THWE ID. Oe

van have become of him? Surely somebody must
have stolen him,—or perhaps the neighbours’ dogs
have worried him. Oh, my poor Capriole! my dear
Capriole! I shall never see you again !’—and Sylvia
began to weep.

She stil went on, looking wistfully all around, and
making the place echo with “Capriole! Capriole! where
are you, my Capriole?” till at length she came to
the toot of the steep hill. She climbed up its sides, to
ect a better view. No kid was to be seen. She sat
down, and wept, and wrung her hands. After a while,
she fancied she heard a bleating like the well-known
voice of her Capriole. She started up, and looked
towards the sound, which seemed a great way over-
head. At length she spied, just on the edge of a steep
crag, her Capriole peeping over. She stretched out
her hands to him, and began to call, but with a timid
voice, lest in his impatience to return to her, he should
leap down and break his neck. But there was no
such danger. Capriole was inhaling the fresh breeze
of the mountains, and enjoying with rapture the
scenes for which nature designed him. Hig bleat-
ing was the expression of joy, and he bestowed
not a thought on his kind mistress, nor paid the least
attention to her call. Sylvia ascended as high as she
could towards }im, and called louder and louder, but
all in vain. Capriole leaped from rock to rock,
cropped the fine herbage in the clefts, and was quite
lost in the pleasure of his new existence.

Poor Sylvia stayed till she was tired, and then
returned disconsolate to the farm, to relate her mis-
fortune. She got her brothers to accompany her back
to the nll, and took with her a slice of white bread
and some milk, to tempt the little wanderer home.
ut he had mounted still higher, and had joined a
herd of companions of the same species, with whom
he was irisking and sporting. He had neither eves
nor ears for his otd friends of the valley. All former
habits were broken at once, and he had eommenced

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