And my waist of white linen Shall be all yours, my young clerk, That you may make yourself a priest. And my porringers and my spoons, He shall have them all at one time. And my old warp, and my brake, And my old carder besides. And when he is a priest I shall have a broidered robe. And my shoes will have ribbons, And my collar will be fluted. And a cap upon my head, Like that of a damsel of quality. One of the most notable and singular features in Breton folk-poetry is the feeling displayed toward animals. Almost human attributes of wisdom and affection are bestowed upon them, and, unlike many primitive races, the Breton peasantry have a great tenderness toward the dumb companions of their labors. When they kill them it is from necessity, and with a genuine sensibility for their sufferings, which may have its ancient root in a tradition of animal worship, such as led the North American Indian to apologize to the bear, whom he was killing with his arrows. At any rate it is a very creditable feeling, and adds to the respect and liking which the Breton character inspires, that there should be this tenderness for the old horse, who has ploughed the fields and borne burdens until his strength is spent; for the old goat, who has given milk for the children; and even for the pig, who has inhabited the pen by the cabin. In the folk-songs this feeling is represented by various pieces of verse, giving the last wills and testaments of old animals, who bequeath, sometimes in a spirit of humor, and sometimes with affectionate tenderness, portions of their bodies and qualities of their spirits to their human friends and companions. There is thus the testament of the goat, the old sow, and the old mare. The latter displays a touching feeling, and the impression of quaint absurdity gives way to a more tender emotion and that touch of pathos which is evoked by all animal affection and animal suffering. THE WILL OF THE OLD MARE. Between Pontrieaux and Kerlouet Is dead an old mare. She cried, the old mare, To have he£ shoes pulled off. She cried loud enough to split her voice, --Pull the nails from my sabots. It is eighteen months, without falsehood, Since I have been in a stable. If it is not in the great barnyard of Kerlouet, There I have often lodged. I bequeath my patience To him, Oliver le Judic. Which he has cruelly proved this year, In that he has lost his wife. In that this year his wife is dead. To live without one's half is not a pleasant thing. I pray to give the hairs of my tail, To him, Pierre Perrot. That he may make a light fly-flap To keep the flies from the horses in summer. And when the other horses fling and kick, He will remember the blind mare. Carry my head to the ferry of Frinaoudour,