There is nothing so easy as to make a Frenchman leave off any work he may have in hand; you have only to crack a whip or blow a horn in the street, and out rush a thousand people to wonder at the novelty. To catch a pike was really something, and, therefore, we must not be surprised that Monsieur Bluteau, his two men, Pierre and Jacques, the old bonne Petronelle, and a couple of lads who served the hopper of the mill, should be assembled at the edge of the dam, to observe the process by which Jean Gribou intended to effect the capture. Neither need it excite our astonishment if we cast our eyes on one of the upper windows of Monsieur Bluteau's dwelling, and observe there the charming face of Mademoiselle Marie turned in the same direction. It is probable that she would have remained longer at the window, but something seems to have caused her suddenly to withdraw from it. It can scarcely have been the gratified glance which Jean Gribou threw towards the spot, and yet there appears to be no other reason.

Artful are the projects of Jean Gribou to lure the pike from his den; and marvellous the patience with which he watches the mill-dam to trace the air-bubbles that rise every now and then to the surface. He is assailed by all sorts of opinions: Monsieur Bluteau thinks the pike is here-Jacques vows he is there-and Pierre, who is the most knowing of the three in matters piscatorial, is convinced he is neither here nor there; and considering the length of time they have to wait for him, this seems to be the most probable conjecture.

At length a gleam of pleasure lights up the anxious features of Jean Gribou; an electric touch has shot through him, running from the depths of the pool to the pulse in his wrist, and thence through his whole frame. It is THE PIKE! He has taken the bait! See! The minnow quivers beneath the water, and disappears, but the line is still taut. Out of the way, Monsieur Bluteau-out of the way Jacques-get along Petronelle—jump on one side you two boys-be sharp, Pierre, with the landing-net, for Jean Gribou is going to give the pike a dance up and down the mill-dam. How Monsieur Bluteau shouts-how old Petronelle screams with delight-how the boys run hither and thither, tuck up the legs of their trousers, and are ready to fling themselves into the water! Round goes Jean Gribou's reel, away flies the pike with twenty yards of line attached to the hook in his gullet-now he is brought up shortnot too rapidly though, for fear of the sudden strain; then there is a tussle, but the pike is too strong to be lifted yet, and Jean Gribou plays him out again almost the whole length of his tether. A second round takes place; the pike battles manfully, his head is above the surface, he lashes the water with his tail; Monsieur Bluteau swears that he fights with his fins; never was such a monster dreamt of, no, not even the Sea-serpent.

"Take care, take care, Pierre, be ready with the net-he gives a little-I am getting him nearer the bank. Ah! the brigand, that was his cunning-see, what a tug! He nearly jerked the rod out of my hand; let him go, let him go, he will come back again presently. Ah, traitre! ah! vilaine bête, tu penses donc me jouer un tour! Sapristie! Doucement, doucement, mon ami-prends-garde, prends-garde-ab, le voilà, le voilà.”

And plunging, writhing, twisting, making the water fly as if a paddlewheel were in motion, straining the rod till it bends nearly double, and making the practised arms of the little dentist ache again, the pike struggles on to his last gasp: he pauses for one moment to rally his strength for a last effort, but the pause is fatal, the strong wrist of Jean Gribou has jerked him from the water-a sweep of the line brings him within reach-Pierre is ready with the landing-net and-flop-down comes the pike on dry land-all the spectators scurrying away as if he were about to pursue and devour them.

Poor fellow! he will never devour anything more! The barb is too deep in his throat. That last convulsive throe and it is all over with him. A splendid fish ;-he weighs full five-and-twenty pounds!

But what is the reason why Jean Gribou, instead of releasing the hook, dashes his rod on the ground and rushes off to the miller's house as fast as his legs can carry him. Was he the only one who heard that cry, and knew it-by what instinct?-to be the voice of Marie in distress? Not he alone, but Rusto too has caught the sound and followed close at his heels.

Jean Gribou leaps rather than runs towards the salon where he breakfasted that morning. The door flies open before his foot, and what does he behold? Mademoiselle Bluteau struggling in the arms of a man who is endeavouring to embrace her! At a glance he recognises Celadon Dameret-the recognition is mutual. He does not hesitate a moment, but bounds towards him, striking him a violent blow which makes the Amoureux release the girl and stagger against the wainscot. At that instant Rusto appears; the sight of the bouledogue lends wings to Dameret's flight;-he darts through the open window closely pursued by Rusto, who catches him at the wall of the farm-yard, and seizing a mouthful of his person rends his garments upwards to the very nape of his neck. How Dameret gets over the wall and scours across the fields, smarting, tattered, breathless, is more than he can ever remember. Martin is not so lucky, as he falls on the other side with Rusto upon him, who in all likelihood would have torn him to shreds, if the miller and his men had not reached the spot, pitchforks and flails in their hands.

Another chase! Rusto sees the five anglers on the brink of the stream. Away he goes, and after him ran Monsieur Bluteau, and Jacques, and Pierre. It is a trespass, and there will be a terrible reckoning. Moucherolle is the first to take the alarm.

"C'est très important pour moi," he says, "to make my escape."

He endeavours to do so, and in his haste runs foul of Galopin, and headlong they both are pitched into the water. The flourishing hook of Gobemouche, long since divested of bait, catches Choufleur by the ear, and the naturalist is brought up, cheek by jowl, with his captor, howling and swearing as never naturalist howled or swore before. The only lucky one of the party is Blancbec. He throws his rod and line into the stream, whips round a corner and dives into a dunghill, concealing himself beneath the savorous straw, and there he remains till he is routed out by Rusto.

Wretched and muddy and miserable, Galopin and Moucherolle are fished out of the water. They make the humblest apologies for the trespass and deprecate the miller's wrath. Monsieur Bluteau dismisses them

with contempt, and with their companions they slowly wend their way back to the cabaret, accompanied by the jeers of all the miller's household. Monsieur Bluteau looks angrily round for Martin, but he is already out of sight.

When the party arrive at the "Tambour vaillant," a fine row takes place. Celadon Dameret has gone off with the patache and taken, says the garcon d'écurie, the road to Paris. He was the purse-bearer of the party, and there is no money left to pay the bill for breakfast, or afford the "bonne recompense" that was promised to the host for acting as guide. Martin is furious, for when he tumbled over the wall, he dropped the five-franc piece out of his pocket, and Pierre, who picked it up, trans

ferred it to his.

How these distinguished members of the "Cercle were to return home was a problem, till the arrival of Blancbec, who was able to muster sufficient to pay the cabaretier's charges. And even then in what guise were they to present themselves? The diligence to Beauport did not pass through till the next morning, and they could not make sure of places; so, with heavy hearts, aching limbs, and torn clothes, they turned their dirty faces towards the sea and set out on foot for Beauport where, jaded and disgusted, they arrived about midnight.

The "Cercle" of Beauport still exists, but the names of Celadon Dameret, Galopin the apothecary, Moucherolle the post-office clerk, and Choufleur the adjoint-naturaliste, are not to be found on the list. Gobemouche and Blancbec are still there, and to their discretion our knowledge of the principal facts which we have recounted, is owing.

We have a word or two more to say.

While the pursuit after the anglers was at the hottest, Jean Gribou found time to explain to Mademoiselle Marie the cause of his abrupt entry into the salon, and, singularly enough, the liking which the miller's daughter had taken to the little dentist was rather increased than diminished by his explanation.

The pike was dressed for dinner at the mill that day, and those who did justice to Petronelle's cooking, were the merry host, his sporting guest, and Madame Gribou ;-how absurd to anticipate events so rapidly! It was not till full six months afterwards that Mademoiselle Marie became the wife of Jean Gribou!

THE SOUTH AMERICAN'S FAREWELL TO HIS NATIVE

LAND.*

FROM THE SPANISH OF HERACLIO GUARDIA, A SOUTH AMERICAN POET.

BY MRS. BUSHBY.

Adios-adios-América, te dejo.

ADIEU-adieu-America! I leave
Thy smiling land so loved by me ;
Yet to depart from thee, I deeply grieve,
Enchanting Queen of the vast Western Sea.
Upon thy glittering sands, thy pearly shore,
Fall, mingling with the waves, my tears;
My eyes, with gloom funereal, wander o'er
Thy flower-clad forest depths, to me so dear.
Oh, mother! wilt thou not forget thy son,
In distant regions though he strays;
One souvenir of love-oh! only one
He asks, to animate his future lays.

To him, midst climes however far remote,
Thy scenes shall ever present be;
His lute shall never yield another note
Than those that blend with memory of thee.

Oh! wilt thou smile compassionately now
Upon this last, this parting strain?

And if, in future days, Fate may allow,

Wilt thou receive the wanderer back again?

Adieu-Queen of the bright New World! whose brows
With rays of radiant light are crowned;

Whose every lofty mountain-summit bows

But to the clouds of heaven that circle round.

Within thy realms nature is ever grand;
There, mighty hurricanes arise

To sweep, destroying, over sea and land,

Where'er their course strange and tempestuous lies.

Upon thy torrents shall I gaze no more;
Thy cataracts, whose foamy spray

Looks, rising from the rocks which they dash o'er,
Like birds of snowy plume, flutt'ring away.

* Printed at Caraccas.

Feb.-VOL. XCVII. NO. CCCLXXXVI.

Thy giant rivers, rolling to the main,
Shall I, alas! no more behold?
Shall I ne'er look on thy vast lakes again,
Nor stray 'midst thy imperial forests old?

Thy pathless mountains, towering to the skies,
Wild home of whirlwinds and of storms,
Within whose depths the fierce volcano lies,
Shall I alone in dreams behold their forms?

Thy rich savannas, and thy grassy vales,
In fancy only must I greet?

Thy murm'ring accents, soft as lovers' tales,
Oh! must I hear no more their music sweet?

Ye dark-eyed syrens of my native land,
Beauty like yours where shall I find?

Where forms so full of grace, where smiles so bland,
And glances that might strike the gazer blind?

No, lovely maidens of our Indian clime,
None other may with you compare!

I bid you, then, adieu but for a time,

No chains but yours your wand'ring bard will wear.

My country, yes! I shall return to thee!
The plaint that I pour forth to-day

To songs of joyful triumph changed shall be,

When "welcome" to thy shores my heart shall say.

Adieu, thou gorgeous sun! whose floods of light
From skies intensely blue descend;

Adieu, ye glorious stars! gems, that by night
To yonder vault above your splendours lend.

Adieu, sweet moonbeams! brightly sparkling o'er
Yon ocean's clear translucent waves;

Alas! that ocean, to some distant shore

Must bear me from the coral strand it laves.

In quest of fickle Fortune I must roam,

America-far, far from thee!

Yet still Hope whispers that my childhood's home
These eyes, ere closed in death, again shall see!