The winter after this event poor Ralph came to an untimely end. Somebody had made him, of scarlet cloth, a comb and wattles, like those of a chanticleer, which he allowed to be put on him, and seemed to wear with as much pride as a young soldier his new uniform. Shortly after this event, their chanced to be a fair in the neighborhood, and as several of the family went to it, Ralph saw no reason why he might not go there too. Off he flew after them, and making his arrival in the very height of the fair, perched upon the roof of a house which stood in the very midst of the bustle. In a moment he was descried, and supposed to be some new and wonderful bird; everybody, therefore, was desirous of securing him. Unfortunately a man with a gun was at hand, and to make sure of so strange a creature while he was within reach, the gun was aimed at him, and poor Ralph and his glory fell together. Hardly had he reached the ground when his old friends of the farm came up with a crowd which had been drawn together by the firing of the gun, and recognised their old favorite. Great was the lamentation that was made over

him, and loud and vehement their indignation at the impatient rabble who had so summarily ended his days. His sagacity was an endless theme of discourse: story after story was told of him, and so great was the sympathy of all the fair-going people, that for some time they forgot the amusements that surrounded them, to condole over the unfortunate raven who had come to the fair in all his finery to meet with so tragic an end.