On one occasion, when we were descending the course of the Chari in canoes, we perceived a number of the great beasts in the river, playing some clumsy sort of game among themselves and throwing up in the air jets of water, somewhat similar to those ejected by whales through their blow-holes. We could distinctly hear the animals’ powerful breathing. Carried away by the nearness of the game, I forgot entirely how dangerous the pursuit of the hippopotamus may become when the hunter is in a boat. Meanwhile we were advancing steadily, and every time a huge frontal bone or a giant muzzle appeared above the level of the water I pulled trigger. There were frequently quite long intervals, for the hippopotamus is able to remain over three minutes under water without coming up for breath. Presently, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a female and her little one on the river bank; then I saw her take to the water. My attention, however, was riveted on a spot in the river where I had seen an old male plunge. Every instant I expected him to reappear. Suddenly, ere I fully realized what was occurring, I found myself projected upwards in the air with incredible violence. Before I descended I had time to see a gigantic jaw open wide, and then close with a snap on the unfortunate canoe which followed mine. An instant later I was in the water, striking out madly for the bank, almost persuaded that I felt the sharp teeth of a crocodile nipping off a thigh or an arm. I was fortunate enough to reach the shore, however, without mishap. Then we called over the roll. At first I supposed nobody was missing, but we soon perceived that our number was one short. We never saw the poor fellow again. Doubtless he had been injured when the jaws of the hippopotamus closed over his canoe, and was thus unable to reach the bank. At that moment, probably, a crocodile was devouring his body at the bottom of the river. By dint of a few questions I was able to piece together what had happened. The female, thinking to defend her young, had thrown herself upon the canoe behind mine, and almost simultaneously the old male had emerged from the water with irresistible violence beneath my own craft, pitching me upwards. It was a very narrow escape, all things considered, and I can assure you that, for the rest of that day at least, we left the poor “river horses” in peace. The Tale the Doctor Told. A CHRISTMAS STORY OF THE WESTERN PLAINS. WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY STANLEY L. WOOD. Concerning this narrative, Mr. Wood writes: “I was a boy at the time, living with my parents on the plains, the nearest point of civilization being Fort Hayes, now Hayes City, Kansas. The doctor had occasion to ride out to our place, and told us of his adventure, and the sequel, much as I have set it down.” It was Christmas Eve. “Hear that wind?” said Dr. McDonnell. “It sounds like a pack of wolves, the way it howls; and the snow means to keep on coming.”