CHAPTER XI.--"THAT CHILD IS ILL!"

The children had been in the habit of rising at an early hour all their

lives. Elsie woke the next morning about six o'clock, to find the sun

shining in brightly at the curtained window. She had always thought what

a fine thing it must be to be able to lie in bed as long as one liked,

so she was not at all averse to doing as the lady had bidden her,

especially as the little bed was so soft and warm. She lay quietly,

looking round the room at the pictures which hung on the walls, and at

the various articles of furniture it contained; but after a while she

began to grow tired of this, and to wonder when the lady would come to

her. After an hour or so she crept to the door, and turned the handle,

thinking to see if any one was about yet; but she found that she was

locked in, so there was nothing else to be done but to get back into

bed.

[Illustration]

The time passed very slowly; still no one came. Elsie grew very

restless, and did not at all like the feeling of being locked up away

from Duncan. Still these people were gentlefolk, and rich. It was quite

impossible they could mean any harm. She could hear distant sounds of

people moving in the house. Could it be possible that they had forgotten

all about her? She had heard a clock strike seven, then eight, now it

was striking nine. At home, she would have been across the moor and

back, have had her breakfast, and been at school by this time.

Much as she stood in awe of her mysterious benefactress, she grew at

last so restless that she could be still no longer, but jumped up, and

began to wash and dress herself.

She was standing before the glass, greatly admiring her appearance in

the new frock and hat, and wondering how the lady had really got them,

when the key turned, and the fairy mother herself entered. She was

dressed in long trailing black garments, with a white cap on her head,

and looked, Elsie thought, wonderfully sweet and pretty. But as her eye

fell upon Elsie the sweetness vanished, and the angry expression that

had once before so terrified her came back.

"I told you not to get up till I came," she said, in a threatening

voice.

"I thought you had forgotten; it was so late," Elsie faltered.

"You are not to think," the lady said. "You have disobeyed me once. The

second time you will find yourself, before nightfall, back on the top of

the mountain, as I warned you before. And far worse things than that

will befall you, and your brother too. Take care! I shall not warn you

again. Now, put on these stockings I have brought you, and let me see if

these shoes fit."

They were a pair of fine woven black stockings, for which Elsie

willingly changed her thick grey knitted ones. The shoes were a little

long, but were soft and easy to her feet, and seemed to Elsie very

beautiful ones. They were, in fact, a pair of the lady's own, and yet

were scarcely any too large for Elsie. Then the lady combed out her

hair, and tied it up with a piece of black ribbon. Elsie felt herself

very grand indeed.

"Now kiss me, and say, 'Good morning, mamma,'" the lady said, holding

her cheek down.

Elsie did as she was bidden. "That will do," the lady said. "When you go

downstairs say 'Good morning' to your Uncle William in the same way. You

can go now."

Elsie went downstairs. At the door of the room where they had supped the

night before she met the woman of the house, taking in a plate of eggs,

coffee, and other good things.

The woman looked at her curiously, but made no remark. Elsie went in,

and found the gentleman already there. She went forward and bade him

good morning, as she had been directed.

He lifted up a pair of large black eyes from the paper he was reading,

and gave her a look which somehow scared her, as he said "Good morning,

Effie." She stood still, not daring to move at all, and feeling

extremely frightened and awkward.

"Go and tell your mamma that breakfast is ready," he said, with another

look.

"Yes, dear, I'm coming," the lady called, in response to Elsie's

message. "Don't walk so heavily, child!" she exclaimed, as Elsie ran

downstairs. "I do not know what sort of manners they have taught you at

that wretched school. Bring your hat down, dear; then we shall be all

ready to start. You will see that the luggage is in readiness, Mrs.

Alexander," she added to the woman, who was at that moment coming out of

the room.

"Yes, ma'am, certainly. And the fly will be round at a quarter to ten

punctually."

The lady thanked her very sweetly; she was leading Duncan by the hand.

He had on his overcoat, and held his cap in his hand. Elsie concluded at

once that this was because he had no jacket, and wondered why the lady

had not provided one for him as well as clothes for her. The child was

looking pale and heavy, and, Elsie thought, unhappy.

All the time they were at breakfast the lady and gentleman talked about

the weather, and the long journey they were going to take, and such

things, just, Elsie thought, as if Mrs. Alexander were outside

listening. Elsie was considerably bewildered by the way they spoke of

her and Duncan.

"Effie is not so much grown as I would have thought," the lady remarked

to the gentleman, who seemed to be her brother.

"She is very much tanned, and her hands are as brown as berries," he

replied.

"Ah! that is the natural result of such a country life," the lady

returned. "She has perfect health."

"Donald does not look so well."

Elsie could make nothing of this strange conversation, but she supposed

that the lady wished her and Duncan to be taken for some other children

who were not there. Still this was puzzling, for where could the other

children be?

Duncan ate very little, and seemed to take that more because he was

frightened to leave what had been given him than for any hunger.

After breakfast a carriage came to the door, and they drove back again

to the station from which they had come last night. After a little

waiting, the train started.

There were no other passengers in the carriage they occupied, and the

lady and gentleman talked a great deal together. Elsie could not

understand half that they said, but she heard them mention Edinburgh and

London, and talk of hotels, and lodgings, and a great many other things,

which gave her no information; but her heart beat wildly when they spoke

of London, and she hoped above everything that they would take her

there, for she had lost all count of the way by now, and would have had

no more idea in which direction to go, had she been left to herself,

than she would have had to find her way back to Dunster.

For a while the lady and gentleman were so engaged in talking together,

that they took no notice of the children. Duncan had seated himself in a

corner, and was leaning his head against the cushion with a strange

expression on his face. Elsie, sitting opposite, glanced at him several

times, as if to inquire what was the matter, but he took no notice. To

go over and ask him was more than she dared. She was far more frightened

to move a finger before this strange lady than she had been to disobey

Mrs. MacDougall in the most flagrant way.

But suddenly the gentleman's eye fell upon Duncan, and he said sharply,

"That child is ill, Lucy!"

"Nonsense!" said the lady, quickly. "He is putting it on. A good shaking

will rouse him."

Elsie glanced uneasily at Duncan. He took no notice; his heavy eyelids

were almost closed. It flashed upon Elsie that what the gentleman said

was true, although she had not thought of it before.

"I think he is ill," Elsie said, plucking up her courage, for she

thought it was cruel to talk of shaking him.

"Nonsense! He shall not be ill. Let him dare to!" the lady cried

angrily.

"It strikes me that he won't be able to help it," the gentleman said,

with an ugly smile, which seemed to make the lady very angry. "Well now,

what's to be done? This is a look-out you had not bargained for."

The lady looked puzzled and very much annoyed. She bit her lip, and

tapped her foot on the floor.

"If he lasts out till we get to London, I don't know that the child

being ill will interfere with our plans. It might be turned to

advantage. If not, he must be left behind in Edinburgh," the lady said.

Elsie pricked up her ears. "You do not mean that you would leave him

without me," she said quickly, thinking her ears must have deceived her.

"He could be brought to London when he was better," the lady said, with

a glance at the gentleman. "He would be taken care of; but we must go

on."

"If he stays in Edinburgh, I shall too," Elsie said, with sudden

decision.

"You will do what I tell you!" the lady said, with one of her terrible

looks, which so frightened Elsie that she could say nothing, although

her mind was firmly made up that she would never leave Duncan.

Then they went on talking again, and Elsie heard a great deal of

discussion about whether they should stay in an hotel or not, and she

gathered that the presence of herself and Duncan was the point of

difficulty, for she heard the lady say that she had not been able to get

him any clothes, and his own were much too coarse and common, and that

people in Edinburgh would notice much more than simple country-folk like

Mrs. Alexander.

Elsie had long been doubtful whether these people were kind or not, but

now she felt sure they were not. She had no idea why they had done all

they had, but she felt sure it was not from real kindness, and she began

to feel suspicious that they would be very unkind to Duncan.

It was a very strange thing, and not at all what she had ever read in

any book, that they should twice have fallen in with unkind people.

By-and-by some other people came into the carriage, and then Mrs.

Donaldson went and sat by Duncan, putting her arm round him, and drawing

his head down on to her shoulder.

After being many hours in the train, they arrived at a great place,

which turned out to be the Waverley Station at Edinburgh. It was such a

busy, wonderful place, with so many lights and people, that Elsie would

have been wild with delight if it had not been for her anxiety about

Duncan.

The gentleman gave some directions to a porter about taking their

luggage. Then he and the lady took poor Duncan between them and led him

out into the streets, which were full of people and carriages.

It was, she supposed, because so many people looked at Duncan's pale

heavy face and tottering steps that the gentleman, after a a few

minutes, took him up and carried him. They went some little distance,

till they came to a small shop, the window of which was full of all

kinds of papers and pictures. The gentleman had some conversation with a

man behind the counter, who took them into a small room, where the lady

and gentleman bade them "Good-bye," and left them, saying they would

come back the next morning.

After a little time, a girl, dirty, ragged, and untidy, came into the

room, and taking Duncan up in her arms, carried him upstairs, Elsie

following with a candle.

The house seemed to be a tall one, for there were more stairs than Elsie

had ever seen in her life, and they were dark, steep, and narrow, so

that she frequently stumbled. The girl, however, went on quickly enough.

They paused at several landings with doors, from which came the noise of

voices, sometimes raised pretty high, as if in anger and dispute.

At last they reached a tiny room, quite up at the top of the house. It

had a low, sloping roof, much discoloured with damp and dirt, as were

also the walls. The floor was bare and black with dirt and age, the

whole apartment squalid and uncomfortable.

The girl laid Duncan down on the bed, and began removing his things with

a certain amount of gentleness; he seemed quite unable to do anything

for himself. When she had undressed him, she put back the bed-clothes.

Then she went away, and once more the children were alone together, and

very much alone, for Elsie noticed that the girl locked the door before

she went away.

(_To be continued._)

SOME MORE LITTLE PRESENTS, AND THE WAY TO MAKE THEM.[1]

[Footnote 1: See Little Folks, Vol. XVIII., page 291.]

[Illustration]

Are you ready to hear about more things which can be made with a

penknife? Then I am ready to tell you.

Amongst my acquaintances and friends are certain little toy-boat

builders, who bestow upon me from time to time boats fashioned by their

knives; vessels which would not, it is true, encounter stormy seas, and

therefore are not fitted for use, but which look taut and trim as they

lie in the quiet harbour of bracket or slab amongst other choice

ornaments. A rowing-boat, a yacht, a schooner, a man-of-war--all these

varieties are somewhat commonplace. The construction of them requires

skill and dexterity, I know, but you do not want a description from me

of these, and I wish to tell you of something more uncommon than the

boats we see on our own waters.

Perhaps some of my readers have not attempted anything on so large a

scale as this I am about to describe. If they are afraid of the size of

the venture, they can follow the general directions, and make their

dimensions smaller.

Two boats we want, and four paddles.

The boats are to be in shape and form like the Indian birch-bark canoe:

this, as you know, has a very distinctive appearance of its own, and is

quite different from any boat we see on English waters: for this reason,

although you might be able to find a picture of one in some book, a

drawing is given for you to study, as your model for shape and form. As

I have said, we require two of these canoes, and they are to be of

different sizes. The length of the big one is 12 inches; the depth of

this boat in the middle is 2 inches; at its stern and prow, which you

will see are alike also in form, the measurement is 2½ inches.

The length of the little canoe is 9½ inches: in the middle it is 1½

inches, and prow and stern measure 2 inches.

The particularly bulging sides of boats of this character are the cause

of the chief difficulty of their construction; fortunately for our

purpose only one side of the canoes have this protuberance, for this

reason--these canoes and paddles are placed together and hung up against

a wall, and therefore one side of each canoe has to be flat in order to

rest steadily and comfortably against the wall. The interiors of the

canoes are scooped out, and serve as receptacles for odds and ends.

The paddles of some canoes are short and have wide spoon-like blades at

each end; these, you see, have not. The length of the pair of big

paddles is 13 inches; of these inches the blade takes 2½ inches. The

extreme length of the little paddles is 12 inches; their blades are as

large as those of their companions.

These four paddles are crossed over each other, and over one another,

all at the same time standing in an upright position.

The two long paddles cross each other just below the blades, which rear

themselves aloft; the two short paddles also cross each other near their

blades, but they are head downwards. When these four brothers are placed

together in proper juxtaposition, the ends of the little paddles are

just below, but an inch or so away from the blades of the big paddles.

The ends of the big paddles descend as far as the bottom of the blades

of the little paddles. I hope that you are not confused or bewildered:

the drawing will help to enlighten you.

Against this background of paddles the two canoes are placed: the little

one uppermost, the larger one a few inches below. Very pretty the whole

device looks. I should keep the secret until the whole is quite

complete. The surface of the wood should be made as smooth as satin by

dint of rubs and scrubs with sand-paper, and then it looks well if left

without any covering of paint or varnish: the stems of the paddles have

a little adornment in long specks of red and blue paint.

Now L am going to turn away--for a time at any rate--from whittling of

wood, and to speak of cutting of cork--that is ordinary corks. So many

things can be constructed with them by the help of a penknife and liquid

glue.

The celebrated Cleopatra's Needle is a good object; a wheelbarrow, an

old-fashioned square arm-chair, a book-case, an old oak chest, a Dutch

cradle, and many other articles of furniture can be imitated. In

selecting copies for imitation it is best to choose those of old date,

made of oak, for the cork resembles old worm-eaten oak when its first

freshness has gone and its complexion becomes darker. A very pretty and

uncommon object to copy is that of an old-fashioned clock, a veritable

"my grandfather's clock," an upright tall eight-day clock that has a

long chain and a heavy pendulum concealed within its tall case, and that

shows a big square face with large figures printed on it. I will give

you a few details about my cork clock, and I think you will make one and

set it upon a bracket to be admired by all beholders. This miniature

clock stands 7½ inches high. Its two cases and head are hollow; it is

built of little blocks of cork of different sizes, fitted neatly

together, so that at the first glance one imagines each portion to be

one large piece. The lower part of the clock is 2 inches high and 1½

inches across. This hollow four-sided case stands on a basement formed

of cork blocks, which project a wee bit beyond the case; this structure

is supported by 4 feet of a club-like form. So far so good. Now we will

raise the structure higher. A case in which the pendulum with its chain

is supposed to be hanging and swinging and tick-tacking is formed

likewise of bricks of cork: its length is 2½ inches, its breadth is 1

inch. Now as the upper case is smaller, you see, than the lower one,

there would be a cavity, and indeed nothing for the higher one to rest

upon, so we put little bevelled pieces on the lower case, which fill up

part of the aperture and give the upper case a resting-place. The door

of the clock is represented by a narrow thin piece of cork, at least 2

inches long, placed down the middle of the upper case. Now we have come

to its head: this is a hollow square, 1½ inches high and wide. A little

platform is put on the upper case, which projects beyond it all round.

On this the head stands, and at each corner a little round pillar, the

height of the head, rears itself up. On the top of the head there is an

ornamental battlement, composed of dog-tooth pieces of cork. As the

clock has a head, it ought to have a face; indeed, the face is one of

the chief parts of a clock. Take a piece of stiff white paper or thin

cardboard, cut it square the exact size of the head, and on it mark, in

your neatest style, the proper number of figures and the two black

hands: fasten the paper on a square of cork the same size, and put it in

at the back of the head. Keep it in its place by fastening projecting

blocks of cork to the back of the square; this will keep it steady, and

prevent the face from falling away from the front of the head. The face

looks rather too staring if the whole square is seen, therefore fix tiny

half squares of cork in each of the four corners of the head in front.

E. C.

SUMMER VISITORS.

I fed the birds in the winter,

And so in the summer, you see,

They flew through my open window,

And stayed for a cup of tea.

They little thought I was looking, the dear little

feathered things,

As they hovered o'er cups and saucers, and fluttered

their pretty wings.

For I was standing on tip-toe,

In hiding behind the screen,

And a livelier chirpier party,

I think I have never seen.

The air was sweet with the summer, the window

stood open wide,

My room was a garden of flowers, and lime-trees

blossomed outside.

So the old birds paid me a visit,

And the young birds came in their train,

For they took my room, with its nosegays,

For part of their own domain;

While they sipped the cream in my teacups, and

daintily pecked my cake,

And called to their friends and neighbours, that

each and all might partake.

But just as I stood there watching,

Enjoying their chorus gay,

My cat stole in from the kitchen,

And all of them flew away--

With wings that fluttered and quivered, they chirped

to another tune,

As they flew away through the garden that beautiful

day in June.

A.M.

[Illustration: SUMMER VISITORS. (See _p. 140._)]

A NEW GAME FOR CHILDREN.

We mention this game--which we believe has never appeared in

print--because not only many may take part, but like really good games,

amusement and perhaps some instruction are derived in playing it; and

any number may play at _the same time_. Let us suppose that ten children

decide to play this game of "Names." Each player is provided with a long

strip of paper and a pencil, and if one of the players has a watch so

much the better; if not a clock must be used. One commences by calling

out: "Girls' names commencing with A, two minutes allowed." Each player

then writes down all the girls' names that he (or she) can recollect

that commence with A, and at the expiration of the two minutes, "time"

is called. Then the oldest player reads from his (or her) slip all the

names he or she has written down. Say, Amy, Amabel, Alice, Ann, Annie,

Amanda, Aileen, &c. All the other players, as the names are read out,

cancel any name read out. If, for instance, all have written Amy, all

cancel Amy, and count one mark. Say six players have Amabel, and four

have not, each of the six count one mark; those who have not thought and

written down Amabel get nothing for Amabel, and so on through the list.

The object of the game is to teach the children all girls' and boys'

names. When the marks have been allotted for all the names, the total of

marks are read out and noted on each slip. The players then proceed in a

similar manner for all boys' names commencing with A, such as Alfred,

Abel, Adam, Andrew, Arthur, &c. The game can be continued till all the

letters in the alphabet are exhausted, but practically young players

rarely care to "do" more than thirty sets or fifteen letters

consecutively. Various names crop up, and the memory is well exercised,

and children generally vote it great fun. Any one introducing pet or

fancy names, such as Pussy, Kit, Teddy, &c., forfeits two marks, unless

it be arranged that they will be allowed.

A DAY ON BOARD H.M.S. _BRITANNIA_.

_By the Rev._ J. CLEMENT P. ALDOUS, _Chief Instructor and Chaplain to

Cadets_.

The _Britannia_ is the training-school for naval officers. All boys who

are to be fighting officers in the British Navy go to the _Britannia_.

They enter when they are about thirteen, and stay there two years, and

from this ship they go as midshipmen to our ships in all parts of the

world. We are going to pay a visit to the _Britannia_, and see how these

young naval cadets spend their day.

[Illustration: CADET IN FULL UNIFORM.]

If we want to see the whole day through, we must start early. So we will

take a boat and go off from the shore at five o'clock in the morning of

a fine summer day. It is only a row of some 200 yards to reach the

_Britannia_ from the shore. She is anchored in the middle of the River

Dart or Dartmouth Harbour.

Have you ever seen one of England's old wooden walls--a three decker?

How high she stands out of the water! If you will look at the picture

you will see that there are quite six storeys to this great floating

house. As you come up to the ship's side in a boat, she towers above you

like a great cliff--a wooden wall--you can see what these words mean

now.

Let us step up the ladder; they will be surprised to see us so early.

The sentry on the middle deck wishes to know our business. "We have come

to see _everything_," we say, and show our authority for coming.

So we go up a ladder--not a staircase, mind!--to the sleeping deck.

There we see two long rows of chests, which represent the wardrobe,

chest of drawers, washing place, private locker, every piece of

furniture, in fact, which a naval cadet possesses.

Over these hang the hammocks, each the sleeping-place of a cadet. A

hammock is such a funny thing to sleep in. I dare say you have a string

hammock on your lawn, in which you sometimes lie on a very hot summer's

afternoon. But it is a queer bed to sleep in, for your head and your

heels are both of them stuck up in the air, while your body hangs

underneath in a graceful curve.

[Illustration: HAMMOCKS ON BOARD THE _BRITANNIA_.]

Half past five is struck, or rather _three bells_, for man-of-war time

goes by half-hours till eight bells are reached at noon and midnight,

four and eight o'clock, when it starts again. Three bells! a corporal

walks along and picks out here and there some unfortunate boy who has

been misconducting himself the day before--perhaps he was late or

idle--and he has to "turn out" an hour before the others and stand up

till they join him. A wretched beginning of a day, especially on a

winter's morning--to stand shivering on an open deck, while all his

comrades are peacefully tucked up in their warm hammocks. I think if you

knew you would get this punishment, my little friend, you would take

good pains to be in time.

[Illustration]

As we walk round the hammocks we now see the servants busy placing the

cadets' clothes on their chests, ready for them to dress. There is a

servant to about ten boys.

By-and-by five bells is struck, half past six, and a bugle rings out a

merry peal, on the middle deck. It is the _turn-out_ bugle, and you can

play it on the piano:--

[Illustration: two lines of musical notation]

In a few moments we hear the same bugle-call, far away. The bugler is

gone off to the _Hindostan_, and he is giving the sound for the other

boys to turn out.

We only saw half the cadets in their hammocks in the _Britannia_. If you

will look at the picture on page 145 you will see another smaller ship,

the _Hindostan_, moored ahead of the _Britannia_. The younger boys sleep

in "the other ship," as it is called.

What a merry noise there is, as the cadets bound out of their hammocks,

and rush off to the big salt-water bath, which is fitted in either ship!

I am glad we are only describing a visit, for were we looking on we

should get drenched from head to foot.

The corporals walk about among the hammocks to see that all the young

gentlemen are turned out.

[Illustration]

"Show a leg there, sir! Come along, come along now, now, now, bugle's

gone long ago, sir," as he finds some sleepy youth, not at all willing

to show a leg. "Make a start, sir."

Basins are fitted up along the deck for them. They need not use the

basins in their chests. These must be used at sea when the weather is

not rough enough to dash the water out over the clothes.

At five minutes past seven a warning bugle is heard, to warn them that

in ten minutes they must be dressed and ready. Some are kneeling at

their chests, beginning the morning with prayer for help to live as in

God's sight all the day. Some are hurrying on their clothes. Some are

reading the Bible, a few verses, as they have promised their people at

home never to omit to do.

At a quarter past seven rings out another bugle-call.

[Illustration: line of musical notation]

This means _assembly_, and the cadets all troop down to the middle deck,

where they form in line, two deep, all along the deck; the port watch in

the fore part of the ship, and the starboard watch farther aft. This

division into two parts, starboard watch and port watch, is to accustom

them to the idea of the whole ship's company being always divided into

two watches.

The cadet captains stand in front of the two lines, the chief captains

one at the end of each watch. These are cadets chosen as "monitors" to

have charge of the others.

The _silence_ bugle sounds, though no one is supposed to make a noise

after the _assembly_ has sounded. The officer of the day comes along, a

lieutenant, whose duty it is to look after the cadets that day. "_Open

order! March_," is his order; "_Rear rank, dress_," says the chief

captain, and he walks round the two lines, and sees that the cadets are

properly dressed. That white lanyard you see round their neck is for

holding their keys. A sailor always has a knife at the end of such a

lanyard.

"_Close order! March_," and the officer of the day marches them off to

their various studies for the morning. Let us go and see where they have

gone. Half of them, one watch, have gone down into the large mess-room.

They sit round the room at the tables by the ship's side, and prepare

work for their naval instructors. In a little while the servants will

lay the middle tables for breakfast, but they do not mind the noise.

Up in the lecture-room, the chaplain has some classes at a Bible lesson.

Just outside the lecture-room a sailor is teaching some of the boys at a

model of a ship. On the main-deck of the "other ship," a sergeant is

drilling some of the boys, and on the place where all stood for the

first muster cadets are seated on forms, and are being taught by a

sailor the meaning of some sea expressions, and what they are to do to

avoid collisions at sea.

So they are busy at work till at ten minutes past eight a bugle goes for

all to go down into the mess-room, where they range themselves at their

places for breakfast.

At a quarter past eight the chaplain comes down to read prayers, the

captain of the ship and the officer of the day coming down too. Then

breakfast and letters, which are handed round to the fortunate ones.

There is plenty of talk at breakfast; but tea, coffee, and cocoa,

bread-and-butter, meat of some sort, eggs, bacon, or fish and porridge,

are very welcome after the hour's work, with which the day has begun.

At a quarter to nine there is a bugle-call which sends a pang to some

hearts. _Defaulters'_ bugle. Those who have been reported during the

previous day are told to "fall in on the aft deck," and there they stand

in a line. The commander comes and hears the report--investigates the

case--asks what the cadet has to say, and then awards some punishment.

We have seen one form of it. Then there is extra drill and march out

with a corporal, or standing up after the others have "turned in," or as

we should say, gone to bed. Poor fellows! it is a court of justice; and

they would do well to keep off the aft deck. If the offence is serious,

it is reported to the captain of the ship, who is head of all. Perhaps

the offender is reduced to "second class for conduct," and has to wear a

piece of white tape on his arm, be kept apart from all the others, and

undergo all sorts of drills and privations.

At nine, the bugle sounds _assembly_--the principal assembly of the day,

"Cadets' Divisions" it is called. All the officers are present. The

cadets are again inspected, and they are marched off to their various

studies for the morning. Mathematics and navigation are learned with the

naval instructors. Then there are French and drawing, English,

seamanship, instruments and charts, natural philosophy and many

difficult things which it is considered necessary for these little

fellows to master before they are fit to go to sea. If we visit them in

their class-rooms, we shall see very light cheery rooms built on the

upper deck, so that they have light from above. There are eight pupils

only in each room, each having a separate table with a drawer for books.

The naval instructor is teaching them, with the help of a blackboard, to

do some questions about ships sailing, or to solve some problem made of

lines and circles.

The cadets are all taught how to find by the sun and the compass where

their ship is on the sea, and how they ought to steer her to get from

place to place.

In another class-room, we find a staff commander teaching a class how to

use the sextant, which is the sailor's most useful instrument for

finding his place at sea, from sun and stars; or he may be teaching them

how to use a chart or to draw a chart themselves.

In the lecture-room a lecture is being given on the steam-engine and the

ways in which heat is used. Behind the lecturer, in glass cases, are

many beautiful models for teaching the cadets all about machines, light,

heat, sound, magnetism, and electricity, such as would make many boys

long to pull them about for a while, and see how they work.

We might go and learn how the sails are set and furled from one of these

fine models of ships, or how anchors and cables are managed from

another.

In this little room, called the "Sick Bay," we find some poor fellows

who have to lie in bed. One has caught a cold, and one has cut his foot

in bathing. Fortunately, the Sick Bay is most frequently empty, for the

_Britannia_ life is a very healthy one.

[Illustration]

There are eight studies like the one where we saw the naval instructor

teaching navigation, four in each ship. In the _Hindostan_ we find two

Frenchmen teaching their classes how to read and write French, and two

drawing studies, in one of which they are taught to draw models with the

aid of ruler and compasses. In the other they are learning the use of

paints and paint-brushes. It is so useful for a young boy to be able to

make sketches in water colours of all the pretty places he goes to; some

of them are really quite clever at it before they leave.

We hear a noise of marching about; the bell is struck four times; ten

o'clock. The French classes are only an hour long, and boys are changing

class-rooms.

[Illustration: 1. THE CADETS' BOAT-HOUSE AND BOATS; 2. THE _BRITANNIA_

AND _HINDOSTAN_. (_See pp. 143, 146._)]

At five minutes to eleven there is a bugle-call, followed by a

hurry-scurry; the whole ship is alive at once. There is an interval of a

quarter of an hour. Leap-frog in the open air on the upper deck; running

after one another till they get out of breath; fun of all sorts

immediately becomes the order of the day, and certainly this quarter of

an hour is right well spent in throwing off the evil effects of working

too hard.

It is too soon interrupted by the warning bugle. And the whole ship

sinks into silence as the cadets go back to their studies; those who

have been at seamanship or drawing going to the harder work of

mathematics.

At one o'clock study is over for the morning, and a good hard morning's

work it has been for the boys, since a quarter past seven, with a break

for breakfast, and an interval for play.

On half-holidays, work is over at twelve, and we shall soon see how they

spend their half-holidays. Bugle--"wash hands," and then the merry bugle

which means dinner.

Before and after dinner, a blessing is asked by the chief captain of

cadets. When the cloth has been removed and grace has been said, away

they rush for a short time of fun before study at two, and they do a

somewhat light class of work till half-past three.

This is the happy time of all the day, and so you would think if you saw

them.

Before you would have thought they could be all fairly out of their

studies, you will see many of them rushing down to the large boats,

which are waiting alongside. They are dressed in white flannel trousers,

which they are all obliged to put on before going ashore. It is a fine

sight to see these boats, one on each side of the ship, filled full of

boys, all eager to get to their games.

We must follow them ashore. But first, I must tell you that in winter

they go directly after dinner, and stay ashore till four o'clock. They

then have their afternoon study from half past four till six.

It is much better for the boys to have daylight for their run ashore,

instead of waiting till daylight has all gone, and landing at half past

three to find it soon become dark.

On Wednesday and Saturday, when there is a half-holiday, they have

dinner at twelve and land directly after. And then they are free in

summer till a quarter to seven. What a royal time most schoolboys would

think this! No roll-call. They are quite free to go as far as they like,

for there are no bounds, except the town.

They are on their honour not to go into houses. This, and their promise

not to bathe at any but the appointed time and place, are the only

restrictions put upon them.

But we must hurry after them, or they will get the start of us, and we

shall lose them.

We have not far to go before we catch them. A bugle sounds, and a

hundred and twenty forms plunge from the bathing-stage and quay into the

water. The bright harbour is dotted with the heads of swimmers. Some

backward boys are being taught to swim in a "swimming-tray," a thing

like a flat-bottomed barge, sunk with its bottom about four feet below

the surface. A capital place it is for teaching youngsters to swim. But

all soon learn, and are free to join the others in sporting about and

cutting capers in the water. A warning bugle of one note says "it will

soon be time to get out," and by the time the bugle sounds fifteen

minutes from the first, they must all get out of the water.

The gymnasium--the building in the top left-hand corner of the picture

on p. 145--is close by. Here they must go through a series of exercises,

and they are obliged to attend till they can do them. "Compulsory Gyms,"

is not a favourite, so they like to get through and be free.

Here are the "blue boats,"--boats which they may have by themselves,

gigs for four to pull, skiffs for two or one. They may row about

wherever they like, and when the new boys first come, they are very fond

of going out in boats as often as they can. They have to take turns with

one another in using them. There are six little sailing-cutters too,

which the elder cadets may take and sail by themselves. Then, besides,

there is a fine yacht, a schooner, which they may sail on a holiday,

when ten or twelve wish to go.

These young fellows have every sort of game. We turn away from the

water, and follow some who are mounting a steep path. Here is the

racquet-court--four are playing racquets and four playing fives.

And climbing still higher up the hill, we get to the cricket-field, a

glorious sweep of grass with nets for cricket and lawn tennis, as much

as heart could wish.

In the summer, there is a match at cricket between the _Britannia_

eleven and some neighbours every half-holiday, and the _Britannias_

usually win, though they play the best elevens round. Their officers

play with them.

There is a flow of boys with paper bags from a suspicious-looking little

house in the corner of the field. Ah! I thought as much. No schoolboy

can do without his sweetstuff, and here it is. "Stodge" they call it, a

horrible name, but very true. I am sure much more sensible are those who

walk off to the neighbouring village of Stoke Fleming, where they can

get a nice tea from Mrs. Fox from sixpence to a shilling.

We well remember how shocked Mrs. Fox was to come in and find the elder

son of the Prince of Wales chopping sticks in her kitchen; for these two

young princes six years ago spent a cadet's life of two years, and lived

with the others, and worked and played exactly like the rest.

The _Britannia_ life, you will see, is a very free and happy life. "Work

while you work and play while you play" is the motto, and there is

plenty of work and plenty of play for all who will have it.

In the afternoon of a half-holiday, when there is a grand cricket-match,

and the band plays, and many ladies come to grace the field, there is

not a brighter sight in all the country side, for the field stands in

the prettiest place possible, with lovely country, sea and hills, to be

seen around.

But it is time for all to go back--the longest afternoons must end, and

the letter B, a square flag with a red middle, which is hoisted to

recall them, is already displayed on the _Britannia's_ mast.

A bell in the cricket-field says "play is over," and down they go in

twos and threes to find the same big boats ready to take them back.

It has been a fine afternoon, and the field and sports have looked at

their best. But if it had rained hard, and when the cadets came out from

dinner, or from study, they had found the words "No Landing!" hanging by

the ship's clock, there would have been no such fun. It is a long

afternoon when it rains, and they are tied to the ship.

Tea at seven, or a quarter past--a merry meal with all the stories of

the day to tell. Sometimes an accident--a boy has fallen down the cliff,

or been hit in the field--will throw a damp over all. Sometimes they

will be all alive with the discussion of a piece of news--there is to

be a war. In six months some of them will be fighting. Sometimes an

adventure, an irate farmer has caught two in his wheat, and has chased

them and possessed himself of a cap. They will see that cap next

morning, and its owner will be standing on the aft deck at 8.45 for

judgment.

In the winter there is a pack of beagles, which lead the cadets a fine

chase over the country.

"Oh! they are spoiled, these boys!" you will say. But wait till you see

them, in a year's time, broiling under a tropical sun, cruising for

weeks in a boat after slavers, and living on a short allowance of dry

food and water. These young fellows are welcome to a happy life while

they can get it.

For tea they have cold meat, or something else substantial. After tea,

work for those who have it to do, in two studies, which are kept quiet,

or in the mess-room.

The band plays, and some cadets dance with one another on the open

middle deck.

And at a quarter past nine, prayers are read in the mess-room, and the

bugle sounds "Turn in."

And the ship is silent till the day begins again.

ANDY'S BRAVE DEED.

[Illustration]

"ARTHUR! Arthur!" Kitty called, as she ran down the garden path.

Her brother was lying under the beech-trees at the foot of the garden. A

copy-book lay on the grass before him, in which he was writing with a

pencil. Arthur wrote poems, and histories, and tragedies, which he and

his companions acted for the edification of their relations and friends.

At this moment he was composing a story which he intended should be very

thrilling. He had only got as far as the two first sentences.

"Charles was determined to have some adventures. So he went into a wood

and met a tiger."

At this point he heard his sister calling to him.

"What is it, Kitty? I wish you wouldn't interrupt me just now. I'm very,

very busy."

"Oh, Arthur, I wish you would come and see a little boy who's at the

gate. He looks so hungry."

Arthur rose somewhat slowly, and went to the boy. Like all authors, he

didn't much like being called away in the full swing of literary

production. He proceeded to a little side gate which opened on to the

highway and the open fields beyond. Here Arthur found a boy about a year

younger than himself, bareheaded and barefooted, without a coat, and

with a very worn and ragged shirt and trousers. The little fellow looked

both tired and hungry, and his wearied look would have touched harder

hearts than those of Arthur and Kitty.

"Are you hungry?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, vera. I've no had onything sin' yesterday."

"I'm sure he's telling the truth. You have only to look at him," said

Kitty, who now joined him.

"Well, we might get him something to eat, anyhow. You stay there, boy,

till we come back."

Arthur and Kitty went into the house together, and presently returned

with a very large slice of bread, a piece of cheese to correspond, and a

bit of cold pudding, that would have alone satisfied the appetites of

two ordinary boys, even though extraordinarily hungry. It was as much as

the lad could do to hold them all, and he thanked his young benefactors

more by looks than words.

On the following morning, shortly after breakfast, Arthur's mother

said--

[Illustration: "THE LITTLE FELLOW LOOKED BOTH TIRED AND HUNGRY" (_p.

147_).]

"I should like you to take something for me to Mrs. Stewart's to-day,

Arthur. There are several things I should like to send her. I have a

small cheese and a pot of currant jelly that can go. Then I want her to

have one of those young Dorking hens your father got the other day. I'll

give you a small basket for that."

Mrs. Stewart was a very old friend of the family, having been the nurse

of Arthur and Kitty, and of their mother before them.

Arthur set out with his leather bag strapped across his back, and the

basket containing a little Dorking hen in his hand. Presently he became

aware how hot it was getting, and when he reached a small clump of trees

near a hay-field he thought he would sit down and rest a while. He had

been walking about an hour by this time. He thought he never recollected

such a warm day. Arthur began to feel very sleepy. He rubbed his eyes to

keep himself awake, but his head nodded more and more, and before he was

well aware of it he was fast asleep, lying huddled together on the bank

on which he had sat down.

Arthur must have been asleep nearly an hour, when he awoke with a sudden

start. The sun was high up in the heavens, and he judged it to be nearly

midday. He got upon his feet hurriedly and caught up his basket. It felt

lighter, he thought, and hastily lifting the wicker lid he found that

it was empty. The little Dorking hen was gone!

[Illustration]

Astonishment was the first feeling in Arthur's mind, then perplexity and

mortification. What would his mother think of his carelessness and

unbusinesslike qualities. It seemed he could not be trusted to execute

this simplest message. What was he to do? He searched all the ground in

the immediate neighbourhood in the hope of discovering the little hen

hidden behind some bush or clump of ferns. But she was nowhere to be

seen, and he was in sore perplexity and chagrin.

Then he picked up his empty basket, and continued on his way. There was

nothing for it but to take the cheese and the pot of jelly to Mrs.

Stewart, explain matters to her, and return another day with another

hen, if his mother so decided, as it was probable she would. He walked

on with a pretty downcast heart.

He was now ascending a hill, and when he reached the top an unexpected

sight met his eyes. A crowd of people were gathered in the plain below.

They made a large circle, and it was evident that the attention of

everybody forming the circle was concentrated on what was going on

within it. Flags were flying, and the strains of a military band floated

up to Arthur, where he stood on the top of the hill. On the outskirts of

the crowd a number of carriages and other vehicles were standing, filled

with ladies and gentlemen.

Then Arthur recollected that this was the day of the Highland gathering

of the county. A dance was going on as he approached, and four tall and

stalwart Highlanders in complete national costumes, bonneted and kilted,

were leaping and wheeling, cracking their fingers and uttering shrill

cries as they danced with astonishing vigour and adroitness on a raised

wooden platform.

But Arthur's attention had hardly been turned upon the dancers when it

was diverted in another direction. What should he catch sight of, a good

deal to his astonishment, but his little Dorking hen stepping quietly

about among the people, unconcerned and unmoved by the stir and the

bustle, paying heed to nobody, and no one giving heed to it.

At the moment Arthur caught sight of his truant hen, it was passing

under a carriage, quietly pecking among the grass and ferns in its

march. So he approached, and cautiously bent down on his hands and knees

to get at the hen. It was almost within his grasp when a sharp report

rang through the air--a rifle-discharge, the signal for a foot-race to

begin. The next moment he felt a heavy blow on his shoulder, which

knocked him flat upon his back. A mist rose up before his eyes, in which

the whole world around him seemed to float for a moment; then he felt

himself being dragged suddenly and forcibly backward, and then he knew

no more.

Arthur had gone off in a faint; but it only lasted a few moments. When

he came to himself, he beheld a little crowd of people gathered round

him, and a man was bending down and bathing his forehead with a wet

handkerchief. Then he saw another figure stretched on the ground at his

side, quite motionless and silent. It was the form of a boy; the face

was turned upwards, and to his great astonishment Arthur found that it

was the poor lad to whom he and his sister had given the food on the

previous day.

"I saw the whole thing. It was all over in a twinkling," a gentleman was

saying. "The boy was bending under the carriage reaching forwards to

secure the bird. At that moment the gun went off, the horses started

forward, and the wheel came against the boy, and knocked him backward.

Just then this poor little fellow rushed forward right among the wheels

of the carriage, caught the boy, and dragged him out, but not in time to

save himself. The wheel passed over his leg, and I am afraid it is badly

hurt."

By this time Arthur was on his feet.

"Oh! he is not dead, Dr. Bruce, is he?" he asked of the gentleman, who

was busy examining the boy, and whom he knew quite well as the doctor of

the district.

"No, not so bad as that, I hope; but a rather bad break, I am afraid.

It was a close shave for _you_, laddie. But for this brave boy the

carriage-wheel would have passed right over you."

"What are you going to do with the poor boy, doctor? Do you know who he

is, or anything about him?" a lady asked, whom Arthur recognised as Lady

Elmslie.

"No, I never saw him before. But we must get him to Redloaning as

quickly as possible, and have him taken to some cottage."

"See that he has everything that is necessary, doctor; and send up to

Inverweir, if you can't get all you require in the village," Lady

Elmslie said. It was her horses that had started forward at the

discharge of the gun, and had been the cause of the accident.

A man now stepped forward, and said, "Ye'll just let me carry the laddie

to the village, doctor. I'll start the noo, and I'll carry him easier

like than any kind o' trap, ye ken."

"A good idea, Stoddart. Lift him gently."

"I'll do that. He's a bit hero, puir laddie; an' we mauna let him dee

for his brave deed."

Stoddart lifted the still unconscious boy in his strong arms like an

infant, and starting off carried him in the direction of Redloaning.

"Take him to Mrs. Aikman's cottage, and I'll be there as soon as you,"

the doctor said. In a few minutes he mounted his horse and followed in

the same direction.

[Illustration: "ARTHUR BEGAN TO FEEL VERY SLEEPY" (_p. 148_).]

[Illustration: "STODDART ... CARRIED HIM" (_p. 149_).]

Meanwhile Arthur stood by hearing all that was said with anxious

interest. Though not much hurt, he was a good deal shaken, and was still

trembling from head to foot.

"Are you sure you are not hurt too, Arthur Dalrymple?" Lady Elmslie

asked, looking into the boy's white and startled face.

"Oh, no, I'm not hurt; but that poor boy, Lady Elmslie, will he be all

right again soon?"

"I hope so. We will do all we can for him. Don't you know anything about

him, either? But stop! Get up here beside me and I'll drive you home;

and you can tell me all you know about it."

Arthur got into the carriage. He rapidly decided that he would return

home at once, and give up all thoughts of going to Mrs. Stewart's

to-day. On the way home he told Lady Elmslie as briefly as possible all

he knew about the little boy who had been the means of saving probably

his life.

Lady Elmslie set Arthur down at the garden gate, but did not go with him

into the house. Then Arthur had to recount to his father, his mother,

and Kitty all the morning's adventures in detail, which he did in a

somewhat excited manner.

"I shall walk over to Redloaning and see how the poor boy is doing this

evening," Mr. Dalrymple said.

Mr. Dalrymple, much to his relief, found that the boy, his son's

preserver, was progressing as favourably as the case permitted. The poor

boy was manifestly suffering much pain, but he made no complaint or

murmur. He was able to tell his simple story.

On the previous day when he had first seen Arthur and his sister, he

had been on his way to Redloaning from the neighbouring village of

Westburn, to see if he could get any kind of light employment in the

former place. His mother was dead, and his father had lately enlisted in

the army, leaving his boy to his own fate and fortunes. He had succeeded

in obtaining a situation in Redloaning as a message-boy, but the place

would not be vacant for a few days. So after passing a night in the

village he was returning next day to Westburn, to remain there until he

could enter upon his new duties. He was attracted by the show and stir

and bravery of the games, and, like Arthur, lingered a while to watch

the gay on-goings.

[Illustration]

There he saw his young benefactor of the previous day before the latter

saw him. The kindness and generosity of Arthur and his sister were yet

fresh in his heart; the moment came when he saw an opportunity of

repaying those kind offices, and I have tried to show you how he seized

and used it.

Andy received the tenderest nursing, and more kindness and gentleness,

probably, were compressed into the weeks he lay in bed than had fallen

to his lot during the whole of his previous life.

"Arthur," Kitty said, on the first day that her brother and she saw

Andy, "hasn't it all been strange about Andy and you?" Then a funny

little smile came into her eyes, and she added, "You see, Arthur,

_Charles was determined to have some adventures_, as you wrote; but it

was you who got them. By-the-bye, you never told us what became of the

little hen."

"I can't tell you. I never saw it again. I don't think it was hurt by

the carriage, and it may be wandering about the hill-side still, and

perhaps it may wander back home again."

Andy's progress towards complete recovery from his hurt was slow and at

times painful. But at last he did get well and strong again. When he was

quite able for work, instead of taking the situation at Redloaning,

which had been long since filled up, he went into Mrs. Dalrymple's

service as assistant to the gardeners at Fircroft, a post he was still

filling with much success and credit when I last heard of him.

/*

ROBERT RICHARDSON.

*/

LITTLE TOILERS OF THE NIGHT.

II THE FISHER-BOY.

"Benny, so here we are then," said the sturdy-looking sailor, as Ben,

the "Reading-Boy," went running up to the railway station at Liverpool

Street, London, just as the last shower of night rain was blowing away

over the houses, and the sun was just peeping out and giving the grey

sky a tint of salmon colour. "I'm glad as you've got from this mornin'

to Wednesday, Benny, becos you see it's a pretty long v'yge from here to

Yarmouth, and I'm glad you're in good time, Ben; an' I'm glad as your

precious mother has made you put a coat over your jacket. 5.15 the train

goes, Ben."

"What fun it is, eh, uncle! Only fancy my going down to the sea! Why, I

shouldn't want to come back if it wasn't for mother."

"Now don't you be a rollin' stone, Benny. It's all very fine for fair

weather sailors, to go and sit about on the beach, and p'raps be rowed

out a little way, or take a trip when everything's smooth below and

aloft, but just you find yerself aboard one of our smacks, in the North

Sea, one night when there's a stiff sea on, and the wind cuttin' your

hair off your head, and your hands stiff and blue with haulin' on to the

trawl-nets, and you'd tell a different story. No, no, I don't _think_ as

you're cut out for a fisher-boy, or leastways a smack-boy, for that's

what they call 'em."

"A smack-boy! that's a queer name," said Ben, laughing.

"Ah, ain't it? and there's a double meanin' in it too, for I can tell

you the smack-men ain't very slow for to give the youngsters a knock

over the head, or a smack of the face, or a rope's-endin'. But as it's

Yarmouth we're bound for, you will soon see what our fisheries are

really like; and there, too, you'll find our men hard at it in

tarpaulins or canvas frocks, and wet through and through perhaps, and

not much time to get a drop of hot coffee nor a bit to eat. Think of

that, Benny."

Ben looked serious when he heard this, and it was not till they had

taken their seats in the railway-carriage, and were rattling along far

beyond the houses and amidst the trees and fields of the country that he

began to talk again.

"Don't the boys that go fishing like their business?" he asked.

"Well, you see," said his uncle, "they've _got_ to like it, because when

they're once in it they can't well turn to anything else. It's a rough,

hard life, especially for the young 'uns, Benny. Not so hard as it used

to be, though. I can remember when I was a younker we used to go fishing

for cod off the Dogger Bank, which is a great ridge of hills at the

bottom of the sea, not far from the coast of Holland. We'd be out for a

good while, and not have much to eat except cod b'iled or cod fried in a

pan; and if there was much sea on, and the wind blowin' a gale, it was a

hard matter to cook it at all. Now the cutters bring us some of our meat

and vegetables and soft bread; but still the boys have a hard time.

"If it's the herring-boys, they have to watch the floats--the big, round

things that you'll see at the edge of the nets, Ben--to keep them near

the top of the water; and whether it's drift-nets or trawling-nets, they

must take their share of hauling in and of playing out, night or day.

More than that, too: any sort of work is boy's work, whether it's to

swab the decks or to take a turn at frying fish in the cooking-galley,

or paying a boat with tar, or helping to take a boat-load of fish off to

the cutter in bad weather, when the waves tosses so that the fish, being

loose, may slide, so that one side of the boat may heel over, and before

you know where you are you're capsized and struggling in the dark, cold

sea, with a singing in your ears, and the faint cries of your mates just

as bad off as you are."

"But, of course, it isn't always so bad," said Ben.

"Well, no; and there's times when we've no call to grumble. Such weather

as this, when there's green sea and blue sky, and bright sun overhead

and clear moonlight nights, with fresh and light breezes to take the

sail. Nothing could seem more pleasant than the life of a fisherman if

it was always like that; but then, this isn't exactly fishing weather,

Ben, and however fine it may be the boys haven't any idle time of it.

"There's always ropes to splice, or sails or nets to mend, or something

to clean or to scrape, or to pay down with tar; and if there's any good

in going out at all the nets must be looked to and lowered and hauled

in. Even on Sundays there's things to be attended to by the lads, and

though I don't say as 'ow boys is made to do useless work, yet, when

they're there on that day, they toil pretty hard for little 'uns.

"And now, Ben, if you don't object, I'm going to smoke a bit o' bacca,

and then you can rest your tongue a bit, if you like."

But Ben had a hundred more questions to ask about the fishing-boats, or

"smacks," as they are called, and how many of them there were, and how

many fish they caught at a time; and his uncle, who settled comfortably

down and lighted his pipe, told him a great deal about them.

And Ben was surprised to hear that there are many thousands of men and

boys who go out to catch the millions and millions of all sorts of fish

that are sent to the markets in the large towns of England by railway

nearly every day. He had been to Billingsgate Market in Thames Street,

and to the new fish-market in Smithfield, and had seen the great piles

of cod-fish, and skates, and soles, and plaice, and the boxes and

baskets of white fresh herrings, and the beautiful shining mackerel, but

he did not know how great was the number of herrings, and pilchards, and

cod-fish that were also salted and put in barrels to be sent from

England to foreign countries. He knew what bloaters were, of course, and

had heard that they were herrings just a little salted and smoked over

burning wood, but how was he to know that at Yarmouth there was a great

fleet of herring-boats, and that in the cold November weather they went

far out to sea in the mist and rain, and were night after night hauling

in the great nets full of glistening silver fish?

His uncle was the owner of two smacks, but he did not go

herring-fishing. He was what is called a trawler, and he and his men and

boys used a different sort of net. The herring-nets are called

drift-nets, and catch the fish that swim in shoals, which means a large

number together, near the surface of the sea; but the trawl-nets are

shaped like a long purse or bag open at the mouth. These nets go to the

bottom of the sea, and in them are caught cod, whiting, soles, and other

fish that lie at the bottom, and swim deep down in the water.

When Ben's uncle was a smack-boy the trawlers, after they had caught as

many fish as they could carry in a deep well in their boat, used to

sail away as fast as they could to Billingsgate Market, or to some place

where people would buy their fish and send it by railway to London; but

now the old fisherman said they had much bigger vessels, and would stay

out sometimes for four or five weeks tossing about in the North Sea, or,

as it is sometimes called, the German Ocean, and dragging the great

trawl-nets night and day.

"Not much time to play, Ben, my boy," said the bluff old fellow.

"Sometimes not too much to eat either, except fish and biscuit, and not

much room to sleep in when you turn in to your hard wooden bunk and pull

a rough blanket over you to keep out the cold."

"But you don't keep the fish long on board, do you, uncle?" asked Ben.

"No, no, my lad. A fast-sailing boat that we call a cutter comes and

goes from shore to the fleet of trawlers, and takes the fish off;

backwards and forwards it goes, and away goes the fish directly it's

sold--up to London, or elsewhere, where there's millions of mouths

waiting for it. Ah! I well remember when the smack-boys, or the

fisher-boys, would have to help to take the fish off in a boat to the

cutter on a dark night, and many a time the poor fellows would get

capsized, and afterwards go down in that cold North Sea. Hard work, my

lad, hard fare; and in danger half the time. Things are better now,

perhaps; but we're out longer a good deal, and there's a big fleet that

belongs to a company that keeps the men and the boys out for weeks at a

time, and fetches all that they catch, so that by the time they get

ashore the poor fellows are pretty near worn out. Of course the cutter

takes out food for 'em, but it can't take 'em out warmth and dry

clothes, and snug beds, and every year there is some of the vessels

lost, and perhaps all on board lost too."

"Well," says Ben, looking very solemn; "there's some that get lost on

land too. They fall ill or get a bad cough, or have some sort of

accident with machinery or something, you know, uncle; but we're obliged

to work all the same."

"Well said, my boy Ben," said the fisherman. "The thing is to do our

duty, whatever it may be, and to pray that we may be made able to do it.

Some of our smack-boys go to school when they're at home, and there's a

mission-room where they go to hear and to read the Bible, and have teas

and singing, and various treats, and some fun too sometimes. Yes, things

are better than they used to be in my young days."

It was a long journey to Yarmouth, but Ben greatly enjoyed it, and when

he and his uncle got there they went at once to have a look at the sea.

Such a great broad expanse of soft yellowish sandy beach, where the

great waves came rolling in! such a long pier where people were fishing

with hooks and lines, and sometimes catching a codling or a whiting!

"I'll go and have a try at that by-and by," said Ben; "but what are

those great wooden towers that look like a sort of big puzzle stuck up

on end?"

"They're the look-out towers, Ben. Now, do you see that cutter over

yonder, coming into shore with its big sail like a sea-bird's wing? Keep

your eye on it for a minute, and then look at the top of that tower, and

you'll see that there are men there that have got their eyes and their

telescopes on it too. Now do you see these carts coming along, and do

you see those black barges floating ready to pull out when the cutter

comes near in shore? The cutter will unload a rare lot of fish. The men

on the look-out tower saw her coming, and signalled to the barges and

the carts to be ready. That shipload of fish will be off by a special

train to-night, Ben; and if you were in London you might, if you could

afford it, have some of it."

"But where's the herrings--the Yarmouth bloaters, you know?" asked Ben.

"Ah, well! this isn't the time to see so much of them. It's in the

winter you see the herring-smacks come in at the herring-wharf over

yonder, and hundreds of baskets full of the shining fellows brought

ashore and sold, and sent off fresh in no time; while others are kept

here to turn into bloaters, or red herrings, or kippers. Those sheds in

the yard over there are where hundreds of women and girls set to work to

salt or pack the herrings in barrels; the bloaters are what we call

cured in the herring-office."

"That's a funny name," said Ben.

"Yes; and it's funny what goes on there. The herrings are brought

ashore, are shot out of the baskets on to the stone floor, shovelled

into big tubs to be washed, and then threaded through the gills on to

long laths of wood. Then these laths with the rows of herrings strung on

'em are hung in frames from wall to wall of a top room, like a barn with

a stone floor, and a hole in the roof. When that room's full of herrings

all hanging in rows--thousands and thousands o' fish--a fire of oak

chips and logs is lighted on the floor, and the smoke going all among

the herrings, and only by degrees getting out of the hole in the roof,

the fish are smoked; and them that's salted first is red herrings, and

them that's only just touched dry with the smoke like are bloaters.

"So now we'll get down to our lodging, and have some supper, Ben; and so

to bed, that we may be up early in the morning; but don't you dream

about being a smack-boy, or you won't sleep at all sound, I can tell

you."

/*

THOMAS ARCHER

*/

THEIR WONDERFUL RIDE.

[Illustration: "TWO LITTLE FOLK WERE RIDING."]

As I passed down the pathway

I heard a merry pair

Shout from behind the garden wall,

"Let's ride the old brown mare."

With whip and voice I heard them

Urge on the maddened steed,

Whilst to my frantic warnings

They paid no single heed.

Then quickly down the garden,

Trembling with fear and fright,

And bursting open wide the door

I saw this curious sight:--

Upon a wooden railing

That ran down from the wall,

Two little folk were riding,

Quite safe from fear or fall.

"Why, auntie, what's the matter?"

Shouted the merry pair;

"You cannot think what fun it is

To ride the old brown mare!"

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S DREAM OF THE HUGE TREE.

A Mighty king lay stretched upon a magnificent bed of gold. His head

rested upon pillows of crimson satin, beautifully embroidered with gold,

and studded with golden spangles and precious stones. Over him was a

coverlet of crimson satin, also adorned with gold: and everything in his

chamber was in keeping with the richness of his couch.

Costliest delicacies and oldest wines had weighed down his supper-table,

round which had sat some of earth's grandest and most powerful lords. He

had been lulled to sleep with soft strains of sweetest music.

Ever-watchful attendants stood by him, as he slept, and cooled his brow

with gentle breezes stirred up to life by fairy fans. His last thoughts

had been of his vast wealth, his uninterrupted prosperity, and his great

power. He was king of kings, and the whole world trembled at his feet.

He had attained to the highest pinnacle of glory. Earth had yielded to

him its most costly treasures, and had nothing more that she could give.

Men had profusely showered upon him their highest flatteries, and

addressed him in humblest language.

Yet his sleep was troubled. His brow grew dark, and the colour deepened

upon his cheeks. He breathed heavily and moved nervously on his

luxurious bed, which, grand as it was, could not give him rest. Hundreds

of years afterwards it was said of the bruised and bleeding martyr

Stephen, that he sank peacefully to rest amid a shower of stones, and

the yells and hoots of bitterest enemies; for in all circumstances He

can give "His beloved sleep." But this flattered son of pomp and

splendour, this mighty king, upon whose very breath seemed to hang the

fate of nations, tossed restlessly upon his bed of gold and purple. No,

he knew nothing of that joy and peace that pass all understanding, which

the world can neither give nor take away, and which has converted many a

fiery furnace into a shadow from the heat.

Over those who love Him God watches in the night, and holds sweetest

communion with them, as through the long dark hours they lie upon their

beds; but to the wicked He sends no thought of comfort or consolation.

He does not soothe them to rest with the remembrance of His loving care.

And often He troubles them with dark thoughts and unwelcome dreams, that

banish true repose.

So this wicked king, Nebuchadnezzar, who lived for himself, and not for

God, who enriched himself at the expense of others, who closed his ears

to the cry of the fatherless and the widows, and who passed by judgment

and justice and mercy, was perplexed with a mysterious dream.

He saw, growing in the middle of the earth, a mighty tree, which reared

its lofty head to the skies, and, on every side, sent out boughs to the

ends of the world. Large bright green leaves thickly covered its

branches, from which hung, in unheard-of abundance, great clusters of

fruit. The beasts of the field found under it a grateful shadow from the

heat of the burning sun. The fowls of the air came and built their nests

in its leafy branches, and there laid their eggs, and reared their

young, and joyously sang out their gladness. All was bright and

beautiful; and the sleeping king, as he gazed wonderingly at the giant

tree, admired its grandeur and its greatness.

To what length of days, he thought, might this majestic tree not attain!

and how would the earth be able to hold it if it should go on increasing

in size?

But suddenly there was a fluttering in the air; and down from the bright

heavens came "a watcher and an holy one," who was terrible in his

strength, and whose face shone like the sun. Judgment, and not mercy,

was written upon his forehead. And oh, his voice! How dreadful it

sounded to the startled king, who would gladly have closed his ears to

it.

"Hew down the tree," the Angel cried, with a voice of thunder, his eyes,

which were like balls of fire, flashing with righteous indignation. "Hew

down the tree, and cut off his branches; shake off his leaves, and

scatter his fruit. Warn the beasts to get from under it, lest they be

crushed with its weight. And bid the little birds leave its branches.

But do not destroy the tree. Leave the stump of his roots in the earth.

Let it be wet with the dew of heaven; and let his portion be with the

beasts in the grass of the earth. Let his heart be changed from man's,

and let a beast's heart be given unto him; and let seven times pass over

him."

What a strange dream for a king to have! And how troubled his

countenance was when he rose from his bed! His eyes moved restlessly

from one object to another, telling of a mind ill at ease. His limbs

shook; and he seemed many years older than on the previous day. His

grandly-arrayed lords came round him as before, with pleasant smiles and

flattering speeches. But he could heed none of them. Whatever he did, he

could not give his mind to affairs of state. Try to control them as he

would, his thoughts would wander back to the towering majestic tree, to

its great thick trunk, its leafy branches, its rich profusion of

delicious fruit affording sustenance to all the world, and to that

bright but awful being who had come from heaven and pronounced over the

tree that dread sentence.

What if the tree should mean himself? Who in all the wide world but

himself could be compared to it for strength and majesty? Who but

himself had attained to such power and magnificence? And oh! what if all

should be taken away from him? What if the widely-spreading tree should

indeed be cut down, its glory and its beauty and its strength alike

gone?

How he wished he knew the meaning of his dream! And how anxiously he

consulted the wise men who were summoned to his presence! Magicians,

astrologers, Chaldæans, and soothsayers, all the wise men of Babylon

came to his palace to hear his dream, and to try to tell the meaning of

it.

But the effort was in vain. The dream was from heaven, and not all the

vaunted wisdom of this world could interpret it. The meaning of it could

only be told by one inspired by the Spirit of God who had sent it.

Then Daniel, the Jewish captive, to whom Nebuchadnezzar had given the

name of Belteshazzar, or _a layer up of things in secret_, was brought.

Not long before he had not only told the king the meaning of a most

mysterious dream that he had had, but he had also recalled the dream

itself, which Nebuchadnezzar had forgotten. And as an interpreter of

dreams and the wisest of mortals, his fame had spread far and wide; and

Nebuchadnezzar could see that the Jewish prophet had a wisdom far

surpassing that of his wisest and most skilled magicians.

So the strange dream of the mighty tree cut down was told to the Jewish

captive, and the usually calm face of the prophet grew dark and troubled

as that of the king.

"Do not be distressed by the dream or its interpretation, Belteshazzar,"

Nebuchadnezzar said in his gentlest tones; for he saw that the dream

meant something bad, and that Daniel did not like to tell him. "Show me

the interpretation."

"My lord," the Jewish prophet replied sadly, "it is a dream that will

please only your enemies; and all those who hate you will rejoice at

it." And then he went on to explain to the king that the great tree that

he had seen towering towards heaven, and spreading itself over the whole

earth, with its fresh green leaves and abundance of fruit, with its

thousands of beasts taking refuge under its spreading branches, and its

myriads of feathered songsters nestling amongst them, was himself. "It

is thou, O king," he said; "for thy greatness is grown, and reacheth

unto the heavens, and thy dominion to the end of the earth."

By the coming down of the holy watcher, and his commanding the tree to

be despoiled of its glory, and hewn down, Daniel showed the king was

meant his own humiliation. He should be driven from the abodes of men,

his dwelling should be with the beasts of the field; he should eat grass

like an ox, and his body should be wet with the dew of heaven.

But he was not to be for ever removed from his place. The malady was to

continue only for seven years; for as the stump of the tree was left in

the earth, so that it might some day put forth its branches again, and

once more abound in foliage and fruit, so his terrible affliction should

only last until he should acknowledge that it was not by the strength of

his own arm, but by the power of God that he had been raised to so great

a height of glory; that the kingdoms of the earth belong to God, and

that He raises up whom He will to govern them.

"Oh, learn this lesson in time, mighty king," Daniel pleaded; "that

supreme power belongs alone to the living God. Humble thyself before

Him. Put away every iniquity; and begin to show mercy to the poor and

the defenceless, who have hitherto cried to thee in vain. For it is in

mercy that God has sent thee the dream, to show thee how thine heart has

been lifted up, and to give thee an opportunity of averting the

punishment by timely and sincere repentance."

Oh, if Nebuchadnezzar had but heeded the warning dream! If he had but

taken his kingdom and his glory, his riches and his honour, and laid

them all at the footstool of the great King in Heaven, acknowledging

that they were all from Him, and must be held and used for Him; what

great trouble he might have saved himself, and all those who looked up

to him! How soon, by humbling himself, and how effectually he might have

turned aside the threatened judgment! How the great and compassionate

God above would have rejoiced to show mercy! And how the holy angels

would have sung for joy over the repentant king, and the blotting out

of his great sin, and the withholding of judgment, and the showing of

mercy!

But the dream was unheeded. The warning was lost.

The great and mighty king having conquered all his enemies round about,

and extended his power to the utmost limits, devoted his attention to

the improving and embellishing of his capital. And as he saw Babylon

increasing in glory and beauty, his heart became still more lifted up.

He had done it all himself, he thought. He was so great, and so wise,

and so glorious a king, that he had no need of divine aid. Such a thing

as being in any way dependent upon a higher power never entered his

mind, and by very severe means he had to be taught the needful lesson

that might have been learned from the dream that had in mercy been sent

to warn him.

While surveying the glorious city from the roof of his palace, and

congratulating himself upon the dignity to which he had attained, a

voice, like that which he had heard in his dream, fell from heaven,

telling him that his kingdom was taken from him, and that he should meet

the fate of which he had been forewarned by the cutting down of the huge

tree.

And so it was.

That same hour, the terrible malady predicted by Daniel came upon him.

He lost his reason, and became as a wild beast. His costly crown of

gold and pearls and diamonds was taken from him, and he was driven from

his throne. For seven years he lived with the beasts of the field,

stooping down to the earth and eating grass like an ox, and drinking

with his mouth of the flowing streams. The rude winds blew upon him,

ruffling the hair that had been so carefully kept, and the scorching sun

tanned his face, once so expressive of majesty. The hairs of his

neglected beard became like eagles' feathers; and his uncut nails grew

like birds' claws. He noted no difference between the changing seasons;

and when the sun sank in the west, he lay down to sleep upon the hard

ground, like the beasts, his companions, and his body was wet with the

falling dew.

At the end of seven years another opportunity of repentance was offered

to him, and after so severe a lesson he gladly accepted it. His reason

returned, and instead of taking glory to himself, he ascribed it to God,

acknowledging that He rules above all.

So the dreadful affliction was removed, his kingdom was restored to him;

and his glory and honour and majesty were greater even than before.

As he once more lifted up his head amongst his nobles, he said humbly,

"The great God of heaven is King; and those who walk in pride He is able

to abase."

H. D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

25. How many times is the Lord's Prayer recorded?

26. Where are we told that departure from evil is understanding?

27. From what words is it supposed that St. Paul, like Elijah, visited

Mount Sinai, there to hold communion with God, before entering upon his

apostolic work?

28. Where are we told that he who rules his own spirit is better than he

who takes a city?

29. Where is the Eastern custom of gathering the tears of mourners in

tear-bottles alluded to in the Psalms?

30. Where is it said of the departed that they have "fallen asleep"?

31. How is the passing away of the Old Testament saints spoken of?

32. Which of the Evangelists tell us of Christ's offering three

successive prayers in Gethsemane, on the night of His agony, and of His

three times finding the disciples sleeping?

33. Where, in the New Testament, is David called "David the King"?

34. How many days elapsed after Noah's entering into the ark before the

flood came? And who shut the door?

35. How many armour-bearers had Joab?

36. What was done with the sword of Goliath?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (13-24. See p. 84).

13. St. Matt. xii. 49, 50; St. Mark iii. 33-35; St. Luke viii. 21.

14. In Prov. xvii. 17.

15. In Neh. ix. 17; Ps. ciii. 8, cxlv. 8; Joel ii. 13; Jonah iv. 2; Nah.

i. 3.

16. From St. Luke xi. 1.

17. In Prov. xv. 18, xxvi. 21, xxix. 22.

18. In Prov. xvi. 32.

19. In St. Luke iii. 38.

20. From St. Matt. i. 5, 6.

21. In Gen. ix. 13.

22. In Rev. iv. 3, x. 1.

23. The names of the women are Mary Magdalene, Mary, the mother of James

and Joses, the mother of Zebedee's children, Joanna, the wife of Chuza

(Herod's steward), and Susanna. (St. Matt. xxvii. 55, 56; St. Luke viii.

2, 3.)

24. In Ps. cxxi. 4.

The Water-Carriers of the World

In the hotter countries of the world, in which water is the very

mainstay of life, a number of persons drive a considerable trade in the

sale of that liquid. Most of us know what a trouble it is to get water

during a severe winter when the pipes are all frozen. Suppose such a

state of things to be usual the whole year round, and you will perhaps

understand the difficulties of families in some tropical lands with

regard to what is to them--in a sense almost more than it is to us--a

necessary of existence. Thus it is that the water-carrier is so

important a personage in these warm climes. His figure is as common in

the streets as our milkman, though he is generally a very much more

picturesque-looking individual.

In the illustration on this page we have grouped together portraits of

the water-carriers of different countries, and it will be seen that, in

respect of their quaint attire and the curious vessels in which the

water is carried, there is no reason for surprise that they have engaged

the brush of many painters.

[Illustration]

No. 1 represents a water-carrier of one of the provincial towns of

France. With his cocked hat and queer staff, and his water-skin strapped

like a knapsack on his back, he reminds one not a little of an old

soldier. His next door neighbour's nationality is a good deal more

obvious. Whose can that jaunty, lazy air be but that of the gay,

ease-loving water-carrier of Madrid? With earthenware pail hanging from

each arm, turban on head, bright-coloured waistband, and cigarette in

mouth, you can tell at a glance that he belongs to a sunny country where

leisure and pleasure go hand in hand. In No. 3 we find the

representation of the Peruvian water-carrier. He does such good business

that he can afford to keep a donkey to carry the water, which is

contained in a big leather sack that lies like a bolster across the

animal's back. I am afraid he is not so mindful of Neddy as he ought to

be, and that some of our own costermongers could teach him a lesson or

two in the humane treatment of his patient beast of burden. Leaving Peru

and South America, and travelling to the northern continent, we are

introduced in No. 4 to a water-carrier of Mexico. Notice how he carries

the water in two odd-shaped vessels suspended from his head by means of

a broad band. In No. 5 will be observed an Egyptian fellah woman

carrying a jar of water on her head. Compared with her, the Norwegian

peasant in No. 6 looks prosaic and businesslike. The last two are not

sellers of water, but are merely taking home a supply for their own

households. How fortunate those towns are where the water is conveyed by

pipes from house to house!

BURIED ALIVE;

OR, LOVE NEVER LOST ON A DOG.

"Heigho!" sighed Thusnelda, as she lay on the straw not far from the

spot where her three beautiful puppies were curled up in a heap.

"Heigho!" she sighed, "I do hope dear master will not deprive me of any

more of my darlings. Let me see now, there were ten of them originally.

Yes, ten, for I counted them over and over again fifty times a day, and

now there are only three. Heigho!" Here she glanced round towards these

sleeping beauties in the straw, and her lovely eyes were brimming over

with motherly affection and intelligence.

"To be sure," she added, "master has kept the three prettiest, that is

some consolation, and the others have all gone to good homes, where I

doubt not their virtue will be duly appreciated, though I shall never,

never see them more."

Thusnelda was a dog of German birth and extraction. In truth, she was a

Dachshund, and a high-bred one too, and both in this country and in

Berlin she had taken many honours at dog shows.

Some might not have thought Thusnelda's body shapely. She was long and

low, with a red jacket as smooth and soft as satin; so low in stature

was she, that her chest almost touched the ground, and her fore legs

were turned in at the ankle, and out at the feet--the latter indeed were

almost out of all proportion, so big and flat were they; but no one

could help admiring Thusnelda's splendid head, her broad intelligent

skull, and her long silky ears and gazelle-like eyes. If ever eyes in

this world were made to speak love and affection and all things

unutterable, those eyes were Thusnelda's.

She got up at last and went and stood over her darlings. She gazed at

them long and fondly, wondering and thinking what future they had before

them. She held her head so low as she did so, that her splendid ears

trailed and touched them. They moved in their sleep, they kicked and

gave vent to a series of little ventriloquistic barks as puppies have a

habit of doing; then the mother licked them fondly with her soft tongue,

and therefore one awoke. It was Vogel. The names of the other two were

Zimmerman and Zadkiel. As soon as Vogel awoke she gave a joyful wee bark

of recognition, which aroused both her tiny brothers, and the whole

three rushed at once to their good mother.

"Ah, my dears," she said; "you are very fond of me at present, I dare

say, but you will get to be different as you grow older, I expect.

However, I must make the most of you while you are young. Why, let's

see, you will be six weeks old tomorrow, and you can lap every bit as

well as I can. Yes, and it's quite a treat to see you lapping, and

master thinks so too."

"Master" did.

"Master" was very fond of dogs, and he doted on good ones. He used to

come and admire these three puppies by the hour. The milk he gave them

was of the freshest and creamiest, and he even thickened it with a

little boiled flour. Whenever Vogel and Zimmerman and Zadkiel saw him

coming with the milk-pan they expressed their joy by saucy little barks

and yelps, and made a headlong but awkward rush towards him, and when he

put down the pan they weren't content to simply put their heads over the

side and lap. No, they must have their fore feet in as well, although

their mother often told them it was only little piggies that fed in that

fashion. But Vogel was worse even than Zimmerman or Zadkiel, because she

used to insist upon getting in the dish bodily. Only Vogel was master's

favourite, and he used to take her kindly out of the dish again and

place her by the side of it, and try to show her how to lap like a lady.

Vogel was the prettiest, Zimmerman the biggest and sauciest, and Zadkiel

by far the wisest of the trio.

In the picture with which our artist has presented us, Vogel is standing

in the centre, Zimmerman is lying on the left, while the far-seeing,

deep-thinking Zadkiel is sitting on the right.

An impudent sparrow has just alighted on the puppies' pan, and is coolly

helping himself to what has been left from breakfast.

"Delicious!" the sparrow is saying. "I'm the king of all the birds in

the creation. Everybody admires me, I build in the choicest apple-trees,

and feed on the daintiest food. Farmers cut down their hay that I may

make my nest, farmers' wives kill the fowls that I may find feathers to

line it, and even the cows cast their coats to aid in the same good

work. Why, you little puppies, don't _you_ admire me also, you

ridiculous-looking fluffy things?"

"I admire your profound impudence," Zimmerman is saying.

"I am astonished at your daring audacity," Vogel is remarking.

But Zadkiel is thinking. "I dare say," he says at last, "that even such

a wretched mite of a bird as you must have been meant for some good

purpose. To pick up the grubs and the green flies perhaps."

"Absurd," cries the sparrow, and off he flies in disgust.

Then the pups forget all about it, and begin to lick each other's noses

and toes--I was nearly saying _toeses_--in the funniest way imaginable.

After that they go in for one of the most terrible sham fights that has

ever been fought.

"You'll be a badger, Zadkiel," cries Vogel, "and Zimmerman and I will

worry you to death."

So at it they go pell-mell. Zadkiel is hemmed up in a corner of the

cart-shed, and his brother and sister make pretence, to tear him limb

from limb. Zadkiel defends himself gallantly, but has to succumb at

last, for he is fairly rolled on his back, and in a few minutes is,

figuratively speaking, turned inside out. Then they espy the

good-natured admiring face of their mother, peering at them over the

corner of the straw, and at her they all rush. They make believe that

she is a fox, and her life is accordingly not worth an hours' purchase.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughs some one not two yards away, and looking up they

espy "master," who all unknown to them has been enjoying the fun for the

last half-hour.

"You dear, delightful little pets," he says, "why, you are as lively as

kittens, and as healthy and happy-looking as the summer's day is long.

You will do your mother credit yet. Your legs are straight, but work

will bend them into the right shape, then you'll be able to creep into

any rabbit's hole in the country,

"To beard a badger in his drain,

A wild wolf in his lair."

So in order to make these little rascals' legs bend to the proper shape,

master, as soon as they got a little older, used to bury bones for them

deep down in the garden earth, and get the whole trio to scrape and find

them.

This was grand fun, and by the time the puppies were six months old they

were just as shapely as the mother was, or as unshapely, if you like it

better, for after all perhaps the beauty of their bodies consisted in

their ugliness.

It isn't every one who knows how to rear puppies properly, but this

master did. He fed them on bread and milk, and broth and scraps of meat

four times a day, he never forgot to give them plenty of the freshest

of water, and as for straw, why they could at any time bury themselves

in it. But this was not all, for he made the little things his constant

companions, when he himself went out for exercise. And didn't they

scamper and didn't they dance, and frolic, and run! Many a rat, and

stoat, and polecat had reason to wish them far away, I can tell you.

Few people know how wonderful, intelligent, and sagacious a dachshund

can become under proper treatment. But there must be system in the

treatment. The whip must be hidden away out of sight entirely, the

animal must be treated like a reasoning being, as indeed it is; it thus

soon comes to know not only every word spoken to it, but your will and

your wishes from your very movements and looks.

A dog never forgets kind treatment, and whenever he has the chance he

acts a faithful part towards a loving master. I could tell you a hundred

true stories illustrative of that fact, but one must here suffice. Had

you seen the dachshund puppies then as they are represented in our

engraving, brimful of sauciness, daftness, and fun, and seen them again

two years after as they appeared when accompanying their beloved master

in his rambles, you certainly could not have believed they were the same

animals. They were still the same in one respect, however, for Vogel was

still the beauty and Zadkiel the philosopher.

One day their master went out to hunt in the forest. It was far away in

the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. He had gone to shoot deer, but as

he was returning in the evening after an unsuccessful stalk, he caught a

glimpse of a fox disappearing round the corner of an old ruin.

"Ho! ho!" he cried. "You are the rascal that steals my ducks. We'll have

you if we can."

But the fox had taken at once to his burrow in the ruin. It was a very

ancient feudal castle, only just enough of it remaining to give an idea

of the shape it once had been, for regardless of the respect that is due

to antiquity the keepers had carted away loads of the solid masonry to

build their houses, leaving the place but a beautiful moss-grown chaos.

"Watch," was all the master said to his dogs as he crept in through an

old window into the donjon keep. It was a foolhardy thing to do, for the

stones were loose around it, but he had many times got in there before,

and why, he thought, should he not do so now. Besides, this was

Reynard's favourite den, and he hoped to shoot him in it. But the fox

had improved on his dwelling since the hunter had last paid him a visit;

he had excavated another room. Stone after stone the hunter began to

pull down, when suddenly there was a startling noise behind him, and he

found himself in the dark.

[Illustration: THE PUPPIES AND THE SPARROW. (_See p._ 158.)]

Buried alive! Buried in a dungeon in which there was hardly room to

turn. The situation is too dreadful for pen to describe. He sank on the

soft damp mould of the floor and gave himself up to despair. And thus

hours went past.

Hitherto there had not been a sound, but now the impatient yelping of

the faithful hounds told him they had begun to appreciate the terrible

danger of the master.

The rest of the story may be told in a very few words. Vogel did nothing

but run about wild with grief, and made the rocks around her echo the

sounds of her grief. Zimmerman set himself to work to dig the master

out. But alas! solid stone and lime were too much for even his strong

little limbs. But where was the wise and thoughtful Zadkiel? Gone. He

turned up some hours after at his master's house, and his strange

behaviour soon caused the servants to follow him into the deep forest

and straight to the old ruin.

Morning had dawned ere the hunter, more dead than alive, was extricated

from his living grave. His first act as soon as he recovered was to

return thanks to Him who had delivered him, his next to embrace his

faithful dogs.

ARION.

LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.--IX.

_By_ PHILLIS BROWNE, _Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do,"

&c._

"I wonder what we shall do to-day, Mary?" said Margaret, as the two

children stood by the kitchen table waiting for the next lesson.

"I don't know," said Mary; "but I fancy we are to learn something about

fat, for I heard mistress giving orders to put the fat ready for us. And

there it is. Don't you see all those pieces of fat on the dish?"

"Well, children," said Mrs. Herbert, who at that moment entered the

kitchen, "how would you like to learn to fry to-day?"

"We should like it very much, mother," said Margaret.

"But what shall we make?"

"I wish we might make some apple fritters, like those we had the day

before yesterday."

"You shall learn to cook the fritters at our next lesson," said Mrs.

Herbert. "To-day we shall be quite sufficiently busy preparing the fat

for frying. Can you, Mary, tell me what it is to fry food? If you had to

fry the fritters, for instance, how would you set about it?"

"Please, ma'am, let me think," said Mary. "When we fried the pancakes,

we put a little fat in the frying-pan, and let it melt, and then put in

the batter. So I suppose we should do the same with fritters."

"That is exactly what we must not do," said Mrs. Herbert. "There are a

few things which we must fry in a shallow pan, with very little fat.

Pancakes and omelettes are amongst them. But as a rule, this is a very

extravagant, wasteful mode of cooking. It is much better to _fry_

properly, that is, to cook in an abundance of fat, using as much fat as

will cover the food entirely, so that we may be said to boil the food,

but in fat instead of water."

"I should have thought it was very wasteful to use a quantity of fat,"

said Margaret.

"Do you remember how much fat we used when we fried the pancakes?" said

Mrs. Herbert.

"I remember," said Mary: "for every pancake we used a piece of fat about

the size of a walnut."

"And how much of this was left when all were finished?"

"Why, none, mother," said Margaret. "The fat was used each time, and it

seemed to dry up or go into the pancake, or something. At any rate, it

was lost altogether."

"Then if we were trying to find out how much the pancakes cost, we ought

to include the cost of the fat in which they were fried?"

"I suppose so."

"Do you not think, then, that if in frying we could so arrange matters

that the fat should be used again and again and again, that would be

less wasteful?"

"Of course it would," said Mary.

"Then this is what we will do. We will provide a quantity of fat, as

much as will half fill a good-sized iron saucepan. When we use this for

frying, we shall find that if we are careful of it--that is, if we lift

it from the fire as soon as it is done with, do not let it burn, and

strain it--we can use it again and again and again. In fact, it may be

used any number of times, and we keep adding fresh fat as we get it."

"But we could not fry pancakes in that way," said Margaret.

"No; I told you just now that pancakes and omelettes must be fried in a

little fat. This process is generally called by cooks _dry frying_.

When plenty of fat is used, and the food is boiled in the fat, the

process is called _wet frying_."

"And how are we to tell which way is suitable for what we have to cook?"

said Margaret.

"Ah, Margaret! you want to get on too quickly. To know which is the best

way of treating different kinds of food is a large subject, and can only

be learnt with time. I may tell you, however, that nearly all small

things which can be quickly cooked, and can be covered with fat, may be

wet fried. Things which need longer cooking, such as uncooked meat,

bacon, sausages, &c., should be dry fried. Chops and steaks, too, are

often dry fried, but they are best when broiled; and of broiling I must

speak to you another day."

"We shall easily remember that wet frying is using plenty of fat, and

dry frying is using very little fat," said Mary.

"Of course you will. And now for the kind of fat you are to use. There

are four kinds of fat used in frying--dripping, oil, butter, and lard.

Of these, dripping is the best and lard is the worst."

"But please, ma'am, lard is generally used, is it not?" said Mary,

looking astonished.

"Indeed it is," replied Mrs. Herbert, "and this is the mistake which is

made. Those who do not know have a great scorn for dripping. They sell

it for a small sum to get it out of the way, and when they have done so

they buy lard. Yet lard is more apt to make food taste greasy than any

fat which can be used."

"What is the dripping made from, then?" said Margaret.

"From little odds and ends of fat, either cooked or uncooked, left from

joints, and 'rendered,' that is, melted down; also from the fat which is

skimmed from the top of the water in which meat is boiled. I should like

you little folk to remember that one of the surest signs of cleverness

in cookery is that nothing is wasted, and one of the most certain ways

of preventing waste is to look after the fat. A good cook will not allow

as much as half an inch of fat to be wasted. She will collect the scraps

together and melt them down gently, and so she will never need to buy."

"Just as cook has put those pieces of fat together there, ready for us

to melt down?"