has been strong enough alone to uproot the forest trees. The sheds are so built as to form no resistance to the sliding mass, which passes easily over their sloping roofs till they are like tunnels cut through a mountain of snow. Their walls are formed of pine-logs laid on one another in the form of hollow squares, the space being filled with ballast and small stones.

But our railway has passed the top and is plunging down to the mining district of San Juan, there to pass through more of those deep canons. No other railway, perhaps, can claim to traverse such a variety of scenes; but mountain and canon did not delay it half as much as disputes with another pioneer company that claimed the path it wished to take. Some ten years after it had started from Denver City, however, these disputes came to an end, and the difficult road was pursued right and left. It is hard to say if it will ever cease to grow in length, since the merchants are ever finding fresh markets of fruit and minerals for the engineers to take the iron road to. But since the spring day in 1871, when it first started from Denver City, it has grown in width as well, for the narrow road which was laid down at first for the sake of saving time, has been replaced with metals the same distance apart as those on other American railways.



MR. AND MRS. BROWN'S JOURNEY IN THE FAMILY COACH.

The following is a story written for the 'Family Coach,' a game in which the players sit round the room, whilst some one reads (or tells) a story, in which the names of the different parts of a coach frequently occur. The players each take a name, at the mention of which the owner of it rises and turns round, on penalty of a forfeit. Each time the Family Coach is mentioned all the players change places. The following are names which might be given to the several players: John Brown—Coachman—Cushions—Rugs—Step—Horses—Whip—Dog—Windows—Seats —Wheels—Curtains—Door—Lamp—Box.

Whilst sitting by the fire one night John Brown said to his wife, 'My dear, I think we'll go and see your sister, Mrs. Fife; We'll travel by the famous coach owned by the good John Brown, There's not a better coach and man in any market town.' The morn was bright and frosty, and there the Family Coach Stood ready in the stable-yard of the fine old inn, the 'Roach.' The coachman was arranging his cushions and his rugs, And passengers were giving their friends their parting hugs. 'Now fare ye well,' 'good-bye to you,' and 'may you be safe to-day;' 'Oh, accidents,' the coachman said, 'are never in our way. The step is very easy, not high at all,' he said, 'And you'll find the cushions quite as soft as any feather bed. The horses are good, fast ones, they never need the whip, But the whip, of course, I always take in case of any slip. My good dog, Bruno, always comes, so I hope you'll not object, My passengers in danger he would pluckily protect. The windows are so very large, they make it cheerful too; So you may view the country, which to some may be quite new. Come, take your seats, this Family Coach it can no longer wait, Or else at night,' the coachman said, 'we shall be very late.' The whip he cracked, the wheels went round, so very, very fast, The people at each other some anxious glances cast. The coachman said his horses were the steadiest in town; 'I'm sure I don't agree with him,' cried frightened Mrs. Brown. 'Take care, my dear, or I am sure you will jolt off your seat: 'Indeed, I'm sure I shall be glad when we your sister meet.' The dog by this was far behind, but now there was a hill, Up which the coachman's horses walked, and at the top stood still. ''Twas down this hill,' the coachman said, 'that Benson's got smashed up, When his dog—Bruno's mother—was but a little pup.' And so they travelled on again through village and through town, But all around the country now looked white instead of brown; For snow was falling thickly, and the rugs about their feet Did not feel half as warm and snug as when they took their seat; The step outside was covered o'er with snow some inches thick, The hedges, they were covered, too, you scarce could see a stick. 'This Family Coach was said to be the warmest in the town; My dear, I don't agree again,' said angry Mrs. Brown. 'Let's draw these curtains, for my seat is in a horrid draught;' At which the other passengers looked up, and then they laughed. 'There's very little light comes through these windows now,' they said; 'And if these curtains are drawn round, we might all be in bed.' 'I never go to sleep until I've had a supper good, And among my fellow-passengers I don't see one who would. I'm much afraid we shan't get one, at any rate to-night; The wheels scarce go, this Family Coach is in a pretty plight! Let's put the dog inside with us, he is so cold, poor chap; And he may sleep upon this rug—if you object, my lap.' The coachman's whip was broken quite, he urged the horses so, But all this was of no avail, the horses could not go. 'The snow has drifted high,' the coachman opened the door, and said, 'I do believe the horses are very nearly dead. I never knew this happen to my Family Coach before, And if I'd known I would have brought two good, strong horses more. The horse that is the least done up is jolly little "Clown," And by your leave, if you'll stay here, I'll ride off to the town; In two good hours I will come back with four good horses more, And long before the morning comes you'll find your own friends' door,' They shouted out as in one voice, 'And, coachman, if you please, Do bring us something back to eat, if only bread and cheese!' 'All right!' the coachman said; 'and here's my lamp, for it is dark, Although the little light it gives is not more than a spark. If you, good sirs, would take my place, and mind these horses three, The ladies on the cushions quite warm and snug might be. This Family Coachcontains a box, and in it you will see A poker and some other things, and they might useful be.' With this the coachman said 'Good-bye,' and mounted on the 'Clown.' He left the Family Coach to reach Braintree—a market town. A hunt was made, the box was found just underneath the seat, The ladies lay on cushions with rugs wrapt round their feet. 'I'll take this good strong poker,' said brave old Mr. Brown, 'And if a robber comes to me I just will knock him down! Look sharp! here's some one coming! Oh, dear! what shall I do? I would jump into the Family Coach if the door would but undo. Oh, if I could but get in safe!' cried out poor Mr. Brown; 'I'm sure I always will again stay in my little town. Here, take this poker, do, you chap, and I will stand behind, And if the fellow gives you one, be brave, and never mind. If I were just as young as you I should enjoy it quite. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I do declare the fellow is in sight!' 'All right! all right!' a voice cried out; 'I am your own coachman, And I, to get you safe to town, have hit upon a plan. This drift is only fifty yards, and then the road is clear, This horse can take the ladies through to me it does appear; But such a man as Mr. Brown I'm sure he will not mind, But walk right bravely through the snow unless he's left behind.' 'Not so, indeed,' he did reply; 'if on a horse you get, I shall as well, or else I know my two feet I shall wet.' And so he did; although they laughed and called him Johnny Brown, He safe was carried through the snow on the horse called 'little Clown.' The walk was done in safety, but when they passed the wood Old Mr. Brown he clasped his wife as tight as e'er he could. And when they reached the sister's door he said to Mrs. Fife, 'By Family Coach I ne'er again will travel with my wife.'



NOT AFRAID.

As at the time of the signing of the 'Declaration of Independence' the issue of the revolutionary struggle was still doubtful, all those who signed it risked both their lives and property. One of the signers, named Charles Carroll, was very wealthy, and after he had affixed his name, one of the others said: 'There go many millions.'

'Oh, no,' rejoined another, 'for there are many men of the same name, and they will not know whom to take.'

'Not so,' said Charles Carroll, and added to his signature the words, 'of Carrolton.' This is the only name to which the residence is attached.



VERY CANDID CRITICISM!

A would-be poet and flatterer wrote two sonnets in honour of one of his patrons, and submitted their merits to his judgment, desiring him to retain the best. After having read one of them the patron said, 'The other is the best.'

'How!' exclaimed the poet in surprise; 'you have not read it; how can you tell?'

'Because, indeed,' answered the other, 'it cannot be worse than the one I have read.'



THE PEDLAR.

Down the quiet village street, The pedlar takes his way, His old top hat, and long black coat, Have weathered many a day.

Before an open door he stays, With cheery word and smile, Where mother, with her babe in arms, Is standing for a while.

A little lass is by her side, Her eyes with longing bright, For see, the pedlar has displayed A lamb, all soft and white!

Ah, well he knows, the wise old man, The way his wares to ply, For Mother, moved by childish plea, Is tempted soon to buy.

He next admires the bonny babe, His pretty curls of gold, And after bargaining awhile, Another toy is sold!

His sunny smile and pleasant words Beguile both old and young, Whatever else the pedlar lacks, He has a winning tongue.



TEACHING HIM A LESSON.

A conceited young nobleman was riding over part of his estate in the company of a farmer, an industrious and honest old man, whose hair was grey, and his shoulders bent with age and hard work. The young man thought he would have a little cheap fun at his companion's expense. So he said, 'Why don't you keep yourself straight, and hold your head up as I do?' Just then they were passing a field of ripe corn, and the farmer quietly answered, 'Look at the ears of grain over there, my lord. The heavy, valuable, full heads hang down, while the light, worthless, and empty ones stand bolt upright.' The young man did not attempt another joke at the old fellow's expense. He had the worst of the laugh.



A GENTLE DONKEY.

(Concluded from page 402.)

IV.

'Please, sir, could you speak to Simmons?'

'Ask him to come in here. Wonder what Simmons wants at this hour?' said Major Raeburn to his wife, when the parlour-maid had closed the door.

'Well, Simmons,' as the groom quietly entered the room, 'what is the trouble?'

'It's the oats, sir. Some one is stealing them.'

'Are you sure?'

'Certain, sir. It has been going on for a day or two.'

'Extraordinary,' murmured the Major. 'Well, we must watch. Have other things disappeared?'

'No, sir, not so far as I have seen. I can't make head or tail of it. The two lads are as honest as the day; indeed, it was one of them who first noticed it. He refills the bin in the stable, and it is from there the oats are being stolen. I generally go to have a bit of lunch about ten or half-past, and I think the oats are taken then.'

'Well, look here! it is just ten, so you go to your lunch as usual; that will put the thief off his guard; but send one of the boys to hide in the stable and I will go and join him.'

'Any one there?' he whispered, a little later, as he crept into the stable.

'Yes, sir, Robin. I am in the loose-box,' continued the voice of the unseen Robin.

They had waited for over an hour, when Robin sat up and listened intently.

'Hear something?' inquired his master.

'The paddock gate, sir.'

Now, as no one used the paddock gate except Simmons or one of the boys—when Tim was turned out—Major Raeburn rose softly to his feet, and cautiously moved towards the small window.

'Quick, Robin!' called the Major, laughing softly, 'look at this!'

There at the paddock gate stood Tim; his head was down and he was trying to open the gate. They could see his soft nose pushed through between the bars of the gate, and hear the metallic click that the latch made as it fell back into its groove.

At last Tim's efforts were successful, and pushing the gate forward, he walked into the yard.

On he came towards the stable, past the window where the two watchers stood motionless, and then his head appeared through the doorway.

'Hush!' whispered Major Raeburn, afraid that Robin would break the silence.

Straight towards the bin where the oats were kept did Tim go, and here he paused and looked around.

Fumble, fumble, fumble, went his nose against the iron bolt of the bin; but Tim was an expert burglar, and not easily discouraged. After many failures, his struggles were crowned by success, and Tim pressed up the lid with his strong, brown head until, with a dull thud, it feel back against the wall; then whisking his tail over his back, with a movement that expressed perfect satisfaction, Tim's head disappeared in the depths of the oats-bin.

Then, but not till then, did Major Raeburn and Robin give way to their mirth.

'Upon my word,' said the Major, 'that donkey is just a little too clever for any ordinary family.'

'Come out of that, you little villain!' he shouted to Tim, who was evidently making the most of this golden opportunity; 'and allow me to tell you that this is the last feed of oats you will be able to steal.'

* * * * *

'Are you going to drive, Father?' asked Harry, in a tone of dismay, when he saw his father take the reins.

'Yes; got any objection?'

'No—o. Only, you see, Mother does drive so beautifully.'

'Oh, yes, I know that; but Mother is pretending to be a visitor to-day, and we are taking her for a drive.'

'Do you think nobody will get thrown out?'

'I hope not.'

'Oh, but, Father, that isn't very exciting. Just think what fun it would be if we all got thrown out, and Nannie had to put sticking plaster on our noses.'

'Oh, yes, it would be lovely,' said the Major, dryly, and Mother, who was pretending to be a visitor, laughed merrily.

'Turn down towards the Hall, Jack,' she said at the cross-roads. 'It is such a pretty road.'

'So far as I can see,' exclaimed Major Raeburn, 'this little animal is splendid between the shafts. He may have been a little too fresh yesterday; but you must own that he has gone beautifully to-day. Haven't you, Timmie? Hullo! what's that black thing looking over the hedge?'

'Where?' asked Harry, jumping off his seat. 'Please show me, Father. Oh, yes, I see now! It's Sambo.'

'And who is Sambo?' queried his father.

'Why, Sambo is the Hall donkey. Once'—in a tone of great importance—'I gave Sambo a carrot, and'—in an awe-struck voice—'he ate it!'

'Extraordinary animal!' murmured the Major, in a voice of the greatest surprise. 'Now, then, Tim, my boy, don't get alarmed; that black head belongs to your brother, Sambo.'

If Tim was surprised to see Sambo, Sambo was evidently still more astonished to see him, and the black head disappeared, only to reappear over the hedge in a line with the cart.

Up went Tim's ears in an inquiring way, and he shied violently to the other side of the road.

'Do speak to him, Jack,' said Mrs. Raeburn. 'If he shies like that again, he will have us all in the ditch!'

'Go on now, Tim,' and the Major gave the reins a sharp jerk; but Tim remained stationary, gazing at Sambo. To make matters worse, he was now standing right across the road, as this position enabled him to look at his new friend more thoroughly.

The inspection having proved satisfactory, Sambo's head suddenly went up in the air, and he started to bray with all the force of his powerful lungs.

Tim stepped back in feigned alarm, till the wheels of the cart were on the edge of the ditch; then he also raised his head, and joined in the noise.

The sound was so deafening that Mrs. Raeburn put her hands over her ears, while many expressions chased each other across Harry's face. He had never heard a donkey bray before, and at first was frightened. 'Father,' he whispered—there was a note of alarm in his voice—'what is that queer noise?'

'Why, that is only Tim and Sambo talking to each other,' his father answered, laughing heartily. 'Sambo is saying, "I say, where do you come from?" and I suppose Tim is telling him that he has just come from a greengrocer's shop; but I wish that they would be quick and finish their conversation.'

This, apparently, was the last thing that the donkeys had any intention of doing; even the whip was used without any result. Tim's conversation with Sambo was so interesting that he even forgot to kick when the whip came in contact with his thick brown hide. Occasionally they stopped to take breath, only to start again with renewed vigour.

'Stop that noise, Tim,' shouted the now angry Major. 'You will have us all deaf!'

Harry stared at his father in astonishment 'Why, Father, I like it, now. This is much nicer than going a walk with Mary.'

'Hi!' shouted the driver of an approaching waggon, 'I'm sorry to trouble you, sir, but I must get past.'

'If you will tell me how you are going to manage it,' called back the Major, 'I shall be only too pleased to allow you.'

The man drew his horses up by the side of the road, and then scrambled down to see whether he could be of any assistance.

'I never saw such a stubborn little brute,' he muttered, after many fruitless attempts to turn the donkey round. 'Perhaps if the lady would take the donkey's head, we might just lift the cart; and the little gentleman could throw stones at the black donkey.'

This brilliant idea was in process of being carried out; but it is doubtful whether it would have succeeded, had it not been for the timely appearance of the Squire's pony-cart.

The Squire himself was driving, with a tall schoolboy beside him, and his cheery, 'You seem to be having a bad time, Major,' acted like a tonic upon the depressed spirits of Major Raeburn and his wife. 'Now then, Frank, you know about donkeys and their ways, so jump out, and help them to turn the cart.'

Three pairs of muscular arms lifted up the light cart, and turned it round, so that Tim could no longer see Sambo.

'Push now,' shouted the Squire, and he roared with laughter when he saw the expression on Major Raeburn's face. 'Oh, yes, I assure you, this is one of the ways to drive an obstinate donkey!'

By dint of much hard work, in which Harry imagined that he had largely assisted, Tim was at last got past the waggon; while Mrs. Raeburn, by means of stone-throwing, kept Sambo's head back from the hedge.

When the manoeuvre had been successfully carried out, Major Raeburn suggested that as Frank seemed to understand donkeys, he might drive Tim home.

'You see, my boy, I feel as if I had done enough driving for to-day!'

'Oh, thank you,' murmured the boy, flushing with pleasure, for he loved driving; 'and now, Mrs. Raeburn, where is your box of stones?'

Mrs. Raeburn stared at him in surprise; 'My what?'

'Your box of stones,' he repeated. 'You can't drive a donkey like any other animal. Not got any? Oh, no wonder you had trouble! Father, have you got Sambo's stones there? Thanks, that is the box,' as the Squire handed him a large cocoa tin half filled with pebbles. 'Now, Harry, you must hold the box and stand at the top of the cart close to Tim. Yes! that's it. Now away we go. Come along, old boy!'—this to Tim; but Tim refused to move. 'Now then, Harry, lean over, and rattle the stones as hard as ever you can.'

Trembling with excitement, Harry did as he was told; the result was instantaneous. Away went Tim as hard as he could gallop.

'Well!' sighed Mrs. Raeburn, in utter astonishment 'that is a simple remedy; but what can we do to stop him when he shies?'

'At what sort of things does he shy?'

Tim answered this question for himself, by shying violently at a dark shadow that fell across the road.

'Ah! he is nervous, Sambo did that at first. You see he was a town donkey also, and when carts and shadows suddenly came upon him in a quiet lane he was afraid of them. Now he is used to them!'

'And when he bolts, Frank?'

'Don't give him so much to eat, Mrs. Raeburn. Stop that, Tim.' Tim had taken advantage of the conversation to try and get a bite of grass from the side of the road. 'Stones again, Harry,' and Harry, only too glad to feel that he was assisting in the driving, rattled the stones gaily, laughing and chattering with delight.

Away went Tim again, and Mrs. Raeburn's spirits rose. 'Why, he goes beautifully with you, Frank.'

'There is no trick about it, Mrs. Raeburn; only he has evidently been accustomed to stones, and won't stand a whip. We heard how he smashed up Mrs. Wood's gate! If you had had stones he would have been all right.'

They reached home safely, Harry greatly pleased with the new method of donkey-driving. Tim remained in his new home, and although there are days when Mary wishes that he were not so clever, and Simmons mutters that he is more trouble than he is worth, yet they all get to love him.

THE END.