hairs stood out straight from his head, erect with terror: there was one other that would have followed its example, but a spider was hanging on it, and it could not.

A flash of mystic light, black as the darkest ebony, now pervades the place, and in its momentary gleam the owl is seen to wink once. Dread omen! Did its supporting viper hiss? Ah no! that would be too terrible! In the deep dead silence which followed this thrilling event, a solitary sneeze was distinctly heard from the left-hand cat. Distinct, and now the Magician did tremble. `Gloomy spirits of the vasty deep!' he murmured in faltering tone, as his aged limbs seemed about to sink beneath him, `I did not call for ye: why come ye?' He spoke, and the potatoe answered, in hollow tone: `Thou didst!' then all was silence.

The magician recoiled in terror. What! bearded by a potatoe! never! He smote his aged breast in anguish, and then collecting strength to speak, he shouted, `Speak but the word again, and on the spot I'll boil thee!' There was an ominous pause, long, vague, and mysterious. What is about to happen? The potatoe sobbed audibly, and its thick showering tears were heard falling heavily down on the rocky floor. Then slow, clear, and terrible came the awful words: `Gobno strodgol slok slabolgo!' and then in a low hissing whisper `'tis time!'

`Mystery! mystery!' groaned the horrified Astrologer, `The Russian war cry! oh Slogdod! Slogdod! what hast thou done?' He stood expectant, tremulous; but no sound met his anxious ear; nothing but the ceaseless dribble of the far-off waterfall. At length a voice said `now!' and at the word the right-hand cat fell with a heavy thump to the earth. Then an Awful Form was seen, dimly looming through the darkness: it prepared to speak, but a universal cry of `corkscrews!' resounded through the cave, three voices cried `yes!' at the same moment, and it was light. Dazzling light, so that the Magician shuddering closed his eyes, and said, `It is a dream, oh that I could wake!' He looked up, and cave, Form, cats, everything were gone: nothing remained before him but the magic scroll and pen, a stick of red sealing wax, and a lighted wax taper.

`August potatoe!' he muttered, `I obey your potent voice.' Then sealing up the mystic roll, he summoned a courier, and dispatched it: `Haste for the life, post! haste! haste! for they life post! haste!' were the last words the frightened man heard dinned in his ears as he galloped off.

Then with a heavy sigh the great magician turned back into the gloomy cave, murmuring in a hollow tone, `Now for the toad!'

`HUSH!' The Baron slumbers! two men with stealthy steps are removing his strong-box. It is very heavy, and their knees tremble, partly with the weight, partly with fear. He snores and they both start: the box rattles, not a moment is to be lost, they hasten from the room. It was very, very hard to get the box out of the window but they did it at last, though not without making noise enough to waken ten ordinary sleepers: the Baron, luckily for them, was an extraordinary sleeper.

At a safe distance from the castle they set down the box, and proceeded to force off the lid. Four mortal hours did Mr Milton Smith and his mysterious companion labour thereat: at sunrise it flew off with a noise louder than the explosion of fifty powder-magazines, which was heard for miles and miles around. The Baron sprang from his couch at the sound, and full furiously did he ring his bell: up rushed the terrified domestic, and tremblingly related when he got down stairs again, how `his Honour was wisibly flustrated, and pitched the poker at him more than ordinary savage-like!' But to return to our two adventurers: as soon as they recovered from the swoon into which the explosion had thrown them, they proceeded to examine the contents of the box. Mr M. Smith drew a long breath, and ejaculated, `Well! I never!' `Well! you never!' angrily repeated the other, `what's the good of going on like that? just tell us what's in the box, and don't make such an ass of yourself!' `My dear fellow!' interposed the poet, `I give you my honour-- ' `I wouldn't give twopence for your honour,' retorted his friend, savagely tearing up the grass by handfuls, `give me what's in the box, that's a deal more valuable.' `Well but you won't hear me out, I was just going to tell you; there's nothing whatever in the box but a walking-stick! and that's a fact; if you won't believe