Connecticut western news., 1876-03-03
HE TELLS A STORY.

HE TELLS A STORY.
 Arsene HOussayo Gives us a Characteristic
 Sketch of Parisian Life.
 And now, my dear readers, says Ar sene Houssaye in a letter to the New York Tribune, let me tell you a story of another friend of mine, who was an ass, but not @ savant. His name was Plerrot.
 The frost was silvering the trees of the park Monceau with dull white powder, like the head of a marquis of the old regime. It was in front of the rotunda, and nine o'clock in the morning. The sun hung in the fog like globe of fire, but east forth no beams. The wind was cruel to the poor world. People walked rapidly along the Boulevard de Cour- celles; women yelled their faces and men drew their heads inside their collars. It was day when lover's sigh would have frozen in the air.
 was hurrying by like everybody else. A female ragpicker, pale and famished, led by the bridle poor little donkey, which seemed hundred years old, and which dragged poor little cart, full of the rubbish of the street: rags, broken bottles, torn papers, worn out skillets, crusts of bread, the thousand nothings which are the fortune of ragpickers. The woman had done good work since midnight, but the ass was ready to drop. He stopped short, as if he had made mp his mind to go no further. His legs trembled and threatened a fall. He hung his head with resignation, as if awaiting the stroke of death.
 The sight touched and arrested me. A man would have cursed and beaten the poor beast to rouse him; the woman looked at him with an eye of motherly pity. The donkey returned her look, as if saying: "You see it is all over. I have done my best for you night after night, because saw your misery was greater than mine. You have treated me we'll, sharing your bread with me, and your neighbours oats, when you could steal any; but am dying at last. "
 The woman looked at him and said gently: "Come, come. dear Pierrot, do not leave me here." She frightened the load by taking out a basket of broken bottles. "Come, now." she said, as if talking to child. "You can get along nicely now" She put her shoulder to the wheel. but the donkey did not move. He knew he had not the strength to walk to St. Ouen, his wretched home. She still coaxsd him. How do you think we can get on this way, Pierrot2 To be sure, could drag the cart. But can't put you in it, and you would be ashamed to be dragged after it." The donkey raised his ears, but no move.
 was going to speak to her, when she ran to the nearest wine shop. The ass followed her with anxious eyes; he seem- ed fearful that he would die without his mistress. He was so little you would have taken him at distance for Pyre- mean dog. He had grown gray in the harness. A few tufts of gray hair re- mained here and there on his emaciated body. He looked like mountain burn ed bare in many places. His resigned air showed mind free from worldly vanities. He was far past the age where one strikes attitudes. He was almost transparent in his leanness. But his face was all the more expressive. II had something almost human in it's in. telligence and goodness. Why had he been condemned to such suffering; was it the expiation of former life passed in luxurious orgies2
 The ragpicker soon returned, bring ing a piece of bread and piece ot sugar. The ass turned and showed his teeth, like old piano keys. But although 1t was his breakfast time, he had nc more strength in his mouth than in his legs. She gave him the sugar. He took 1t as if to oblige her, but dropped il again, and the same with the bread.
 "What shall I do9" said the rag picker. She thought no more of he1 cart. She was full of anxiety for he1 friend Pierrot. "Pierrot l'' she cried again. Two great tears came to hel eyes. She took his head in her armi and kissed him like child. The ca ress did what nothing else could do The ass reused himself and prayed as il his best days. I feared it was only hi swan song. I approached and said tt the woman: "You seem to be in trou ble."
 "Oh," she said, crying, eff yo1 knew how I love this beast. I savec him from the butchers four years ago In those days had only hod. I hav' raised seven children with my hook The father is gone and one other, ant ny O1AOSO oduSACC1 W1S ChASu away fortnight ago. My worst grief was tha I had to take one to the foundlings- had eleven in all-four of them died a the breast. It's no use; you can't hav' good milk when you work in the street. all night. This little donkey has beel my consolation. He was better com pany than my husband. He never go drunk, and never beat me, and I neve beat him. Did I, Pierrot2"
 The poor little beast appeared t. share in the conversation. He hal raised his ears and assented. One o my friends passed by and asked m what was doing. ''I am making
 new friend" 'tHe may be witty, bu he is not handsome" II find him ad mirable, and would like to see you il his place. He has been out since mid night. Here. you want to help me in : work of charity9" "With all m. heart"
 ."Very well. Let us buy this ass ant ) put him on the retired list. This goo, woman will take care of him." The rag picker looked at us severely, fearing W