One morning, our stock of venison getting low, I started off again in search of game. Carma stood in the doorway, and watched me out of sight. I had good luck that day, and went hurrying homeward in the twilight, listening to catch the first notes of greeting song, but all was still-too still, I thought. Then, suddenly, there was one long wild scream, one such as called me to her side before, and I knew that the fiend had come back. Rushing madly forward, I reached the door in time to see the villain seize my darling by the throat, and plunge a long, dirk-knife into her breast; to see her totter, fall heavily, and then-then my senses left me, and I knew nothing of what I was doing for some time. When I recovered I was kneeling beside the dead body of the girl I loved, while close to us lay her murderer, with the long knife in his blackened heartfor I, too, bore the mark of Cain.

Somehow I know not how-I staggered to my feet, and, seizing my gun, went out, leaving the dead together in the accursed hut.

The next few weeks are a blank to me, but my old friend, Totten, told me that one day I was found by some hunters more dead than alive, in a glen, far off from the bloody scene. They said I had lost my way, and had fainted from starvation, where they found me. never told them otherwise.

I

Three years after that, I was in San Francisco, living with a friend, a great criminal lawyer there. He told me of many things, and in his conversation spoke of a case he had tried, two years before, of a young girl, accused of murdering her father. Then the tale came out.

My darling was not dead, as I supposed, when I left her, but rather in that awful swoon which is twin-sister to death. A party of miners, passing down the canyon some days after the tragedy, saw the cabin, hid among the pines; and going in, found the old man lying dead on the floor, with the girl crouching beside him. When questioned, she would answer nothing, but that the crime was hers. "I killed him. Yes, I killed him; don't you see?" was all she said when they spoke to her; so she was taken to San

tenced to a prison cell for life, for the cold murder of her father! Such is the usual justice of our land. She never faltered, never wavered through all the slow tortures of those terrible days, shielding the man she loved at the price of her own soul, bowing her glorious head to the accursed blow, bearing the ignominy and deathless shame of crime, simply, that the one she loved-and who deserted her-might live on in honor, and escape the storm; for she saw me, saw her lover, strike the fatal blow

And she, does she still live ?" I gasped out, as the lawyer paused a moment to pour out a glass of wine.

Ah, no," he said; "she fainted when the sentence was pronounced, and was carried across the street to the hospital, where she died the next night. I went over to see her there, and, just as the sun went down she half rose up, put out her hand, as if reaching towards some one in the dark, murmured a name, and then fell back, asleep!"

"A name! What name ?" I whispered, for my voice had deserted me, and he was watching me, quizzically, if not suspiciously.

What name? Why, strangely enough, it was your own," he said, and then "Good God, Jasper, what's the matter, man! Here, drink this and come out into the air!"

I drank the brandy he poured out for me; followed him out into the sunshine that has ever since been to my soul but a shadow: out among the jangling bells of the songs and merry laughter of this great, busy world, only to hear ever, amidst it all, the dying moanings of the woman that I loved.

So have I lived, doing what little I could in my own strange way, to drag out a life, burdened with this double curse of Cain, without drawing any other human heart within the awful shadow of my sin. And so, to-night, as the great sun goes down behind the purple hill-tops, I stretch out my hands into the darkness, and, touching hers, made clean, by this, my true confession, of any shade of guilt, or shame, I turn my tired face toward the waiting stars, and with her own sweet name upon my dying breath, I go to meet her in that "Land Beyond."

NE who has only dwelt within the bricks and mortar of a crowded city and whose ear has become deaf to the hum and din of the street, knows merely the dryest pages of nature's prose. But the gilded cage and the sweet tropic flow ers that adorn his library or parlor show the longing for the poetry of nature that still survives in human breast. The bird of the wild-wood and the flower of the Nile have come to live with man, so long as he remains on the earth.

In the estimation of the public, perhaps, the three greatest of the bird musicians, in the order of their excellence, are the American Mocking-bird, the English Nightingale and the Song Canary.

But, if you have listened, as I have, to the most gifted of nature's songsters, the mocking-bird, in his own Southern home, perched in early spring upon the topmost bough of some budding tree; if you have heard his morning carols from an almost bursting throat, and have seen the ecstatic joy of the bird as he suddenly bounds into the air a few yards, only to return with quivering wings and vibrating tail to his perch again, all the while sending forth unceasingly his varied notes, you can never fully enjoy the song of this bird in captivity. A pity would fill your heart as you heard the plaintive melody broken by a wild-wood note that would bring from memory's treasures the image of the glad singer in his native freedom, and you would be unable to bear the sight of the restless captive, that is singing because nature made him to sing; singing, ever singing, for a mate that

never can come.

The same objection, too, holds against the nightingale as a cage-bird. Philomel is more chary of his sweet and mellow song than either the mocking-bird or the canary. Nor does cage-life agree so well with him as with the latter. He cannot forget the hedge where he was reared, nor the wild life of his parents; and when winter comes he is restless to join his kindred across the Southern sea.

I, therefore, prefer the canary as a cagebird, both to our wonderful mocking-bird and to the sweetest of the singers of the Old World. Having long ago forgotten the traditions that told of the leafy homes of his ancestors and the wild free life they used to lead, he knows no home but a cage, and no care nor trouble, save that now and then a rival singer will taunt him from a neighboring cage-then his little eyes will flash angrily as he tries in vain to reach and silence his enemy; or when a cruel owner neglects the little bird whose life is in his hands and who depends upon at least ten minutes' daily

care.

Canaries are classed according as they are bred for song, for form or for color. Crosses from one class to another are not uncommon; but the highest prized are those that come under one of those heads.

The Scotch, the French and the Beigians breed chiefly for form. First-class Belgian birds are worth small fortunes to their owners; they have poor voices, and ordinary canary colors only: pale yellow and mottled; but the long and slender form, tapering evenly from the shoulder to the tip of the tail, with a head almost at right angles to the body, is considered the acme of grace in figure. The French breed is a less exaggerated type of the long canary, and has a ruffed or frilled breast. A perfect Scotch bird is crescentshaped.

In color-breeding the English lead. Their birds, moreover, are far better musicians than the long variety. The Manchester Copy is the giant of the canary race," and looks more like a yellow pigeon. The Norwich bird, with its deep gold and green and black, and the gold and silver-spangled lizards in their beautiful coats throw the modestly-clad German canary in the shade; and with their loud, clear voices drown the sweeter melody of the Hartz Mountain birds. Then, if you wish to hear the real song-canary, you must go to Andreasberg, a village in Germany nestling among the Hartz Mountains. There only will you find the highest type of this songster, which a bird importer has

not inaptly named "the Campanini." These are modest little fellows, clad in simple suits of almost every color worn by canaries, but always rather pale; sometimes wearing a crest.

To be appreciated, these Campanini canaries must be heard. If you are a lover of bird-music and have not heard him, you have yet to know the sweetest of bird-songs. The low ripple of the welltrained St. Andreasberg's song, swelling gradually into a burst of melody that never hurts the most sensitive ear, and drawing gradually to a perfect close, always strikes the new listener with wonder and delight. Not long ago an old gentleman who had traveled all over the United States heard my Campanini for the first time. The other canaries had been giving us a concert, apparently unnoticed by my venerable friend, when, suddenly, as if by common consent, all were silent listening to one of Campanini's best efforts. The old gentleman ceased talking, and turned and gazed on the little musician until the song was over; then he said: "I have heard birds sing in the North and South, in the East and West, but I never heard one equal to that. There is not a harsh note nor break in his song-perfect continuity of sweetness."

While the canary is not so docile as some other cage-birds, yet he is far more tractable and lovable than most persons think. It is an easy matter to win the confidence of this little pet, so that he will take seed from your lips and trill his sweetest when perched upon your shoulder. But you must be very gentle and kind, and, above all, you must love him. As has been said of a higher order of animals, so it can be said of birds, that the shortest route to the heart is down the throat. Teach your bird to look to you for his food. If he is timid and flutters in terror about the cage whenever you put your hand in, withhold his seed for two hours, and then stand close to his little prison until he has eaten all he wishes. Take the seed-cup away for another two hours, and do not allow him to eat until he will take his food from the cup while you hold it toward him. Follow this plan and you will soon be de lighted with having your pet take his

akfast from your hand, and sing his

thanks from your finger! You must, however, continue to notice and to pet him, or else he will soon grow wild again.

Whenever my wife enters the room in which she keeps her pair of breeding canaries, with their food, she seats herself on the rug before the hearth; and without invitation sixteen canaries fly to her, alight on her shoulders, head, lap, everywhere, and tug and quarrel over the chickweed until they can eat no more, when they go about their business, trying to unravel the carpet, or tear the paper from the wall, while Jinks, the paterfamilias, perched on his mistress' knee, sings a sweet song of thanks.

I must relate here some things about this Jinks, as they illustrate the intelligence of the canary. At the time I bought him he was extremely wild, but now he can almost talk. One day I received a beautiful game-hen. As she was ill, I took her to my room to be doctored. Jinks had the liberty of the room then, and soon spied the wheat in the hen's box, and no sooner was she out than he was in testing the contents. When he had made a full meal, I closed the box and left the room. On my return after three hours, Jinks met me at the door and began to scold and to beg. At first I would not notice him. But as he flew to the back of my chair, and prevented me from reading, I turned and looked at him to discover, if I could, what the trouble was. No sooner did he see that he had my attention than he flew to the box containing the wheat and began to beg anew. I returned to my book, and he to my chair. This was repeated several times, and whenever he saw that I was looking, he would fly to the wheat; so, convinced that he was begging for some of that, I went to the box and opened it. As I approached, he hopped aside and watched in silence; but before I regained my chair, he was busily eating.

We sometimes find it convenient to confine Jinks to his cage, and while behind the bars, he often asks my wife for a bath by dipping his head in his cup and scolding whenever she would not notice him. As soon as supplied with his tub of water, he bathes and is contented again.

He is, moreover, the only canary I ever knew that could be trusted out of the house. When his mate was sitting, I have known him to fly far into the woods out of sight of home, always, however, returning voluntarily, and never attempting to enter the house by any way except through the window of the room in which his cage was hung. One rainy day his mate escaped from the house, and left a newly-hatched brood. When an hour passed and she did not return, I opened the window and Jinks immediately went to search for his spouse. He flew about in the trees and sang at the top of his voice, and it was not long before she answered and joined him. In a short time he had led her slowly back to their young. She could never find her way back from an outdoor excursion, alone; and finally when Jinks became tired of her and married another, he permitted her one day, when he was escort to some half dozen others, to wander off and get lost.

While breeding for form or for color requires knowledge and skill on the part of the breeder, it is perhaps easier to obtain the desired form or color than it is to produce the highest quality of song. The forms or colors of the offspring are pretty accurately determined by those of the immediate ancestors; but the song is only partly inherited. The best songsters, however, come from a line of fine singers; but they must not only be prevented from hearing any harsh-singing bird, but must hear firstclass singers of their own species, and also those of other species. Trained in this way the young canary will execute well his natural song, and is even likely to add to it some of the best notes of the nightingale or of any other sweetsinging bird he has had the opportunity of listening to.

That the canary will often mate with a bird of a different sort is another item in his favor. In such matings, however, the female should be the canary, as she makes a surer and safer mother than the wilder females of the finches. Sometimes these canary-finch hybrids are most excellent songsters, and often are very beautiful. Whoever succeeds in raising a white hybrid with a good voice has a prize well worth the care it took to gain

There are, however, laws governing these combinations of blood, color and song well worth the seeking. Here is a rich field ready for the young investigator, where he may spend years of labor and not uncover Nature's secret, or she may yield to patient, thorough, systematic, scientific experiment, and crown the seeker with a wreath of immortelles.

Canary-keeping, however, is no exception to the truth in the old proverb: "No rose without its thorns"; for, even should our little pet be so lucky as to escape the cat or the rat, or accidental neglect of his owner, he will, after giving to us his eversweet song for twelve or fourteen years, yield to nature and pass away. while some birds will sing every day of the year, others will remain silent during the moulting season-two months or more. Yet these latter will usually, when they do begin again, make up for lost time.

Then,

A

As intimated before, the cat and the rat are the canary's greatest enemies— always excepting a careless owner. strong close cage will effectually protect the bird from rats. But cats will quickly thrust their paws through the wires of any ordinary cage, and in a few seconds wound its fluttering inmate past recovery. As these treacherous animals are incapable of being taught to restrain their natural appetites, you must, if possible, banish the whole feline race from your premises. But, as your neighbor may be a cat fancier, and as you wish to keep the peace, you may be compelled to act only on the defensive. hang your cages where the cats cannot climb, and, if you give your bird a room, you may not only keep the enemy out, but effectually guard against the accidental escape of a bird by fitting each door and window on the outside with a frame of galvanized wire-netting. wire-doors should be made to close tightly with a spring. In the heat of summer all

In such a case,

The