"Yes; and now we will go on to render them down, shall we? First we cut

them up in very small pieces. We then put them into an old, but

perfectly clean, saucepan, with a quarter of a pint of water to each

pound of fat. We then put the lid on the saucepan, and boil gently for

about an hour, or till the water has boiled away, when we take the lid

off, and stew the fat again until the pieces acquire a slight colour,

when the fat is ready to be strained through a jar. We must not forget

to stir the fat occasionally, to keep it from burning, and also to let

it cool slightly before straining, for fear of accident; for boiling fat

is very hot, more than twice as hot as boiling water."

"Supposing we have no pieces of fat, mother, what shall we do then?"

"We must buy some. Those who like beef fat will find ox flare excellent

for the purpose. The most experienced cooks, however, now prefer mutton

fat to any other, because it is so hard and dry. Fat which is bought

must be rendered down as scraps are rendered. I fancy, however, that

where meat is eaten every day it is seldom necessary to buy fat, if only

proper care is taken of the trimmings."

"If dripping may be used for frying, could we not take the dripping left

from joints, mother?" said Margaret.

"Certainly we could, dear. Only we must be careful to have it thoroughly

clean and dry, with no water or gravy in it. To make it thus we should

probably have to wash it in three or four times its quantity of boiling

water, then let it go cold and scrape away the impurities which would

have settled at the bottom. After which we should melt it gently down

again to get rid thoroughly of any moisture there might be in it."

"Wash dripping! I never heard of such a thing," said Margaret.

"It is a very necessary business at times, for all that. The most

certain way of taking care of anything we value is to keep it clean: and

certainly we value our kitchen fat. But then, as I told you, besides

keeping it clean we must keep it dry; and one reason why good cooks

prefer mutton fat to any other is that it can be more easily kept dry

than other fats. Fat should be thoroughly strained also each time it is

used, as well as after being rendered the first time, and this will help

to keep it pure."

"I think the water has all boiled away from our fat now, ma'am," said

Mary, who had been looking very earnestly into the pan, and stirring the

pieces very vigorously.

"Then," said Mrs. Herbert, "we will take the lid off the pan, and when

the pieces begin to colour we will let the fat cool and strain it away.

It will so be quite ready for our purpose, and at our next lesson I will

show you how to fry some apple fritters."

"I think we shall enjoy frying fritters as well as making pancakes,"

said the two children together.

_(To be continued.)_

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

_By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c._

CHAPTER VII.--AN INVESTMENT.

The holidays were over at last; the ten days flew by only too quickly to

Bertie, for, compared with Gore House, Fitzroy Square seemed the most

delightful place in the world. He was not very artistic in his taste,

and thought but little of carving and gilding, soft carpets, and

luxurious chairs; therefore the shabby parlour with Aunt Amy seemed far

more beautiful than the very grandest apartment in Aunt Gregory's grand

house.

"If I could only stay here always, Aunt Amy, how happy I should be!" he

had said a dozen times during his stay; and each time, though her heart

echoed his wish, she cheered him with loving smiles, encouraged him with

hopeful words, begging of him to try and make the best of his Uncle

Gregory's home, and be as happy and contented as he could. Eddie often

wished that he had such a magnificent residence, for he made no secret

of his contempt for the shabby and somewhat dingy comfort of Uncle

Clair's house and its dreary surroundings. He thought artists should

have everything beautiful and graceful about them, and looked very much

astonished when his uncle said, in his sweet low voice, that beauty and

grace were certainly essential, but they should be in the artist

himself, and then he would see them reflected everywhere. Both Bertie

and Agnes endorsed that statement, for they loved the old house, and

were quite happy there. Eddie, still longing for something out of his

reach, instead of making the most of what was at his hand, grumbled and

shook his head; but Uncle Clair only smiled, and said, "You'll be wiser

when you are older, my boy. Knowledge comes with years."

Mrs. Gregory's presents caused Mrs. Clair to think that she was sorry

for her neglect of Bertie, and meant to be kinder to him in future;

besides, Uncle Gregory had said there might be other arrangements when

he returned, so that it was with a very hopeful heart that Bertie

entered the office punctually at nine o'clock on the 2nd of January, and

was taking his old corner to await the arrival of his uncle, when the

head clerk conducted him into the inner room, and pointed out a seat at

a desk near a window looking into a narrow court.

"Go through all those letters," the clerk said, pointing to a huge heap;

"select the circulars, open them, and place them on that stand; arrange

all the English and foreign letters on Mr. Gregory's table, and then

address those envelopes from that book on your desk."

"Yes, sir," Bertie replied cheerfully. It certainly was much pleasanter

in that warm room, with its clear blazing fire, soft carpet,

leather-covered chairs, and draughtless windows, than in the large, and

often chilly, outer office, but when Mr. Gregory entered with his

compressed lips and keen piercing glance all round, Bertie began to

think it would not be pleasant to have to sit always within the reach of

his critical eyes.

"Good morning. You have not forgotten, I see: that's well," Mr. Gregory

said, as he hung up his coat and pulled off his gloves. Then, with a

quick glance at his table, he added, "You may go on with your work."

Bertie copied industriously for an hour, never raising his head from his

desk; then his master's voice startled him. "Come here, Bertie. I want

some conversation with you. How old are you?"

"Nearly thirteen, sir."

"You look more. Do you like business?"

"I think I do, sir. I shall like it more when I understand it better."

"Quite so. Now, Bertie, because you are my nephew, and have been a good,

steady lad, I am going to place you in a position of great trust. You

are quick, and write a good hand, and I shall train you to be my private

secretary. You shall answer all my business letters, from my dictation.

Of course I don't mean all my letters," catching Bertie's nervous glance

at the table, "only those I have been in the habit of attending to

myself. It means several changes: one is, you need not get here till I

do in the morning; another is, that I shall require your services for an

hour or two every evening in the library at Gore House. You can leave

here at four instead of half-past five, and I wish you to take lessons

in French and German three times a week. I have engaged a master for

you, and you can leave here every other day at half-past three. I will

pay you twelve shillings a week, out of which you must pay for your

luncheon, and you will dine with us, except when there is a large

party. Now sit down, and write exactly as I tell you, and as quickly, as

neatly, and accurately as you can."

"Yes, uncle; thank you," Bertie replied, his heart throbbing violently.

That was indeed a change from the dull routine of the past five months:

he had won his uncle's confidence; he was to have no more solitary

evenings; and, best of all, he was to have a salary, and only luncheon

to buy out of it.

"Why, I shall only want a Bath bun and a glass of milk every day. I can

save nearly all," Bertie whispered to himself at luncheon-time. "Uncle

Gregory is good to me, and no mistake!"

Mr. Gregory was good to his nephew, but not before he had thoroughly

satisfied himself that the boy fully deserved his confidence, and, what

was more, would fully and amply repay it. That twelve shillings a week

was a master-stroke of policy, for it made Bertie eternally grateful;

and if the young gentleman fancied his Uncle Gregory did not know that

nine shillings of it went into the post-office savings' bank regularly

every week, he was greatly mistaken. The dining down-stairs was not

quite such a success; he was usually completely ignored, and always felt

glad when the formal prolonged meal was over, and he was at liberty to

follow Mr. Gregory to the library. There, indeed, Bertie had often two,

or even three, hours' trying work, copying out prospectuses and share

lists, reading aloud a strange jargon he did not half understand about

stocks, consols, and dividends, adding up prodigious sums of money,

subtracting other sums from them, and, when the result did not quite

satisfy Mr. Gregory, having to consign them all to the waste-paper

basket, and begin over again. Still, it was better than the long dreary

evenings in the deserted school-room, though so much confinement was

beginning to tell a little on Bertie's rosy cheeks and healthy young

frame. The atmosphere of the Underground Railway, too, was injuring

lungs that had never breathed anything but the purest country air, and

at last Mr. Gregory noticed his altered appearance, and invited him to

drive into the City in the dog-cart with himself every morning. That was

indeed a red-letter day,--almost as good as driving to Dr. Mayson's at

Riversdale: better, in fact, Bertie began to think later on, for the

bustle and confusion, the eager, hurrying, restless life of the City

began to have a strange charm for him, and that brisk drive to and from

Mincing Lane was a real pleasure. Then he was progressing famously with

his French and German. The old professor who gave him his lessons was a

sociable, voluble, eloquent gentleman, who waved his hands, rolled his

eyes, chattered nonsense that made Bertie laugh, but at the same time

interested him so much that he took great pains to listen and remember;

and having learned his grammar fairly well at school he was soon able to

make his way with tolerable ease through either a newspaper or letter.

But you must not suppose it was all sunshine and smooth sailing for

Bertie Rivers. He had a great many trials and troubles, and perhaps the

heaviest was his inability to go to Fitzroy Square, except on Sundays,

and not always then. Then he missed his runs in the Park and his walks

into the country in the early morning, his wood-carving and

cork-carving, and all the other amusements with which he was in the

habit of filling up his spare time. Then Uncle Gregory was becoming

daily more exacting and particular, and Bertie gathered from the letters

he wrote that some of the many speculations of the great City merchant

were not going on entirely to his satisfaction. Every evening he

remained later in the library, and Bertie had more letters to write and

circulars to address, and sometimes his head ached sadly, and his eyes

were dull and heavy in the morning. But there was one unfailing source

of satisfaction--his weekly visit to the post-office savings' bank.

Bertie would not have missed that for the world: nine shillings a week,

and sometimes even ten--for nothing could tempt him to spend a penny,

except on his luncheons and in writing to them at Fitzroy Square--soon

mounted up to five pounds, and then Mr. Gregory remarked one day that if

Bertie had saved any money he would invest it for him in a company that

would pay five times as much interest as the post-office. So the money

was handed over to Uncle Gregory, and Bertie received a very large and

formal paper, which he never read, but still was proud of, and in his

next visit handed it triumphantly to Mr. Clair. He read it carefully,

and then shook his head. "This company promises too much, Bertie," he

said; "better have left your money where it was."

"As if Uncle Gregory doesn't know best!" Bertie laughed. "Why, he has

hundreds of shares himself."

CHAPTER VIII.--AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE.

"You may go and spend a few days with your brother," Mr. Gregory said to

Bertie one Saturday at the end of July. "I am going away for a week, and

so I can spare you; but mind you are back on the Monday after next, and

in good time."

"Yes, sir; thank you, uncle," Bertie replied, with a bright smile.

[Illustration: "HE SAW SOMETHING UNUSUAL WAS ABOUT TO TAKE PLACE."]

"You may go now, if you wish. I do not require anything further;" and

Bertie fairly ran out of the office, jumped into an omnibus, and hurried

straight to Fitzroy Square, instead of going home to Kensington. The

moment the hall door opened he saw something unusual was about to take

place: there were trunks and packages and muffle straps in the hall, and

there, amidst them, stood Uncle Clair, looking quite calm, while Aunt

Amy, Agnes, and Eddie flew hither and thither in every direction. There

was a four-wheeler at the door too, so that evidently the family were

going away. For a moment Bertie felt inclined to cry. What possible

pleasure could he have in a week's holiday without Eddie and Agnes to

share it? But the moment Aunt Amy caught sight of him, her bright face

and cordial welcome re-assured him.

[Illustration]

"Dear Bertie, I am so glad. I was afraid your uncle could not spare you

to come with us. But where are your things?"

"I haven't brought any. I only just came from the City to tell you Uncle

Gregory gave me a week's holiday," Bertie replied, looking very much

perplexed. "I did not know you were all going away, auntie, or of course

I would not have come."

"Then you did not get the letter I sent you, dear?"

"No, aunt."

"Well, I wrote asking you to apply for permission to come with us to the

sea-side for a week. But I suppose the letter miscarried some way.

However 'All's well that ends well,' Bertie. You are just in time. Come

now, help to carry the parcels. I hope we have not forgotten anything."

"If we were going to stay a year in a desert island a thousand miles

from a shop, I should think we have enough luggage," Uncle Clair said,

glancing comically at the numerous packages and trunks; "instead of

which, we're only going to Brighton, and can get everything we want

there just as well as in London."

"But am I really to go to the sea-side with you, Uncle Harry?" Bertie

cried eagerly.

"Why, of course, child; you don't suppose we're going to leave you

behind."

"Oh, how good of you! how jolly! Hurrah!" and Bertie executed a sort of

war-dance, tossed his hat in the air, and kissed his aunt and Agnes a

dozen times at least before taking his seat in the cab. "You had better

go with your aunt in a hansom, Bertie," Uncle Clair said; "Eddie, Agnes,

and I will go with the luggage. If you get to the station first, wait

for us at the booking-office. Mind you don't get lost," he added, with a

smile, as they drove away.

"As if I could get lost in the City, Aunt Amy!" Bertie said proudly.

"Why, I know the place by heart now; and shan't I be glad to get away

from it for a whole week? Was it not kind of Uncle Gregory to give me a

holiday?"

"Very good, Bertie. You seem to get on capitally. Do you know, dear, I

am sorry we did not try to persuade Eddie to take his place in the

office too: I almost think he would have been happier, and have got on

better; he does not seem very contented with us, and, worst of all, he

does not make much progress in the profession he has chosen. Agnes is

far ahead of him."

"But Eddie is very clever, Aunt Amy: he can do anything if he likes,"

Bertie cried loyally. "And I do not think he would get on with Uncle

Gregory: he would never like the City; besides, Eddie never cared to be

told to do anything. Even poor papa used to say, 'Please, Eddie,' or

'Perhaps you will do so, Eddie.' Now, Uncle Gregory orders me to do

forty different things in different ways every day, and I don't mind a

bit; but Eddie would stand and look at him, and frown so, and just walk

away. My brother would never get on with Uncle Gregory, Aunt Amy,"

Bertie repeated gravely. "Eddie would never make a merchant."

"And your uncle Clair says he will never make an artist, unless he

changes greatly," said Aunt Amy, rather sadly. "Poor Eddie! I am really

very anxious about his future: he is so like his father: his ideas are

quite magnificent, but he has no energy."

"He's clever, though, auntie; papa often said Eddie was a genius,"

Bertie whispered, "and I can work enough for us both. When I am rich,

and can buy back Riversdale, Eddie will be quite happy. You don't know

how different he will be when he gets back to our beautiful home," and

Bertie's eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed at the thought, for the

dream of Bertie's life was to get back Riversdale. The anxieties of the

great establishment in Mincing Lane never touched him; he knew nothing

of risks, disappointments, or failures; in fact, Bertie never even

thought of such things, for he was but a child at heart, and had perfect

faith in his uncle's assurance that if he were only a good, obedient,

industrious boy he would be very rich some day, and get back his home.

But no thought of the busy City, the close, dusty office, or the hot

library at Kensington troubled him as he took his seat in the train, and

was whirled at the rate of fifty miles an hour southward. Eddie sat

silently looking out of the window, envying his brother's high spirits;

he could not think what made Bertie so happy when he felt discontented

and miserable, and thoroughly dissatisfied with everything in the world.

Agnes, too, seemed infected with some of Bertie's good humour; her eyes

sparkled, her cheeks flushed, and she laughed merrily at the utter

nonsense her cousin chattered incessantly, while poor Eddie hugged his

discontent, and made the most of his misery. And yet he had no real

cause to be unhappy: every one was kind, gentle, patient with him; he

had not a reasonable wish in the world ungratified; and yet he sat

silent, drumming with his fingers on the window of the carriage, while

the others chatted and laughed, and seemed as if they could not keep

still for very enjoyment.

"Oh, auntie, how lovely it is!" Agnes cried, "Look how the sun shines on

the trees, and the brook looks like summer lightning. It is good to get

away from London, and see the country once more; and such a sky, Bertie!

you don't have anything like that in Mincing Lane!"

"No; but though our skies may be somewhat inky, Miss Agnes, they have a

silver or a golden lining," Bertie replied, with the air of a judge. "We

don't want sunshine in the City, because we have no time to look at it;

and besides, we have plenty of gas and electric light."

Eddie frowned, and was going to say something about his brother's want

of artistic taste, when Uncle Clair interrupted him by a hearty laugh.

"Really, Master Bertie, you are becoming quite a philosopher as well as

a capitalist and man of business. Now then, youngsters, gather up your

parcels; we shall be in Brighton in about five minutes, and then for a

glimpse of the glorious sea."

"Why, Uncle Harry, I've never seen it!" Bertie exclaimed, as if he were

very much surprised at not having given the matter a thought before.

"All the way down I never seemed to think we were going to the sea-side:

I was so glad to get away from London. Will you let us have a boat,

Uncle Harry?"

"That depends, Bertie; if the weather keeps fine we may go for a sail

some day."

"Bertie fancies we could pull about in a little punt on the ocean as we

did on the river at home," Eddie said, rather scornfully. "He has no

idea what the sea is like."

"Well, well, he will know better presently, for here we are," Uncle

Harry said gently; and in a few minutes more they were all in a shabby,

shaky, but roomy old carriage, driving along the Parade.

"Oh!" Agnes whispered, catching Aunt Amy's hand. "Oh, how beautiful! I

feel as if I can't breathe, auntie."

"It is jolly!" Bertie cried, in his hearty, downright way. "What a place

for a swim, Eddie!"

"The idea of thinking the sea only a place for swimming!" Eddie replied

contemptuously. "I----"

"You can't swim a bit: that's the reason you don't care about it,"

Bertie cried merrily. "But Eddie can pull better than I can, Uncle

Harry, so you will hear him say presently, 'What a lovely place for a

row!' and I do believe it's not a bit rougher than our little river."

"It's very calm to-day, but sometimes it wears a very different aspect,

Bertie."

"I don't believe it ever could be really rough, just like Turner's

pictures," Eddie grumbled. "It's not a bit like what I thought it would

be."

"It's ten times prettier than anything I ever saw," Bertie cried

enthusiastically. "Just look at all the boats, and such pretty houses,

and the donkeys, Eddie. Oh, Uncle Harry! may we have a donkey-ride? and

such lots of boys!"

"What a pity poor Eddie did not leave his enemy at home, and he would be

as happy as Bertie," Mr. Clair said in a very low voice to Aunt Amy; and

she only shook her head and smiled sorrowfully; but the words, though

spoken in a very low tone, reached Bertie's quick young ears, and he

glanced at his brother in sore perplexity. But at that moment the

carriage stopped at the house where Mr. Clair had secured apartments,

and in the bustle of getting in the packets, exploring the rooms,

exclaiming at the beautiful view from the balcony, and Bertie's sudden

discovery that it was a glorious place to test the powers of a

pea-shooter or catapult, he forgot all about Uncle Clair's words and

Aunt Amy's sorrowful smile; and even Eddie thawed a little, and agreed

that a beautiful full-rigged ship, with the bright sun shining on her

snow-white sails, was a pretty-enough picture to please even an artist.

But that night, when Bertie laid his tired head on the pillow--he had

been running and dancing along the beach for hours--his last waking

thought was, "I must find out who's Eddie's enemy; and if he's not a lot

a bigger fellow than I am, I'll thrash him!"

CHAPTER IX.--A HAPPY ENCOUNTER.

Brighton in the first days of August is hot and dusty, noisy, and

crowded with people; excursionists pour in by thousands, German bands

and organs seem to spring up under one's feet at every step. The sun

blazes in the windows of the houses on the Marine Parade all day, and

the fine, dry, chalky dust from the Downs is apt to be irritating to

delicate throats; but for all that, Brighton in August is delightful, at

least to children. Then they may pass an almost amphibious existence

without danger of catching cold. Foremost in every mischief, bravest in

every danger, most fortunate in every escapade, was Bertie. No one could

look at his sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, hear his merry laughter,

watch him skip, jump, and dance along the beach, without saying, "There,

at least, is one happy boy," and feeling glad that there was so much

capacity for pure enjoyment in the world. He dragged Eddie and Agnes

with him hither and thither, till by sheer force of energy and example

he forced them to share his happiness, and brought the roses to their

cheeks too; he would have dragged Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair about in the

same way, only they drew the line at taking off shoes and paddling in

the water, and begged to be allowed to sit still on the beach and watch

them. However, one day, very much to his astonishment, he met his Aunt

Gregory and his cousins walking on the Parade, and Bertie nothing

doubted but they would be glad to join his many expeditions in search of

fun; but the boys had many other acquaintances in Brighton, and felt

half ashamed to acknowledge a relative who was only a junior clerk, and

refused very distinctly to go down on the beach, and be friendly with

Eddie and Agnes. Indeed, as soon as Mrs. Gregory understood that Mr. and

Mrs. Clair were also by the sea-side, she became very chilling to

Bertie, and asked when he was going back to his office.

"Next Monday, aunt; but the others will stay for another fortnight,"

Bertie answered brightly, without the least shade of discontent on his

face.

"And why must you return before the others, my lad?" a gentleman said,

advancing a step, and looking at Bertie steadily. "If I don't mistake, I

have met you before somewhere. Where was it?"

[Illustration: "'I REMEMBER YOU QUITE WELL,' HE SAID."]

"You have seen him at our house, perhaps, Mr. Murray," Dick Gregory said

carelessly; he had been walking with the gentleman, and discussing a

trip in Mr. Murray's yacht, and did not want to be interrupted; indeed,

he was far from being pleased at meeting Bertie. "You know, he's in

papa's office in the City," he added, seeing the gentleman still looked

puzzled.

"No, cousin; I think Mr. Murray saw me at Riversdale," Bertie said, a

little shyly, for a pair of keen dark eyes were fixed on his face. "He

used to come and see papa often; but I think he would remember Eddie

better than me: he saw him oftener."

"Oh dear me! yes, of course; why, I remember you quite well," he said.

"You are Herbert, the dreadful little boy who snow-balled me one day,

and Eddie drew caricatures of me. Dear me! Mrs. Gregory, how strange

you never mentioned the Rivers' being here. This boy's father is one of

my oldest and dearest friends. I shall be delighted to meet him."

For a moment there was an awkward silence; Mrs. Gregory looked red and

confused, her two sons turned round and studied the sea, then Bertie

looked up suddenly. "Papa is not here, sir: he--he is dead," he said

steadily, but in an earnest voice. "I am in Uncle Gregory's office;

Eddie is learning to be an artist with Uncle Clair. Poor papa lost his

money, and we're going to try and get rich, to buy back Riversdale."

"Buy back Riversdale!" Mr. Murray cried. "You don't mean----" then

glancing at Mrs. Gregory's confused expression, and the sudden gravity

that had replaced the mirth in Bertie's eyes, he stopped, and puckered

up his forehead in the strangest way.

"Is this boy, Herbert Rivers, staying with you?" he asked presently,

turning to Mrs. Gregory.

"No, indeed; I did not even know he was here. I fancied he was at the

office, as usual."

"Oh! then how did you come to be here, child? Are you alone?" Mr. Murray

asked.

"I am with Uncle and Aunt Clair. Last Saturday Uncle Gregory said I

might have a week's holiday and spend it with my brother, so I just ran

straight off to Fitzroy Square, and found them all in the hall just

starting for Brighton. Oh, it has been so splendid!"

"So you must go back to town to your office next Monday?" the gentleman

said, after a moment's frowning. "Well, well, we shall see; this is

Thursday. Where does your Uncle Clair live?"

Bertie told him the address: it was within a stone's throw; and as Mr.

Murray noted down the number, and glanced at the house so as to remember

it, he saw that the balcony was strikingly decorated with some of the

children's trophies. Long trailing sprays of damp dark-brown seaweed

hung over the railings; there was quite a large heap of sea-stones, and

a few shells piled up in one corner. Bertie's schooner was firmly

anchored to a crimson bucket in another; there was a camp-stool before

an easel standing in the open window, and a low chair with cushions

outside. Altogether, the aspect of the rooms occupied by Uncle Clair

pleased Mr. Murray.

As they walked along the parade Mr. Murray was unusually silent; the

boys watched him, and saw by the expression of his face that he was

thinking deeply. But it was not till he met their father at the aquarium

that Mr. Murray said a single word about Bertie Rivers. Then both

gentlemen stood in a quiet corner, and talked so long and so earnestly

that both Mrs. Gregory and the boys became impatient, and not a little

curious. What could they possibly have to say about the little junior

clerk? and yet they were sure he was the subject of their conversation.

Mrs. Gregory looked more anxious than curious. Mr. Murray was a very old

friend of the Rivers' family, and though absence from England for

several years caused him to be quite ignorant of the calamities that had

overtaken the master of Riversdale, the death of his brother Frank, and

the loss of his fortune, he was still deeply interested in the family,

and heard with regret of the almost friendless condition of Mr. Rivers'

sons.

"I wish you had told me all this sooner," he said at length. "We might

have done something better for that fine lad."

"He will do very well," Mr. Gregory replied, a little coldly. "You

should be the last person in the world to object to business."

"I don't object, only the boy is too young--a mere child. Why did not

you send him to school with your boys, for a few years at least?"

"I do not think that would be any true kindness. It would only make him

dissatisfied with his future position, perhaps. Bertie is doing very

well."

Mr. Murray said no more, but all the remainder of the afternoon he

thought a great deal of his old friend Mr. Rivers and his boys, and the

more he reflected the less pleased he felt at Mr. Gregory's treatment of

Bertie, and the undisguised contempt Dick and Harry expressed for their

cousin. He resolved to call the very next morning on Mr. Clair, and have

a talk with him about the lads, for Mr. Murray had a very strong reason

for being interested in their future. It was he who had persuaded their

father to invest money in the speculation that ended so disastrously,

but he had no idea that Mr. Rivers became such an extensive shareholder;

he forgot that a simple country gentleman, without either knowledge or

experience, could not be as prudent and far-seeing as a man all his life

acquainted with business. Mr. Murray had been a loser in the mines

himself, but to a comparatively slight extent, and as he was an

exceedingly rich man, he only regarded the matter as one of the casual

losses incurred in business. But his old friend's losses troubled him

deeply, and he resolved to do everything in his power to repair the

effects of his well-meant, but unfortunate, advice.

Mr. Murray was an old bachelor, very rich, and some people said very

eccentric, though, in truth, his eccentricity was only indiscriminate

generosity. He was very fond of children, boys especially; he often

spoke of adopting some promising lad to inherit a portion of his great

fortune, and continue the grand old firm in the City that had flourished

for over a hundred years as Murray and Co. For many reasons Mr. Gregory

hoped that one of his boys would be chosen, and lately everything had

seemed like it; therefore, the sudden interest Mr. Murray seemed to take

in Bertie caused Mr. and Mrs. Gregory some uneasiness, especially as the

gentleman said at dinner that evening that the yachting excursion would

have to be put off for some days, as he wished to make the acquaintance

of his old friend's sons, and learn a little more of their history, and

meant to call at their address the next morning.

(_To be continued._)

AN APPLE SONG.

The Autumn sunshine falls so warm,

So warm in the orchard green,

A golden tent is the apple-tree;

And under the leafy screen

Sits Rex, in the curve of a mossy bough,

As high as he can go,

Dropping the apples red and brown

To his Cousin Prue below.

Sweet Prue, knee-deep in the cool green grass,

Spreads wide her pinafore,

The ripe fruit falls in a golden rain,

By two, by three, by four;

With watchful eye and ready hand

She lets no apple fall--

As fast as Rex can throw them down

She catches one and all.

The blackbird on the topmost bough

Is singing loud and clear,

The children shouting at their task

It does him good to hear.

He watches them with his bead-black eyes,

And blither still he sings;

But clearer than dear blackbird's note

The children's laughter rings.

MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VIII.--IN THE FISH-HOUSE.

Of the Fish-house at the London Zoological Gardens it must be said that

its contents are decidedly "mixed," for it is the home not only of a few

specimens of the finny tribe, but also of some wading and diving birds,

of a very curious amphibian, of a few shrimps, and of several of the

beautiful flower-like sea-anemones. The collection, however, loses

nothing in point of interest because of its varied character, and will

repay a good deal more study than it seems to receive from visitors.

[Illustration: SEA-ANEMONES.]

Some of the fishes are as common as the schoolboy's familiar friend, the

minnow. Others, like the cat-fish and sea-horse, are rare--in England,

at any rate. Then there are kinds known to every lover of angling, such

as the perch and pike. Seldom has a popular name been so aptly bestowed

as in the case of the pretty little sea-horses. In the upper half of

their wee bodies they have all the equine look and bearing, but in the

lower half there is a great falling-off in the likeness, excepting that

both animals have tails. But the tail of the sea-horse is a most useful

appendage. The tiny creature can twine it round marine weeds and

vegetables, and by this means drifts along with the current into far

distant seas and strange climes. To this cause the occasional discovery

of foreigners upon British coasts has been ascribed. With regard to the

name of the cat-fish, one must not be quite so particular. There is, on

a cursory glance, enough of the appearance of pussy about the head of

this curious animal to explain how the title came to be applied to it.

It strikes one as being rather a morose and surly creature, an

impression that is fully borne out when one learns that it will fight

desperately when captured.

Though the flounders can scarcely be considered as other than common

fishes, they always are worth watching. Tom Noddy was all head and no

body, but they may be regarded as being nearly all body with very little

head, and the two bright black eyes, which look as if they were "stuck

on," give them a rather comical aspect. You will find them inquisitive,

too. Put your finger in front of their tank, and they will all flock to

see what it is. On the contrary, other fishes, such as the pike and

carp, will remain stolid and indifferent to any movement you may make,

and some, like the timorous trout--for which Isaak Walton loved to angle

above any fish,--will be so dreadfully upset at the appearance of your

digit that they will dart off in every direction.

Little folk may be expected to feel special interest in the pikes, those

"fresh-water wolves" and "tyrants of the rivers," as they have been

styled in consequence of their ferocity. They thrive well despite their

savage gluttony, and attain to a green old age. One was captured in a

pond in Sweden, in 1449, with a ring round its neck, which bore an

inscription which showed that it had been placed in the pond more than

two hundred years before. However that may be, there is no doubt that

the pike is a long liver. It is so destructive, that it will clear a

pond of all the fishes, not hesitating to attack those even that are

nearly as big as itself. There is a case on record of a pike fastening

on the lips of a mule, which had been taken to drink in the pond. They

have been known to bite at swans and geese, and altogether Jack Pike is

a most voracious creature. It may be assumed also that it is unsociable,

for it generally swims about by itself, and not in shoals or in

companies like other fishes.

[Illustration: IN THE ORCHARD. "_AN APPLE SONG_" (_p. 170_).]

Among other inmates of this house which call for mention are carp,

gobies, dace, roach, bullhead, gurnard, mullet, basse, and conger-eels.

They lead a monotonous sort of life, swimming to and fro in their tanks,

in a wearisome way. But their graceful movements and curious colours are

worth notice. The conger-eels are comparatively small specimens. Those

in the deep sea sometimes attain a gigantic size. They are able to use

their tail as a hand, and have been known by means of it to seize the

gunwale of the boat in which they were imprisoned and jump into the sea.

[Illustration: THE MARINE BULLHEAD.]

One of the quaintest and most interesting inmates of the house, however,

is not a fish but an amphibian. There are two groups of amphibians, one

called _tailless_--to which frogs and toads belong--and the other

_tailed_, of which the newt and the axolotl are members. The Zoological

Society are fortunate enough to possess specimens of both the black and

white axolotl. This creature, which is a native of Mexico, has a strange

life-history not unlike that of the frog. It has a sort of tadpole stage

of existence, in which it is furnished with a collar of gills and lives

in the water. After a while it loses its gills, and its tail and legs

grow much less fish-like. There is a kind of lizard look about its

permanent form. In the first period of its history it is styled

_axolotl_; in the final period it becomes known as _amblystome_. They

say its flesh is esteemed a delicacy in Mexico.

Visitors seem to regard the anemones--the "most brilliant of living

flower gardens," as Charles Kingsley called them--as useful in the way

of ornament, and pass their tanks without paying further heed to them.

This is not the case with respect to the diving birds, which are beyond

all question the centre of attraction in the fish-house. The birds

comprise a darter, a cormorant, a guillemot, and a penguin. The

first-named is seldom seen in this country. It is a largish bird with

webbed feet, long thin neck, and spear-like bill. When swimming in the

water with its body entirely submerged, it looks not unlike a snake

forging along. Hence it is also known as the snake-neck. The cormorant

and darter, though here classed for convenience' sake among the divers,

really belong to the pelican family. The guillemot is a diving bird

found in the Northern seas, while the penguin may be looked upon as

representing the divers of the Southern Ocean. The penguin is a most

awkward bird ashore, but in its native element its movements are elegant

and rapid. When the keeper has placed some food in the water-tank, the

darter is fetched from its cage. The bird takes a swim round, then spots

its prey and goes for it with unerring aim. Rising to the surface it

throws the fish in the air, catches it in its beak, and bolts it with

business-like despatch. It then goes fishing again, and after its wants

have been supplied it returns to its house. The other three birds are

allowed to dine together. There is no squabbling amongst them. Enough

fishes are thrown in to keep them occupied for a few minutes. The speed

with which the guillemot cuts the water is truly amazing. Once more one

has an opportunity of noticing the clumsiness of the penguin when it

tries to leave the water. At either end of the tank a platform with

transverse bars is let down for the convenience of the birds, but the

silly penguin, instead of going to the end of the platform and gradually

working its way upward, sometimes endeavours to climb up the side, its

frantic struggles to do so being ludicrous. It does not appear to

possess sufficient sense to find its way out in the easiest manner, for

Mr Keeper has to assist it with a long iron pole with a hook at the end,

by means of which he pushes the bird along to the foot of the platform.

The feeding of the birds is a very instructive performance. Unless some

such occasion were afforded us of seeing these essentially aquatic birds

in the water, one could not have the slightest idea of the power and

grace of their movements.

And in leaving the fish-house let me say that this educational value, so

to speak, of the Zoological Gardens undoubtedly forms one of their

strongest claims upon public support.

JAMES A. MANSON.

WHAT CAME OF A FOXGLOVE.

A FAIRY STORY.

Behind, before, in the branches of the trees, amongst the blades of

grass, creeping under the mushrooms, swinging on the foxgloves, and

clinging to the ragged-robin, were the fairies.

Blanche and Belinda did not see them, because of the bright golden

sunshine, which hides the fairies from mortal sight; but the fairies saw

the two girls walking arm in arm through the wood.

Blanche stooped to gather a splendid crimson foxglove, which she shook

gently, saying,

"The bells shall ring

For the fairy king;

Ding, dong, bell!

Ding, dong, bell!"

But, alas! as she shook it, no fewer than seven little fairy pages fell

to the ground. They were not much hurt, but they were very indignant at

being knocked about in that manner; also the feathers in their caps were

much ruffled.

They sprang to their feet feeling very angry, especially as the other

fairies were laughing.

"We are the Queen's pages,

And very great our rage is!"

they shouted.

And then, as they looked more carefully at one another and saw how

tossed and tumbled were their pretty suits of embroidered white velvet,

they burst out crying, saying--

"We are not fit to be seen

By her Majesty the Queen;

Our clothes are all blue and green,

Who will wash and make them clean?"

"I will," said the Fairy Queen; "I saw it all, and I am very angry.

My pages shall not be

Treated so shamefully!"

And her face grew as red as a peony.

But Blanche and Belinda knew nothing of all this; they had not any idea

that the fairies were in the wood.

Blanche had just thrown down the foxglove, for suddenly there issued out

of every flower clusters of bees, that buzzed and hummed and made a

dense cloud around the two little sisters until they could not see one

another.

II.

And then--

Why, suddenly all the bees disappeared as quickly as they had come, and

all was sunshine and brightness again; and Belinda was not stung, though

she looked at her arms and hands, and felt her forehead and cheeks and

neck, expecting to be covered with great smarting lumps. Instead of

which, she had never been freer from pain; and the world around had

never looked so beautiful as it did to-day, with so many butterflies of

divers colours, and great green dragon-flies, that she wondered where

they all came from. The wood-path, too, grew more lovely, and patches of

blue sky appeared through the branches of the trees.

All at once she cried out--

"Blanche! Blanche!"

For Blanche was nowhere to be seen; and though she hunted in and out

among the trees and bushes, she could not find her. No one answered,

except the echoes repeating, "Blanche! Blanche! where are you?"

[Illustration: "WALKING ARM IN ARM."]

And then Belinda sat down, and she began to cry.

[Illustration: "HE ... STOOD WITH HIS HAT IN HIS HAND."]

III.

Belinda cried for half an hour without stopping, and her eyes were

swollen up, and her cheeks wet with tears. Some one was standing by her,

and a voice was saying--

"Why are you crying, little girl, I pray,

On such a pleasant sunny summer day?

I'm a little packman, with my funny pack.

Such a weight! oh, such a weight! to carry on my back.

What will you buy, maiden? what will you buy?

Half a dozen handkerchiefs, to wipe your cheeks quite dry?"

Belinda looked up, and in her surprise left off crying. Before her stood

a small boy with a bundle of wheat over his shoulder. He looked tired

and melancholy, and not by any means as jovial as might have been

expected from his words.

"Handkerchiefs!" said Belinda, disdainfully. "Why, you've nothing but a

wisp of straw over your shoulder, and it can't be any weight."

"Try it," said the boy, throwing it down upon the ground.

But Belinda took no notice of it.

"And you're not a packman, only a little boy," she said, angrily; "how

can you tell such stories?"

The melancholy-looking boy answered--

"Perhaps I'm a king in disguise,

Although of a very small size;

If you were a little more wise,

You might find in my pack a great prize.

However, I'll leave it for you, and the first young gentleman you meet

with will, perhaps, pick it up and carry it home for you; for you will

soon find you are not able to lift it yourself."

And so saying the boy turned away, and Belinda was again alone.

"Not lift a few ears of corn," she said, giving a slight kick to the

heap at her feet.

But as her foot touched it it was no longer a bundle of wheat, but a

sack tied close at the mouth, and it expanded until it was as large as

Belinda herself. Added to which there appeared to be something alive in

it, for it moved from side to side as though some creature were

struggling inside.

"Oh! perhaps it is Blanche!" exclaimed Belinda, "and the boy has brought

her back. He said 'a great prize,' and a king in disguise. He may have

been a fairy, who can tell?"

And she tried to open the sack, but to no purpose, for she only tore

her fingers and made them bleed, and the blood dropped down on her frock

and stained it, and she grew very hot.

There was a glassy pool close by, so she knelt down and bathed her hands

and face; and as she rose up she caught sight of herself in the pool,

and for a moment she scarcely knew herself, for she was dressed so

grandly. She had on a pink satin gown and a white satin apron with

cherry-coloured bows, and a gauze cap, and red shoes with gold buckles.

"I wonder wherever these clothes could come from?" she said aloud.

[Illustration]

The sack gave a roll, and whatever might be within was evidently trying

to get out. And again she called out--

"Blanche! Blanche!"

She tried to lift up the sack, for she thought if she could drag it

along she might in time find some one who could open it.

But she found that the melancholy boy was right, she could not move it.

"And I am not likely to meet with any one in this part of the wood."

IV.

Some one was whistling in the distance.

Belinda listened.

Then she cried out, "Help! help!"

The footsteps came nearer, and a boy in a fine suit came along. As soon

as he saw Belinda he made a low bow, and stood with his hat in his hand.

"This must be a gentleman," thought Belinda, "or he would not be so

polite."

But she did not speak.

"Did you not cry out for help?" asked the youth.

"Yes," replied Belinda; "I have lost Blanche, and I want some one to

find her, and to help me to carry this bag; for I can't lift it, and I

believe there is a prize in it."

"Prize!" repeated the boy; "I should think there was! Why this bag is

full of wonderful magic toys, and if you let them out they will search

the world over until they find anything that you have lost. Where did

you get them from?"

"A boy with a bundle of corn brought the sack. At least it wasn't a

sack, but it turned into one--and----"

"It must have been Oberon himself, the King of the Fairies, you know,

who brought the sack to you."

[Illustration: "OUT RUSHED THE TOYS."]

"Ah!" returned Belinda, "he did say something about a king in disguise,

but I did not believe him."

"Perhaps if you had been more polite," answered the boy, "you would have

found Blanche back by this time, for he knows all about her. The Queen

has carried her away because she knocked her little pages about."

"Knocked her little pages about! you are as foolish as the other boy.

But if you know so much, pray where has the Queen hidden her?"

"How should I know?" replied the boy.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Belinda, and she began to cry again.

"Do be wise," said the boy; "crying does no good."

"Wise, prize, size, disguise," murmured Belinda.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing!" said Belinda.

"That is not true," he answered; "you said some words; say them again."

And as Belinda repeated the words the boy lifted up the sack quite

easily, and cut the string that fastened it, with his knife. And his

clothes changed even as Belinda's had done. He wore now a sort of helmet

with a plume of feathers in it, and a slashed dress; and he knelt down

and opened the mouth of the sack. Ah! was not Belinda astonished, for

out rushed the toys--such toys--all of them able to move about. One of

them, a man on horseback, galloped away over a bridge, in the distance;

another ran up the mountain with a donkey following after him. A woman

and a little child next rushed down into the valley, so did a boy with a

dog that did not look like a dog running behind him.

[Illustration]

To all of these the youth said--

"Now be kind,

Find, find, find!"

Belinda gazed in astonishment, for never had she seen such toys before.

"Now," said the boy, as a white horse with a cart behind it emerged from

a heap of carriages and toy soldiers, "jump in, and you and I will drive

about the world till we find Blanche."

"But we can't possibly get in," returned Belinda; "it is too small for

one, certainly for two."

"Do not be stupid," said the boy; "almost all mischief comes from

stupidity; get in whilst I hold the horse."

How Belinda got into the little cart she did not know; but in it she was

with the boy beside her, and he was driving as fast as he could go. And

there was plenty of room for both.

The toy soldiers had mounted their horses and were riding behind them

and at the side of them, for the boy had said--

"Mount quickly, guards."

And as they went along, Belinda presently heard the man on horseback and

the woman and all the magic toys come clattering after them as hard as

they could come.

"Ah!" observed the boy; "we are on the right path; the King has sent

them after us."

"The King!"

"Yes; did you not see a toll-man on the bridge?"

"No," answered Belinda; but she whispered to herself, "a king in

disguise; wise, prize, size."

"You are getting more sensible," said the boy, as he drove faster and

faster till the white cart-horse seemed to turn into a race-horse, he

went so swiftly.

"There will be an accident," said Belinda.

And so there was, for the cart-wheel flew off, and down went the cart,

and Belinda and the boy were tumbled into a ditch, whence they

scrambled out and rolled down a grassy slope, on and on and on, such a

distance that Belinda felt quite giddy.

"This is the end of the drive," said the boy; "we need not trouble about

the horse and cart. Follow me."

And Belinda followed him.

He pushed aside the red chestnut flowers and the sycamore branches, and

as he did so all the birds seemed to wake up, and to sing a wonderfully

beautiful song. There were nightingales singing, though it was day, and

the larks were carolling as blithely as at early morn. As for the

thrushes, their voices were so clear that Belinda was sure she could

hear the words they were saying.

Of course it was poetry, only Belinda had never heard such beautiful

poetry before.

And the waterfall was singing, so was the brook, but they sang a

different song.

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Slumbering let the maiden lie,

Sweetest dreams shall float around her,

Magic blossoms shall surround her.

Fairy chains shall keep her still,

Fairy wand ward off all ill,

Gnat or fly shall not come nigh,

Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Sleep, sweet maiden, fear no harm,

Potent is the fairy charm."

"Oh, boy! are they talking about Blanche?"

"Hush!" said he; "come quietly."

Belinda came softly, and looked where he pointed, and would have cried

out--

"Blanche!"

[Illustration]

But the boy put his hand over her mouth.

Nevertheless they had found Blanche.

Yes! there she was fast asleep on a crimson cushion with tall white

lilies and bright poppies and splendid foxgloves nodding all round her

and drowsily ringing their sweet bells; whilst a flood of fairy light

fell over her. She looked very happy, as though she were having pleasant

dreams.

"Kiss her," said the boy.

And Belinda stooped and kissed her.

And then Blanche opened wide her eyes, saying.

"Where have you been?" she asked; "I have had such a nice sleep. It all

came from the foxglove."

Belinda looked round to thank the boy, but he had vanished.

So had the cushion and the lilies, and the poppies.

"Why it's the old woodpath again," murmured Belinda. "I know the place

quite well. Size, wise, prize, disguise; disguise, prize, size, wise,"

she repeated; "yes, the young gentleman must have been a king in

disguise."

Blanche looked surprised.

"Yes, that is just what I was dreaming of. I thought I had really quite

lost you, and he brought you to me."

Perhaps the youth was Oberon; but if so, of course he never told them.

"But he must have been a great many Oberons," Belinda went on, musing;

"the melancholy packboy, the toll-man, the young gentleman! Ah! it is of

no use thinking about it, one only gets confused."

[Illustration: "SHE WAS FAST ASLEEP."]

But if she had had ears to listen to fairy music, she would have heard

this song:--

"Each little page

Hath lost his rage,

The punishment is o'er;

The sisters twain

Have met again,

To separate no more.

So 'tis decreed by Queen and King,

Who now the two together bring."

JULIA GODDARD.

DAISY AND DOLLY.

Beneath the poplars' leafy screen

The shade is cool and sweet,

Where Daisy sits like any queen--

The sunbeams kiss her feet,

Steal round the border of her dress,

And one white dimpled arm caress.

She holds her dainty parasol

Above her playmate's head,

Lest the hot sun should touch her doll,

And fade the lovely red

In dolly's rosy cheek that lies,

Or dim her beautiful blue eyes.

She weaves a pretty dream, I know,

All in the garden shady,

How dolly was, long, long ago,

A little fairy lady,

And held her court on a green, green knoll,

Ere she became a mortal doll.

She thinks her blue-eyed pet knows all

The solemn words she speaks,

And feels the kisses soft that fall

Upon her mouth and cheeks:

And often when I see the two

I wish I were the doll--don't you? R.

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

_By_ EDWIN HODDER ("OLD MERRY").

III.--ROYAL FUNERALS IN THE ABBEY.

On the occasion of our last visit to the Abbey, I told you a little

about the coronations that have taken place within its walls, and apart

from the venerable fane itself, the principal object connected with that

long chain of events was the antique royal chair, standing in the Chapel

of Edward the Confessor. Returning to the same spot, we will now look

around us, and we soon see that we are in the midst of a burying-place

of English kings. Sebert and his Queen Ethelgoda have their monument

beside the gate at the entrance to the chapels; but there is no

authentic account of a funeral here before that of Edward the Confessor,

whose ashes, after three removals, repose in the shrine close beside us.

It was on January 5th, 1066, just after the consecration of his

beautiful new Abbey, that the soul of St. Edward passed away. Englishmen

were filled with gloomy forebodings at the event. Crowds flocked to see

the body as it lay in the palace, with an unearthly smile on its rosy

cheeks, and with the long thin fingers interlaced across the bosom.

Then, attired in royal robes, and bedecked with crown, crucifix, and

golden chain, they laid the remains before the High Altar of the Abbey.

His wife Edith was afterwards laid beside him. After the Conquest, royal

personages for a time were buried in Normandy, till "the good Queen

Maud," the wife of Henry I. and niece of Edgar Atheling, was laid

beside the Confessor. In rebuilding the Abbey, Henry III. provided a new

shrine, to which the remains of the now canonised Edward were removed,

and in which (except for a short time) they have since remained.

Behind the shrine the king placed some holy relics, including a tooth of

St. Athanasius, and a stone said to show a footprint of our Lord. For

fifty years Henry watched his new Abbey growing to completion, and

determined it should be the burying-place of himself and the Plantagenet

line. He was laid temporarily in the place from which the Confessor's

bones had been taken. His son Edward I., returning from the Holy Land,

brought home porphyry, slates, and precious marbles to build the tomb to

which Henry's body was transferred about twenty years after his death.

The Abbess of Fontevrault was then in London, and the late king's heart

was delivered into her hands to be deposited in the foreign home of the

Plantagenets.

[Illustration: DAISY AND DOLLY. (_See p._ 176.)]

Henceforward many royal personages were brought to be buried near the

Confessor's shrine; but I shall only mention the more prominent. When

Queen Eleanor died in 1291, the course of the funeral _cortége_ from

Lincoln to London was marked by twelve memorial crosses, and the Abbots

of Westminster were bound to have a hundred wax lights burning round her

grave for ever on the anniversary of her death. In 1307, after having

placed in the Confessor's Chapel the golden crown of the last Welsh

Prince, Llewellyn, and the Stone of Fate from Scotland, Edward I. was

himself brought here to lie beneath the rough monument, from which it

was hoped that, in accordance with his dying wish, his bones might at

some time be taken and carried through Scotland at the head of a

conquering army.

In 1394, Richard II. buried here his beloved Queen Anne, the friend of

the followers of Wickliffe. The palace of Sheen in which she died was

destroyed by her sorrowing husband, and immense sums were spent on her

funeral. For asking to go away before the ceremony was completed, the

Earl of Arundel was struck on the head with a cane by the king, and

brought to the ground with his blood flowing on to the Abbey pavement.

The affair caused so much delay, that darkness came on before all was

over. The tomb that covers her remains was intended by her husband for

both, but whether Richard II. sleeps in the tomb that bears his name or

not must remain a matter of doubt. Henry IV. brought a corpse from

Pontefract to Langley, and Henry V. transferred it to this tomb; but few

believed it to be really the body of the murdered king.

England had never seen a grander royal funeral than that of Henry V. He

died at Vincennes, and with great pomp his body was brought by Paris to

London. At every stage between Dover and London, and again at St.

Paul's, and at the Abbey, funeral services were performed. The closing

scenes were very impressive, as the funeral car, amidst a blaze of

torches borne by hundreds of surpliced priests, and followed by his

three favourite chargers, came up the nave to the altar steps. Room for

the tomb was made by clearing away the holy relics behind the

Confessor's shrine. Here was placed the magnificent piece of

workmanship, which we now behold, a tomb below, and above a chantry, in

which for a year thirty poor persons were to read the Psalter of the

Virgin and special prayers for the repose of Henry's soul. At the back

of the chantry hung the king's indented helmet (in all probability the

one worn at Agincourt), his shield, and his saddle. In the arch beneath

lies the headless effigy of Henry, the silver head having been carried

off when Henry VIII. was robbing the churches.

Henry VI. was very fond of the Abbey. He chose a place for his tomb, and

even paid the first instalment for its erection, in readiness for his

own demise. But the civil wars hindered its completion; and I have

already told you how Henry VII. meant to raise a special chapel for him

and altered his mind.

We will pass on now into the Chapel of Henry VII., the grand mausoleum

of a race of kings, who looked back (as Stanley points out) not to

Saxon Edward, but to British Arthur, as their great ancestor. A gloomy

porch conducts us into a blaze of splendour. Walls, ceilings, and arches

are richly decorated; the "stone seems by the cunning labours of the

chisel (says Washington Irving) to have been robbed of its weight and

density, suspended aloft as if by magic." Nobody seems to be quite sure

who was the architect of this beautiful piece of workmanship. The king

lavished vast sums of money on the costly edifice, and left plenty with

the abbot for its completion after his death. And in the stalls monks

were to sing masses for the repose of his soul, "while the world lasts."

In April, 1509, Henry died, and was placed beside his Queen, Elizabeth

of York, in the great vault beneath the chapel floor. His mother,

Margaret, Countess of Richmond, was brought here three months

afterwards, of whom it was said, "Everyone that knew her loved her, and

everything that she said or did became her." She endowed charities,

founded colleges, ended the civil wars by marrying her son to Elizabeth

of York, and protected Caxton in his early labours.

At the Reformation there was a carrying off of relics, a rifling of

tombs, and a temporary disturbance of the Confessor's bones. But the

royal tombs saved the Abbey from destruction, although Protector

Somerset was on the point of pulling it down to build his new palace in

the Strand. Edward VI. was buried here, and Anne of Cleves, and then, in

1558, came Queen Mary, the last English monarch interred with Roman

Catholic solemnities. In the same tomb reposes her sister Elizabeth, at

whose funeral the national mourning was intense. An old chronicler tells

us that, as her coffin was borne through the streets crowded with

spectators, "there was such a general sighing, groaning, and weeping, as

the like hath not been seen or known in the memory of man; neither doth

any history mention any people, time, or state, to make like lamentation

for the death of their sovereign." The tomb was raised above the two

sisters by James I. He also raised the monument to his mother, Mary

Queen of Scots, in the south aisle, and had her body removed to it from

Peterborough. Devout Scots visited this tomb, as the shrine of a saint,

and many miracles were said to have taken place here.

In the north aisle of this chapel, beside two infant children of James

I., are the remains of the murdered princes brought from the Tower. In

the south aisle lies Henry Frederick, Prince of Wales, of whom such high

hopes were entertained. Two thousand mourners swelled his funeral

procession, but no monument marks his resting-place. Three years later

the corpse of Arabella Stuart, the king's cousin, whom some would have

put in his place, was brought up the Thames from the Tower at midnight,

and placed without ceremony in the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots. James

I. came here in 1625 and was laid in the tomb of Henry VII.

Under the Commonwealth the royal monuments suffered no harm; their

dilapidations date (as we have said) from Henry VIII's time. The mother,

sister, and favourite daughter of Cromwell were buried here; the great

Protector himself was interred in the august Chapel of Henry VII.

amongst the royal dead. For two months the body lay in state at Somerset

House in a room hung with black, and lit with innumerable black candles.

Then there was a grand procession, a magnificent hearse, and the usual

ceremonies of a royal funeral. On the 30th of January, 1661, Cromwell,

Ireton, and Bradshaw were dragged from their tombs to Tyburn, and there

hanged and beheaded. Their bodies were buried beneath the gallows, and

their heads set up over Westminster Hall.

Charles I. was to have been brought from Windsor to a grand tomb in the

Abbey, but Charles II. applied the £70,000 voted for this purpose to

other uses, and the matter dropped. This king's funeral was a hurried

affair--it took place at night without pomp of any kind. To the same

narrow vault was brought William III. Mary, after her death on December

28th, 1694, had been interred here--"one of the saddest days," says

Macaulay, "that Westminster had ever seen." She was the first English

sovereign who was followed to her grave by both Houses of Parliament, as

in other cases Parliament had expired with the sovereign.

Eleven children of James II. and eighteen children of Queen Anne lie

around the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots. Queen Anne herself was brought

in a coffin more enormous than that which inclosed the gigantic frame of

her husband, Prince George, to the vault of her sister Mary. George II.

and Queen Caroline repose in a black marble sarcophagus in the centre of

the Chapel of Henry VII. And now Westminster Abbey ceased to be a

burial-place of English kings and queens. George III. constructed a

vault at Windsor for himself and his numerous family, and there his

descendants have been interred.

THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN SEPTEMBER.

The month of September is one of even more fickle and changeable a

nature than most others; it is, however, one of very great importance to

those who are desirous of securing plenty of geranium and other

cuttings, for the next summer's work; because, should the month by

chance happen to be a dry one, it will be almost impossible to obtain

very many in consequence of so little growth being made. If, on the

other hand, plenty of rain fall during the latter part of August and

throughout September growth will be made both rapidly and vigorously,

whereby cuttings can be taken almost _ad infinitum_. When the weather is

of a congenial nature, perhaps few months in the year are more enjoyable

in one's garden than that of September.

* * * * *

The present month is the best one in which to consider the various

effects--good or bad--which have been secured by growing certain plants

in juxta-position with others. All incongruities or extremes arising

from misplaced judgment or uncertain taste should be at once noted in a

pocket-book reserved exclusively for gardening notes, comments, &c. It

is ever so much easier to determine the proper positions of various

colours, and situations of certain plants, when they are at the

perfection of their beauty, than it is to allot them to certain

imaginary quarters on plans, however skilfully drawn up, in winter.

Indeed, it may be stated without reservation, that the only satisfactory

means of insuring an harmonious blending and contrast of colours is by

comparing the relative position which one plant of a certain colour and

habit should occupy to another and different plant, when growth is

perfected.

* * * * *

Most bedding plants can be induced to continue flowering for a

considerable period longer, if deprived of their seed-vessels so soon as

these are formed, than they would otherwise do; geraniums, more

especially. Not only does it hasten their decay to allow seeds to ripen,

but materially enfeebles the entire plant. It is wise to secure as much

beauty as is possible just now from your gardens, as a single and

unexpected frosty night will destroy almost everything; nothing is more

ephemeral than floral beauty.

* * * * *

As last month, the chief attractions in the garden will be dahlias and

hollyhocks; fine displays of roses often delight us throughout the

autumnal months, and the last rose of summer charms us quite as much as

the first one of spring. Rose-cuttings may still be taken, and those

inserted last month should by this time be well-rooted plants, if

properly treated, and must at once undergo a process of being gradually

hardened off to the open air. Growing rose-shoots, having plenty of

buds, must be carefully tied in. As regards very strong-growing plants

which will need keeping within bounds, the operation of cutting them

back requires the very greatest care, and our readers should get a

practical gardener, if possible, to point out those which need trimming,

and those to be left alone. Most young people possessing a knife

generally commence sundry manoeuvres on the first plant or tree within

reach, and generally with very disastrous results. Trimming and pruning

of all sorts should, therefore, be only done by practical hands, and

then the life of the plant will be in pretty safe keeping.

* * * * *

Dahlias will require plenty of attention until frost commences its

havocs; shoots will need thinning, and the branches must be secured to

stout stakes firmly placed in the earth; autumnal winds wreak great

destruction among such branches as are insecurely made fast, and a

number of handsome blooms are thus destroyed without coming to

perfection. Insects are very fond of infesting dahlias, and their

depredations must be guarded against. Hollyhocks, if entirely free from

disease, will still be handsome objects, but their beauty will be

somewhat on the wane; seeds may be saved from the best flowers, and

should be sown at once in a pan of light sandy soil, and placed in a

cold frame. Rooted layers of carnations of all sorts and of every

section should now be planted out into a rich light soil, or, what is

more preferable, two can be placed in a 5-inch or 6-inch pot, and

wintered thus under glass. Asters of various kinds, such as Chinese and

German, will now be in full beauty, and where large single flower-heads

are a desideratum, only two or three must be allowed beyond the bud

stage. Asters are among the prettiest of autumn flowers, and for

children's gardens we would recommend what are known as "Dwarf Bouquet."

* * * * *

The present month is the one during which all tender or half-hardy

plants used in summer gardening are "housed," or removed to their winter

quarters under glass. It is courting failure to allow such plants as

chrysanthemums, auriculas, geraniums, and many others, to be exposed to

the influence of cold, frosty nights, as when the "fell destroyer"

commences to exert its power all plants touched by it rapidly decay.

Gladioli will now be clothed in the full glory of their gaudy, but

handsome dress; they are comparatively easy to manage in well-drained

spots, and being such continuous bloomers, at least three or four or

even half a dozen should be in every small garden. In winter they must

be covered by about six inches of litter; but in cold and ill-drained

soils it will be safer to take the roots up during October, keeping

these in a dry situation until the following spring.

LEGENDS OF THE FLOWERS.

THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL.

When skies are bright and winter's o'er,

And leaves and flowers return once more,

A little blossom 'mongst the grass

Peeps at wayfarers as they pass.

'Mongst gayer buds of larger size

It modest opes its purple eyes;

And those who love the flowers know well

The little Scarlet Pimpernel.

It hath a story of its own,

That unto country-folk is known;

For Nature's hand hath given it strange

Perception of the weather's change.

If clear will be the day, and fair,

It opens wide its petals rare;

But if the clouds should threaten rain,

It shuts them up quite close again.

The shepherds love the little flower

That tells them of the changeful hour,

And many a one asks, "Tell me, pray,

What weather there will be to-day."

And so in time another name,

In honour of its rare gift, came;

And the wee blossom 'mongst the grass

Was called the "Shepherd's Weather-glass."

Our Music Page.

"Let's away to the Woods."

_In moderate time._

_Words and Music by_ CHARLES BASSETT.

VOICE.

1. The tints of the trees are mellowing down From their summer green to

a russet brown, And many a harvest is over and past, For Autumn has

chas'd away Summer at last.

2. The summer's warm glow has not died from the land, But is seen and

felt upon ev'ry hand; From the orchard where apples hang ripe on the

trees, To the thicket where nuts nod and dance in the breeze.

3. The birds sweetly sing as they soar in the sky, And the squirrels

frisk in the branches high; And it makes me as happy and merry as they

To roam in the woods on a bright autumn day.

Then away, let's away to the woods, Where the nuts and

blackberries grow, Where the flow'rs at our feet send forth fragrance

sweet--To the woods, to the woods let us go!... To the woods let us

go!....

[Illustration: THE EDITOR'S POCKET-BOOK.

JOTTINGS AND PENCILLINGS, HERE, THERE AND EVERYWHERE]

Who were the Janizaries?

About 1330 the Sultan Orkhan formed a military force out of Christian

prisoners who had been compelled to become Mohammedans, and to these was

given the name of Janizaries, from two Turkish words meaning new troops.

A few years later they were more regularly organised, and granted

special privileges, their number being increased to 10,000. Though for a

time their ranks continued to be recruited from Christian prisoners, the

service began, at length, to attract young Turks. Their chief officer,

called the _aga_, wielded almost unlimited power. They fought on foot

and were noted for the impetuosity of their charge. In course of time

they manifested a rebellious spirit, often being the cause of

conspiracies, riots, atrocities, and assassinations of rulers,

statesmen, and high officials, and ultimately they grew to be more

formidable to the Sultan than even foreign foes. Attempts to disband

them were unsuccessful till Sultan Mahmoud II. finding himself opposed

by them in 1826, managed to excite against them the fanatical zeal of

other portions of his troops. Deserted by their _aga_ and other

officers, they were utterly crushed, their barracks were burned, and

their force was declared, on June 17, 1826, to be for ever dissolved. It

is estimated that 15,000 of them were executed and more than 20,000

banished. In this way this once famous body of men was extinguished.

A Canine Guide.

A Lincolnshire farmer has a dog that for practical wisdom will compare

favourably with most men. Should its master leave anything--such as a

stick or gloves--on the farm, he has but to make known by a sign the

fact of his loss when off the dog will trudge, and not come home till it

has found the missing article. It will permit a well-dressed man to

enter the farm-yard by day, but should a beggar put in an appearance

this respecter of persons will gently seize him by his clothes and see

him safely off the premises. By night, however, all strangers approach

at their peril. The farmer's sister lives on the adjoining farm,

communication between the two farms being obtained by means of a single

plank across the deep ditch that separates them. Sometimes the farmer's

children want to visit their aunt, and they are always entrusted to the

care of the dog. It marshals them in a small troop, conducts them to the

bridge, where a halt is called. The bairns are then taken over one by

one, doggie seizing hold from behind of the child's dress. It then waits

for the return journey and escorts them home in the same way.

The Taming of Bucephalus.

Bucephalus, the famous steed of Alexander the Great, is said to have

been broken in in the following manner. The horse was so fierce and

unmanageable that no one would ride it. It had broken one man's neck,

another man's leg, and seriously injured several others. An animal with

such a reputation no doubt excited a good deal of attention, and

Alexander was one day watching it in the Hippodrome or Circus, when it

struck him that the horse was rendered ungovernable by fear of its own

shadow. Accordingly he mounted it, and running it against the sun--so

that its shadow fell behind--in due time succeeded in thoroughly

subduing it. Tradition stated that through being the first to break in

Bucephalus--which became his favourite charger--Alexander had fulfilled

the condition which had been declared by an oracle to be necessary to

his gaining the crown of Macedon.

The Price of a Picture by Landseer.

Sir Edwin Landseer's magnificent stag-picture called, "The Monarch of

the Glen," and well known all over the world from engravings, was

recently exposed to auction, when it fetched the enormous price of

£6,510. It is said that the painter sold it off his easel for 800

guineas. The bidding at the sale began at £2,000, and by bids of one

hundred guineas reached £4,000, at which price it was hoped that it

might have been secured for the National Gallery. The competition,

however, continued beyond that sum, until the picture was sold for 6,200

guineas. Only one other picture by Landseer has brought a higher

price--namely, the famous Polar Bear subject, "Man proposes, but God

disposes," which realised £6,615.

"Ignoramus."

As commonly used nowadays this term is equivalent to "dunce," but it was

originally employed as a law term. It is a Latin word, and literally

translated means, "we do not know." In former days when a grand jury

considered that a bill or indictment was not supported by sufficient

evidence to prove the need for a trial, they wrote the word "ignoramus"

on the back of it, signifying that they rejected it. The words used in

present practice are simply "not a true bill," or "not found." But in

course of time the old Latin term was made serviceable, as we have seen,

in a new way.

Saved by South Sea Islanders.

Considering the reputation that most of the South Sea Islands used to

enjoy for cannibalistic practices, it is pleasing to read that the

natives of one of the isles in the Marshall group in the South Pacific

Ocean rescued the crew of a vessel wrecked near Ujaal Island. A number

of natives went in their boats to the wreck and took off the crew and a

lady passenger, conveying them to an island some fifteen miles from the

spot where the ship was lost, and treating them with great kindness.

Tents were erected out of the sails of the wrecked vessel, which were

removed for the purpose.

A Strange Vow.

Not long since there died in a workhouse in Southwark a pedlar who used

to sell odds-and-ends on a tray on London Bridge, and who pretended to

be deaf and dumb. It is said that, though clothed in rags, he was a

Swiss gentleman of means who, stung by remorse, had vowed not to open

his lips for ten years, to go bareheaded and barefooted, and to abandon

for twenty years all the advantages of his fortune. His vow was rigidly

kept, and at the period of his death he was in the fourteenth year of

his singular penance.

Honour among Cats.

Seeing that pussy is by no means friendly to birds, it is rather

gratifying to hear of a cat that was entrusted with the care of a

shopful of birds and was true to her trust. She was shut in the shop for

the purpose of doing battle with such rats and mice as might put in an

appearance; and discharged this duty with signal success. Yet though it

may have been--at first at any rate--a sore trial to her to keep her

paws off the birds, she was able to resist every temptation to gratify

her natural tastes, and might even have been seen quietly snoozing on

the top of one of the cages.

Memory in Parrots.

These birds have retentive memories. A parrot that belonged to a lady

recognised a black servant after three years' absence. Another bird was

so fierce that no one in the house liked to touch it, but it would allow

a lady visitor to handle it with impunity. It was at last given away, as

its ill temper seemed incurable. About three years later this lady

called upon a friend, when a parrot in the corner of the room became

greatly excited. As it was generally very quiet in its demeanour, its

mistress remarked the unusual behaviour, but her visitor on going up to

the cage recognised her old friend of the savage disposition, which had

not forgotten her. When she spoke to it the bird was much pleased, and

came on to her hand and fondled her.

The Clock-tower in Darmstadt Palace.

The residential palace in Darmstadt, where Queen Victoria made a brief

stay in the spring of this year, has a clock-tower the chimes in which

discourse sweet music four times every hour. At the first quarter they

strike up a verse of the stirring "Watch on the Rhine;" at the half-hour

the familiar notes of "God save the Queen" fall upon the listener's ear;

at the third quarter an air from the well-known opera of the "Marriage

of Figaro," enlivens the palace; while the hour is hailed with the

bridal chorus from Wagner's "Lohengrin."

Oiling the Waves.

During the last two or three years a good deal has been heard of

experiments for calming an angry sea by pouring oil upon the troubled

waters. This has been proved to have a marked effect, but it is

interesting to note that the idea is by no means new. In 1844

experiments were made in the North Sea, with a view to test this special

property, and though several gallons were used on the occasion, no

diminution of their rage was noticed in the waves. Captain Wilkes,

however, the commander of the United States Exploring Expedition in

the Antarctic Ocean, 1838-42, observed that the oil leaking from a

whaler had a stilling influence upon the sea. And this quite agrees with

the result of nearly, if not all, recent trials.

[Illustration: ACTIVE VOLCANO IN RÉUNION.]

Spider Knicknacks.

A large trade is done at Santa Barbara, in South California, in the

preparation of stuffed specimens of a big, ugly, vicious, poisonous

spider. Cards decorated with these insect monsters are readily bought by

tourists, by museums, and by science schools. This spider excites great

curiosity on account of the nest with trap-door which it constructs with

much skill, but though its native valleys abound with countless numbers

of the homes and tunnels, yet hardly a living spider can be seen. It is

for this reason, doubtless, that the demand for stuffed specimens is so

considerable as to engage wholesale merchants as well as retail

shopkeepers in meeting its supply.

An Affectionate Dog.

Early this year, a lady died in New York. She had had a Skye terrier as

a pet for twelve years, and during the two months of her illness it

remained by her bed. After the funeral it took up its old position by

the bed, refusing to eat. A few days afterwards it found a pair of its

mistress's shoes which had been thrown out of doors. The faithful animal

brought them in its mouth to the bedroom, placed them on the floor, laid

its fore paws and head across them, and continued in this position for

several hours. Early one morning its mournful cries aroused the

household, and exactly a week, to the very hour, after its mistress's

death, the poor terrier expired beside the bed, its head and paws still

resting on the cast-off shoes. This story shows how keenly some animals

feel the loss of those who have treated them kindly.

A Sagacious Cavalry Horse.

Some weeks since a gentleman was knocked down by a cab in a busy street

in London, and owed his escape from what might have proved a fatal

accident to the sagacity of the horse by which the cab was driven. The

hansom cab was going along at an ordinary pace, and the gentleman (who

carried a bundle of papers) tried to pass it. In doing so he was knocked

down, his papers were scattered, and he was himself in imminent danger

of being run over, as the driver did not notice the accident in time to

pull up. The horse, however, happened to be an old cavalry horse, and it

neatly stepped over the prostrate body of the gentleman and stopped just

as the wheels of the vehicle had reached his body. The gentleman was

then dragged from his perilous position, much shaken and frightened, but

in other respects uninjured.

[Illustration]

What is a Nabob?

You have now and again met with the phrase, "rich as a nabob," and have

perhaps wondered what a nabob had to do with riches. I will tell you.

Under the Mogul Empire the provinces of India were administered by

deputies called _nawâb_, who commonly amassed great wealth and lived in

much splendour. The title was used under British rule, but became

gradually corrupted into _nabob_. In course of time it was applied

generally to all natives who had grown rich, and latterly it was

bestowed--more often in a derisive sense--upon Europeans who, having

made large fortunes in India, returned to their native land and spent

their money in a luxurious and ostentatious way.

A Curious Volcano.

Most active volcanoes have nothing very remarkable about them so far as

the discharge of lava is concerned. In the Isle of Bourbon or Réunion,

which lies in the Indian Ocean, there is, however, a volcano which is in

a state of eruption twice every year. It occupies about one-sixth of the

whole island, it often changes its crater, and the streams of lava

sometimes reach to the sea. The surrounding district is called the

Burned Land, from the desert aspect which it always wears. From the

accompanying picture it will be seen that this volcano occasionally has

several sources of lava.

The "Little Folks" Humane Society.

_THIRTY-FIRST LIST OF OFFICERS AND MEMBERS._

_Officers' Names are printed in Small Capital Letters, and the Names of

their Members are printed beneath. Where a short line, thus "----," is

printed, the end of an Officer's List is indicated._