The supply of beef becomes daily more precarious and costly, for the oxen are all "treking," and one hears of nothing but diseases among animals--"horse sickness," pleuro-pneumonia, fowl sickness (I feel it an impertinence for the poultry to presume to be ill), and even dogs set up a peculiar and fatal sort of distemper among themselves. But to return to the last hours of our journey. The mules struggle bravely along, though their ears are beginning to flap about any way, instead of being held straight and sharply pricked forward, and the encouraging cries of "Pull up, Capting! now then, Blue-bok, hi!" become more and more frequent: the driver in charge of the whips is less nice in his choice of a scourge with which to urge on the patient animals, and whacks them soundly with whichever comes first. The children have long ago wearied of the confinement and darkness of the back seats of the hooded vehicle; we are all black and blue from jolting in and out of deep holes hidden by mud which occur at every yard; but still our flagging spirits keep pretty good, for _our_ little Table Mountain has been left behind, whilst before us, leaning up in one corner of an amphitheatre of hills, are the trees which mark where Maritzburg nestles. The mules see it too, and, sniffing their stables afar off, jog along faster. Only one more rise to pull up: we turn a little off the high-road, and there, amid a young plantation of trees, with roses, honeysuckle and passion-flowers climbing up the posts of the wide verandah, a fair and enchanting prospect lying at our feet, stands our new home, with its broad red tiled roof stretching out a friendly welcome to the tired, belated travelers. A SYLVAN SEARCH. I. From tales of rural gods I rose, And sought them through the woody deeps, Where, held in shadowy, sweet repose, The sunshine, like Endymion, sleeps-- Where murmurous waters softly sing To listening branches, bended low, And tuneful birds on waving wing, As Zephyrus, gently come and go. II. Vainly I sought the gods, yet heard Their whispering spirits say to mine, "Who seeks us finds the forests stirred By myriad voices all divine, And learns that still the mystic spell Of fauns and dryads fills the place With beauty myths have failed to tell-- One god in every hidden face." MARY B. DODGE. THE SONGS OF MIRZA-SCHAFFY.