Condemned to die――’twas his destiny To die on that hollow tree, And there as he hung, And there as he swung In the night-wind to and fro, That vengeful bird Was often heard, When scarcely a breath the forest stirred, In screamings high, All the night to cry, _To whit, to whit, to woo. To whit, to whit, to woo._ * * * * * A FISHERMAN’S WIDOW.――One of the small islands in Boston Bay was inhabited by a single poor family. The father was taken suddenly ill, and there was no physician at hand. The wife, on whom every labor for the household devolved, was unwearied in her care for her suffering husband. Every remedy in her power to procure was administered, but the disease was acute, and he died. Seven young children mourned around the lifeless corpse. They were the sole beings upon that desolate spot. Did the mother indulge the grief of her spirit and sit down in despair? No. She entered upon the arduous and sacred duties of her station. She felt that there was no hand to assist her in burying her dead. Providing as far as possible for the comfort of her little ones, she put her babe into the arms of the oldest, and charged the two next in age to watch the corpse of their father. She unmoored her husband’s fishing-boat, which but two days before he had guided over the seas to obtain food for his family. She dared not yield to those tender recollections, which might have unnerved her arm. The nearest island was at the distance of three miles. Strong winds lashed the waters to foam. Over the rough billows that wearied and sorrowful woman rowed and was preserved. She reached the next island and obtained necessary aid. With such energy did her duty to her desolate babes inspire her, that the voyage which depended upon her individual effort, was performed in a shorter time than the returning one, when the oars were managed by two men who went to assist in the last offices of the dead. * * * * * “Moral deformity seems not in the fiend so horrid as in woman.” “Holy men, at their death, have good inspirations.” [Illustration] The Zebu, or Indian Ox. The most common of the Indian breeds of the ox kind, is the zebu, a humped variety, the smallest specimens of which are not bigger than a full-grown mastiff, while others are found almost as large as the finest of our English cows. The zebu has been considered by naturalists as not a distinct species, but only a degenerate kind of bison, diminished in size by scantiness of food, which has a decided effect upon the bulk of all horned cattle. We see that the horse dwindles into a pony in the Shetland Isles, and why not the ox shrink into a zebu?