"'About everything on the top floor,' says Cap., solemnly. 'The Talking Horse is dead. Mighty Mardo broke out of his showcase about an hour ago, took a couple of half hitches around the Admiral and crushed him to death.'

"'Go 'way!' says I.

"'Sure thing,' says Cap. 'Come up stairs and have a look.'

"We went up and did so. The place was a wreck; the horse was the deadest I ever saw and the constrictor was still twined about him.

"'Why, the snake's passed out, too,' says I.

"Cap. folds his hands meekly across his breast in a resigned sort of way.

"'Yes,' says he; 'he, too, was killed in the dreadful struggle. He must have went straight for the Admiral as soon as he got loose. The handler was down in the office, alone, when the uproar started; he came jumping upstairs six steps to the jump and when he sees Mardo putting in that bunch of body holds on his intelligent charge, why, he took a hand. The result was a dead snake for me and a crippled wing for him. When I got here, Doc. Forbes was tying him up,' Cap. goes on rather sorrowful like; 'and when I sees what's happened, I know that I'm a ruined man. So I 'phones for the police and reporters to come down and view my finish.'

"From the way he talked I expected to see him carted home before the hour was up; but he wasn't. As soon as the newspaper fellows cleared out with all the facts of the case in their note-books, Cap. sends for a fellow and puts him right to work fixing up the horse and snake so's they'll keep, and then lays them out.

"Next morning the newspapers slopped over with scare headlines telling of the battle. According to their way of looking at it, the struggles in the arena of old Rome were scared to death in comparison, and modern times did not come anywhere near showing a parallel of the combat between the terrible constrictor and the horse with the human voice. The result of this was that when the time came to open the doors at noon we had to have a squad of police to keep the mob from blocking traffic for squares around. Cap. had changed and doubled the size of his ads. over night.

"The horse was done up in a big black coffin covered with flowers; and the lid with his name, age and wonderful accomplishment engraved upon a plate stood beside him. The remains of Mighty Mardo, stuffed with baled hay and excelsior, were embracing the dead Admiral with monster coils; and the crowds came, gazed, and marveled; then they went forth to tell their friends that they might come and do likewise.

"For weeks the coin came into the box like a spring freshet in the hill country, and Cap. must have kept the bank working after hours; at any rate, he sat around and smoked with a smile so angelic, that, to look at him, one wondered how he could wear it and not drift away into the ethereal blue. It was a good month before the thing lost its pulling power, and when it stopped Cap. had planted the stake that boosted him into the company he now keeps and set him to handling voices that cost thousands of simoleons an hour.

"When all was over, I found time to take the husky, with the damaged fin out and throw a few drinks into him. Then he told me the whole story.

"'The old man didn't think you could do the thing justice if you were wise,' says he, 'so he kept you out. This ain't the horse the fellow offered to sell him, at all. He bought it at a bazar for ten dollars, the day before I brought it around. When you went out for lunch Cap. he comes in. We done for the plug in a minute, and as Mighty Marda was all but gone, on account of his rat diet, we finished him, too. Then we wrecked the place up some, took a couple of turns about the horse with Mardo, called in Doc. Forbes, who stood in, to fix up the fictitious fracture, and then rung in the show.'

"Yes," observed Bat, thoughtfully, after a pause, "I've made up my mind that H. Wellington Sheldon is a wise plug."

THE OWL-CRITIC

BY JAMES T. FIELDS

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop, The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving. "Don't you see, Mr. Brown," Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is— In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis! I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology. I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And can not be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving. "I've studied owls, And other night-fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true; An owl can not roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that attitude. He can't do it, because 'Tis against all bird-laws. Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches, An owl has a toe That can't turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mr. Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving. "Examine those eyes. I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!" And the barber kept on shaving. "With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that. I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather. In fact, about him there's not one natural feather." Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault this time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!" And the barber kept on shaving.

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