On opening the door of a den--an old packing-case lid, three feet high, secured by a thong of goatskin--two pigs dashed forth squealing, and at the first step inside the writer's foot splashed in fetid moisture hidden beneath a litter of green fern. It being dark within, and too low to stand upright, I struck a match and presently became aware of a living object almost underfoot. It proved to be a baby, no bigger than a rabbit, and with tiny black bead-like eyes that gleamed with a wild light--never before have we seen such glance on human face. While examining this phenomenon, a sound from the inner darkness revealed a second inmate. We crept into this lair, scrambling up two steps in the natural rock, and from the fern-litter arose a female. She stood about three feet high, had the same wild eyes, unkempt hair, encrusted brown with dirt, hanging loose over her naked shoulders--a merciful darkness concealed the rest. She appeared to be about ten years old, and dwarfed and undersized at that; yet she told us she was fourteen, and the mother of the rabbit-child, also that its father had deserted her a month ago--ten days before its birth. The lair contained absolutely no furniture, unless dead fern be so styled. Can human misery further go? The next hovel did contain a _batane_, or hollowed tree, in which lay some scanty rags like fragments of discarded horse-cloths. So lacking are these poor savages in any sufficient clothing, whether for day or night, that the children, we were assured, were habitually laid to sleep among the swine, in order to share the natural warmth of those beasts. In one abode only did we discover such convenience as a wooden chest. It contained a handful of potatoes, some chestnuts, and a broken iron cooking-pot. We examined another den or two--practically all were alike. If anything was there that escaped our attention we had an excuse--the aroma (personal, porcine, and putrid) was more than the strongest could endure for many minutes on end. We turned away. Mingled feelings of loathing, of pity, and of despair at the utter hopelessness of it all filled our minds. There, not a hundred yards away, a contrasted sight met our eyes, one of humbler nature's most perfect scenes: a fledgeling brood of white wagtails tripped gaily along the burnside--types of pure spotless beauty, overflowing with high spirits and the joy of life. A few minutes later, and a pair of ring-plovers (_Aegialitis curonica_) on the river accentuated the same pitiful contrast.