Then there is the stuffed eagle which Ferdinand shot himself “with a valorous gunshot,” as M. Hepp says. And the little silver truck in which he keeps the first spadeful of earth dug up by himself to commemorate the opening of the railway line to Burgas. You must see that, and the golden keys of the Palace, as they were presented to him on the day he did his “sacred duty,” and set foot on Bulgarian soil. Then he rings an electric bell, to show how clever Prince Cyril has fitted out the Palace with these marvels, laying all the wires himself. All his children are bidden to cultivate useful hobbies, the Bulgarian Czar will tell you, very much after the manner of Mr. Subbubs when he has lured you to Lonelitown for a week-end. Thus, as an American scribe who had endured the process told me, Ferdinand “pulls domestic stuff on you.” He actually told one American—and his newspaper printed it—that his fondness for his children had saved his life from the vile assassin. According to Ferdinand, he was playing with his young children peacefully in the palace garden, when a Stambulovist emissary crept stealthily behind him with a dagger. But the rough man was so touched at the sight of this proud Bourbon playing with his innocent children just like any ordinary man, that he wiped away a tear, threw down his yataghan, and fled, sorely pricked by his conscience. With some of his visitors Ferdinand affects the martyr, and tells how badly he is misunderstood, and how shamefully he is misrepresented. With others he is the genial man-of-the-world, and tells stories that involve the laying of his forefinger on the side of his long dishonourable nose—a favourite trick of his when he displays any portion of his stock of knowingness. To others again he tells stories of his kindness to animals. On this count let me quote the beautiful anecdote of “The Prince and the Sparrow,” as touchingly related by M. Hepp, who had it from the mouth of this kind-hearted monarch. One day, when Ferdinand was out walking, he found a poor little sparrow, which had fallen right in his path. He took it up in his hand, cherished it, and carried it with him to the Palace, where he gave orders that it should be carefully tended. Some time later he was sitting at Council surrounded by his ministers, engrossed in serious affairs of State. At this juncture the thought of the poor little sparrow occurred to him. He rang for an attendant, and demanded instant news of the sad little cripple. It is not astonishing, says M. Hepp, that with such a charm of sensibility the Prince attracts to him all shrinking souls. Now read another instance of his charming sensibility, for the truth of which I can vouch, though Ferdinand himself has never related the story, to my knowledge.