ous roar. But that was a long time ago. That was when M. Alphonse was a graceful young athlete, whose daring feats in company with his "Unequalled African Lion" had drawn great crowds in great cities of the world.
In those days he was not called "M. Alphonse," nor did he wear threadbare clothes. He wore cloth of silver; and on the circus-posters he was called—never mind what! It was all a long, long time ago. So long ago it seemed to the feeble old man, as he sat by his tiny charcoal fire on winter evenings, that he almost wondered if it were a dream—all that life of light and color and applause.
Now he was old and poor, and his "African Lion" had grown old like himself. Its fiery eyes were dim, and its limbs had grown stiff. Life had become sad to M. Alphonse.
One day as he sat in his dark room, he heard a childish voice call to him, and go-
