Europeans and natives alike are fascinated with Giraffe hunting, though few fail to be struck with the pathetic and half-reproachful expression of a fallen animal and few hearts are so hardened as to feel no compunction at “destroying one of the noblest specimens of nature’s handiwork.” Mr. Selous, after hunting one day, in recounting his experiences says: “Even in the ardor of the chase it struck me as a glorious sight to see those huge beasts dashing along in front, clattering over the stones or bursting a passage through opposing bushes, their long, graceful necks stretched forward, sometimes bent almost to the earth to avoid horizontal branches, and their bushy black tails twisted over their backs. And how easily and with what little exertion they seemed to get over the ground, with that long, sweeping stride of theirs!” The skin of the Giraffe is in many parts so thick that a bullet will not pierce it, and the surest method of hunting it is that pursued by some of the Arabs of Abyssinia who run it down while galloping at full speed and with their broadswords cut the tendons of its legs, thus completely disabling it. Although the natives love to hunt the animal they love still more to own a living one and their heads may often be seen peering over the inclosure in the native villages. In 1836 four Giraffes were successfully taken to the zoölogical gardens at Regent’s Park, London. From this time they became somewhat common in menageries so that many people have seen the living animal, but all view it with curiosity as did the old Romans in the time of Julius Cæsar, when individuals were brought to Rome on the occasion of the games. And it is not strange that at a later date the picture of this curious and then unknown animal, found on Egyptian monuments, were pronounced “a dream fancy of an unbridled artistic imagination.” John Ainslie. THE FLAG. I plucked a flag, half open To the sunlight it waved and blew, And bent o’er the water beside it Where the sweet pond-lilies grew. The stem broke short in my fingers, The bloom remained in my grasp, But the life of the swaying pretty thing I tried in vain to clasp. The breezes were floating gently by The calm, peaceful waters reflected the sky; The flag-stalk nodded its flowerless head, In my hand lay the blossom withering, dead. I stood for a moment longing As I seldom had longed before, Longing for even the life that was gone To return to that flower no more. But the breezes bent over me softly And whispered, the lost is found, For whatever you pluck from the surface Is restored once more in the ground; For the gardens of earth hold blossoms more fair Than the one you have plucked and are holding there. —Ella Van Fossen.