distress touched the man's heart evidently, for he said, after a moment's thought: "Then you must find some place on board where the captain won't be likely to see him, for he would throw him overboard in a minute if he took the notion. Come with me."

The steward led the way to the bows of the boat, where the freight was stored, and after looking about some time, pointed out a little space formed by some water barrels.

"You'd better tie him in there for a while, and then if you are going to stay very long on the boat, give him away."

"But the captain said I might keep him with me," cried Tim, fearing to leave Tip in so desolate a place.

"Well"—and now the steward began to grow impatient—"you can try keeping him with you if you want to run the risk, but I promise you the captain will make quick work of him if he sees him."

Tim hesitated a moment, and then stooping down, he kissed Tip on the nose, whispering to him, "I wouldn't leave you here if I could help it, Tip; but be a good dog, and we'll have it fixed somehow pretty soon."

Tip licked his master's face in reply, but did not appear to understand the command to be a good dog; for when the rope was put around his neck he began to howl dolefully, and his cries went straight to Tim's heart, inflicting as much pain as a blow on his flesh.

With the tears dropping very fast from his eyes, Tim tied Tip in the narrow place which was to serve him as home, at least until Captain Pratt's intentions concerning him could be known, and then returned to the cabin as the steward had told him.

But as he started to go, Tip looked up at him so piteously, uttering a whine that sounded in Tim's ears so sad, that he ran back, knelt down by his dumb friend, and kissed him over and over again, saying, as he did so: "Do be good, Tip. You don't know how bad it makes me feel to have to leave you here, an' I'd do anything in the world to have you go with me every step I take; but you've got to stay here, Tip, an' I've got to leave you."

Then as the dog whined again, he cried, passionately, "Oh, what lonesome things we are, Tip! an' we ain't got anybody but each other in all this wide world"; and with both arms around Tip's neck, he gave way to a perfect flood of tears. "Now do be good, Tip, an' don't make me feel so bad," he said, as he wiped his eyes on the dog's head, and prepared once more to leave him.

It seemed almost as if the dog understood what his master had said, for he stopped whining, and made no sound, but kept wagging his little stump of a tail until Tim did not dare to look at him any longer.

He turned resolutely away, and, with eyes still blinded with tears, walked down into the cabin, where he was soon busily engaged in the not very pleasant occupation of cleaning knives.

[to be continued.]

THE FLAMINGO.

The flamingo is a beautiful inhabitant of all marshy regions in the tropics. It is found in great numbers in South America and the West Indies, and in Africa, Southern Asia, and China. It is a bird of wondrous beauty. It has a slender, gracefully formed body, long thin legs, and a very long, flexible neck. When it stands erect, its neck stretched in the air, its head is fully six feet from the ground.

The feathers on the body of the flamingo are white, delicately tinted with rose-color. Its wings, which are very large, are of the most brilliant scarlet, and the long quills are black. It is a very sociable bird, and is always seen in flocks of several hundred. The appearance of a flock of flamingoes, as described by travellers, is one of startling magnificence. Seen from afar, wading or swimming in the inlets of salt-marshes—for the flamingo loves best to keep near the sea-coast—one would think that an immense army of red-coated soldiers was encamped there, instead of a flock of harmless, defenseless birds. In South America the flamingo is called "the soldier-bird" by the natives, and Humboldt, the great German traveller and naturalist, relates a very amusing story, which he gives as an actual occurrence, illustrating the fitness of this name. A new township of Angostura had been formed; but the inhabitants were scarcely settled in their new homes when, one morning, a wild cry of alarm spread through the little village that an immense body of men in red garments, probably hostile Indians, was advancing. Such weapons as were at hand were hastily seized, and all the men rushed out to defend their homes. Suddenly the supposed hostile army rose in the air, and forming a long line of flashing scarlet against the clear blue sky, took its course in the direction of the great salt-marshes around the mouth of the Orinoco.

Naturalists have encountered great difficulty in their attempts to study the habits of the flamingo in its native haunts, for it is a very shy and cautious bird, and no flock is ever found without a sentinel posted to give notice of the approach of danger. This is usually the largest, and probably the oldest and wisest, bird of the flock. At the least sound it lifts its large head as high in the air as the long neck will allow, and looks about on every side. If any boat or hunter is seen, the whole flock, with loud screechings, instantly vanishes among the tall water-grasses.

When the flamingo sleeps it draws one leg up among its breast feathers, and bending its neck backward, rests its head on the middle of its back, with the beak erect in the air or buried in its wing. It is a graceful, rapid swimmer, and flies easily, stretching its long neck before and its legs behind, like the crane and stork. Its nest is described by those naturalists who have been fortunate enough to see it as an immense heap of mud and water-grasses in the depths of some solitary swamp, where the mother bird broods patiently for thirty days on her two glistening white eggs. When the little ones are hatched they take to the water immediately, and swim about as lively as young ducks; but they are not strong enough to fly for some months, and not until they are three years old do they attain the full magnificence of their scarlet plumage.