aspired to the completeness of the Paris "Jardin des Plantes."




A TRAVELED DONKEY

BY BERT LESTON TAYLOR


But Buddie got no farther. The sound of music came to her ears, and she
stopped to listen. The music was faint and sweet, with the sighful
quality of an Æolian harp. Now it seemed near, now far.

"What can it be?" said Buddie.

"Wait here and I'll find out," said Snowfeathers. He darted away and
returned before you could count fifty.

"A traveling musician," he reported. "Come along. It's only a little
way."

Back he flew, with Buddie scrambling after. A few yards brought her to a
little open place, and here was the queerest sight she had yet seen in
this queer wood.

On a bank of reindeer moss, at the foot of a great white birch, a
mouse-colored donkey sat playing a lute. Over his head, hanging from a
bit of bark, was the sign: