A FABLE tells us a fowler one day saw sitting in tree a wood-pigeon. This is a very shy bird, so he had to creep and maneuver to get within gunshot unseen, unheard. He stole from tree to tree, and muffled his footsteps in the long grass so adroitly that, just as he was going to pull the trigger, he stepped light as a feather on a venomous snake. It bit; he died. This is instructive and pointed, but a trifle severe. What befell Uncle Fountain, busy enmeshing his cock and hen pheasant, netting a niece and a friend, went to the same tune, but in a lower key, as befitted a domestic tale.* * “Domestic,” you are aware, is Latin for “tame.” Ex., “domestic fowl,” “domestic drama,” “story of domestic intereet,” “or chronicle of small beer,” Among his letters at breakfast-time came one which he had no sooner read than he flung on the table and went into a fury. Lucy sat aghast; then inquired in tender anxiety what was the matter. Angry explanations are apt to be dark ones. “It is a confounded shame--it is a trick, child--it is a do.” “Ah! what is that, uncle? 'a do'?--'a do'?” “Yes, 'a do.' He knew I hated figures; can't bear the sight of them, and the cursed responsibility of adding them up right.” “But who knew all this?” “He came over here bursting with health, and asked me to be one of his executors--mind, one. I consented on a distinct understanding I was never to be called upon to act. He was twenty years my junior, and like so much mahogany. It was just a form; I did it to soothe a man who called himself my friend, and set his mind at rest.” “But, uncle dear, I don't understand even now. Can it be possible that a friend has abused your good nature?” “A little,” with an angry sneer. “Has he betrayed your confidence?” “Hasn't he?” “Oh dear! What has he done?” “Died, that is all,” snarled the victim. “Oh, uncle! Poor man!” “Poor man, no doubt. But how about poor me? Why, it turns out I am sole executor.” “But, dear uncle, how could the poor soul help dying?” “That is not candid, Lucy,” said Mr. Fountain, severely. “Did ever I say he could help dying? But he could help coming here under false colors, a mahogany face, and trapping his friend.” “Uncle, what is the use--your trying to play the misanthrope with me, who know how good you are, in spite of your pretenses to the contrary? To hide your emotion from your poor niece, you go into a feigned fury, and all the time you know how sorry you are your poor friend is gone.” “Of course I am. He has secured one mourner. He might have died to all eternity if he hadn't nailed me first. See how selfish men are, and bad-hearted into the bargain. I believe that young fellow had been to a doctor, and found out he was booked in spite of his mahogany cheeks; so then he rides out here and wheedles an unguarded friend--I'm wired--I'm trapped--I'm snared.” Lucy set herself to soothe her injured relative. “You must say to yourself, _'C'est un petit matheur.'”_