Eddie flushed and hurried away. He would not for the world acknowledge

it, but his cousin's success was the secret of Eddie's discontent. He

could not bear to see Agnes do everything better than he did himself,

and he was ashamed of his jealousy, instead of trying to overcome it. He

had been just three months with his uncle, and every day he complained

that he had done nothing; his uncle complained too, in a very kind,

gentle way, that Eddie did not try, but he was far too easy-tempered and

good-natured to be severe on Eddie, for he thought the poor lad had not

become quite accustomed to his altered fortune. And in truth, Eddie did

miss Riversdale, and his pony, and the other luxuries he had been

accustomed to all his life; he had not the same happy temper as Bertie,

and he often grieved his Aunt Amy by lamenting over his loss of fortune,

and the gloomy view he took of the future. It was in vain that Agnes

begged of him to do just the work that came to his hand, to listen

attentively to Uncle Clair's instructions and explanations; in vain Aunt

Amy entreated him fondly to be patient, and despise not the day of small

things; Eddie sulked, grumbled, worst of all, idled, or worked

indifferently, and kept on telling himself that he was misunderstood and

undervalued, and would not be even allowed to show what he could do; for

on that point at least Uncle Clair was firm: Eddie must learn to draw

before he began to paint. But in spite of the mortifications of the

studio, life was not all dull for Eddie. There were many pleasant

mornings spent with his uncle in the National Gallery, where Mr. Clair

pointed out the master-pieces of art, and spoke eloquently on their

particular merits and beauties; and Eddie almost forgot himself and his

own ambitious dreams in gazing on the wonderful productions of Titian,

Sebastian, and Guido, for those three masters were his great favourites.

Then there were pleasant hours in the British Museum, studying rare old

prints and illuminations; visits to the numerous other picture

galleries; and, best of all, pleasant hours in other artists' studios,

where Eddie heard a good deal of discussion and criticism, and thought

himself a very important person. Then there were pleasant evenings at

home, when friends dropped in, and the conversation was still of art and

artists, of "studies," "designs," "models," and other matters of

absorbing interest to painters; and Uncle Clair would sit in his big

easy-chair by the fire, and talk in his soft, pleasant voice of the

picture he was going to paint for the Academy some day, when he got

tired of portrait-painting. He would dwell upon his subject lovingly,

describing it in minute detail, and then forget all about it, while some

one else went and painted it, and won money and fame thereby. Being of

an easy temper, and entirely devoid of ambition, Mr. Clair was unable to

sympathise with Eddie's impatience; but though not enthusiastic about

art, he had a thorough knowledge of its technicalities, and Eddie might

have learned much from him if he would. Meantime, Agnes was studying

hard and making wonderful progress, but her aunt one day observed that

she was growing thin and pale again, and her sight becoming weaker; so

the drawing-materials had to be laid aside, except for one hour a day,

and then Agnes and Aunt Amy began visiting the picture-galleries too,

and walking through the parks, and enjoying the bright, cold, frosty

mornings out of doors, while Uncle Clair worked at his portraits, and

Eddie too often sulked in the studio; and Bertie went to his office

every day, and in spite of all his efforts, felt very dull and

dispirited in the cold school-room during the long winter evenings,

cheered only by the thought that his cousins would soon be home, and

then he nothing doubted they would spend a great deal of their time with

him; for of course he would have a good long holiday too.

CHAPTER VI.--A NEW ARRANGEMENT.

"Uncle Gregory, may I spend Christmas at Fitzroy Square?" Bertie said

one morning before the holidays began; and Mr. Gregory looked at him

curiously as he repeated his words.

"Spend Christmas at Fitzroy Square? why? Are you not comfortable at Gore

House?"

"Yes, sir; but it's just a little too dull sometimes in the evenings,"

Bertie replied, very humbly.

"Hum! what do you do in the evenings?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Oh, nothing! Well, you may go to Fitzroy Square if you like, and stay

till--let me see--stay till the second of January." Bertie's heart gave

a great bound, and his eyes fairly sparkled. "I always give my boys a

present at Christmas," and Mr. Gregory placed two sovereigns in Bertie's

hand, and positively smiled at him. "I'm very pleased with you, my lad,

and when you return we will have a new arrangement. You shall have

Dalton's place in my office, to help with the correspondence, and I'll

pay you a small salary. You can never begin being independent too

soon--and there may be other alterations," Mr. Gregory continued, "but

we will speak of them when you return. Tuesday, the second of January,

mind, and don't be late. You may go at once if you like."

"Thank you, sir. Good-bye, uncle," Bertie said, with a radiant smile;

and ten minutes after he was hurrying towards the Mansion House Station

on his way back to Kensington, fairly hugging his two sovereigns. He was

beginning to get rich already; never had he quite so much money of his

own before, and as he hurried along, he began wondering what he should

do with it. "I know," he said to himself, with a triumphant smile, as he

leaned back in his corner: "I'll give Agnes ten shillings and Eddie ten,

I'll keep ten for myself, and put ten in the savings' bank. Uncle

Gregory says that the way to become rich is to save some of everything,

no matter how little. Ten shillings won't do much towards getting back

Riversdale, but it's a beginning. I hope Eddie has begun to save too."

When he reached home, Bertie found his aunt and cousins just going out

for a drive, and they all seemed a little surprised to see him.

"What's the matter? is anything wrong?" Mrs. Gregory asked, stopping him

in the hall.

"No, aunt; only I've got leave to spend the holidays at Fitzroy Square.

Good-bye, aunt; good-bye, cousins," he added hastily, for he did not

want to lose a moment.

"Wait a moment, Bertie," Mrs. Gregory said, more kindly than she had

ever spoken before; "John will drive you over in the dog-cart, and I

must send your brother and cousin their Christmas gifts; and I hope you

will enjoy yourself very much. Good-bye, my dear;" and Mrs. Gregory went

into the dining-room to order a hamper of good things to be packed for

Fitzroy Square, and then she selected from her enormous store of

presents a workbox for Agnes, a capital volume for Eddie--though the

book had been intended for her own Dick, but it would be easy to get

another copy for him--and a knife for Bertie himself, that gladdened his

heart for many a day. The truth is, that when Mrs. Gregory saw Bertie,

her conscience smote her. She was not really unkind, but very

thoughtless; and ever since her boys came from Eton she had entirely

forgotten him. Had he been at home all day, he might perhaps have shared

in their pleasures; as it was, he scarcely ever even saw them. When he

returned from the City they were generally off to some place of

entertainment, and arrived home barely in time for dinner; when that was

over, they were off again, their mother never being tired of going about

with her two handsome lads, while the equally handsome "office-boy"

spent his evenings in the solitary school-room. Still, it should be

said, she had not wilfully ignored and neglected Bertie, and when she

saw how delighted he was to get away from Gore House, she felt naturally

ashamed of herself, and resolved to be kinder to him when he came back,

for he was really a very good, quiet boy, who never gave any trouble.

Meantime she filled a hamper with dainties, packed up the presents, even

sent her love to Uncle and Aunt Clair, and a very handsome card; and

half-an-hour after Bertie was driving briskly through the park, looking

proudly at the hamper and parcel, and wondering if there were so happy a

boy in all London that bright, frosty day. Just as he turned into

Fitzroy Square a sudden thought struck him: Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair had

not invited him, did not even know he was coming, and the fact damped

his spirits for a moment. But he laughed off the uneasy sensation. And

before long he was flying up the steps; but ere he could reach the

knocker, the door swung open, and he was in Aunt Amy's arms.

"My dear, how glad I am to see you, and so are all of us!" she said,

kissing him tenderly. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise for us,

Bertie!"

"I've come for ten days, auntie," he cried: "that is, if you will have

me; but I never thought of asking you till I saw the house; but I may

stay, may I not?"

"Stay! I should think so. Why, child, I'm delighted!" and Aunt Amy

kissed Bertie again, and then bustled out to see after his things; but

John had already deposited them in the hall. Bertie forgot nothing but

his own personal belongings. "I am so sorry," he cried, "but I've

forgotten my things and my dressing-case. I was so excited, I really did

not know what was doing."

"I'll bring them over in the morning, Master Bertie," John said,

good-naturedly, though he could not help wondering at his forgetting his

wardrobe; but that was because he did not know Bertie, who never forgot

his friends, or neglected a single living creature that he once

undertook to care for.

"What a delightful surprise this will be for Eddie and Agnes!" Mrs.

Clair said, when they were alone in the parlour. "They are out for a

walk with Uncle Harry. It was only this morning they were saying what

gay times you would have at Gore House now your cousins are at home, and

that you would not think of us; but I knew better, Bertie."

"Why, Aunt Amy, I've scarcely ever spoken to my cousins: they're always

out enjoying themselves; and I was longing to come here. Was it not good

of Uncle Gregory to let me come, and give me such a long holiday? and

look, auntie, two sovereigns for a Christmas present, and" (dragging in

the hamper and parcel) "Aunt Gregory sent these--a workbox for Agnes,

and a book for Eddie, and such a knife for me! And it was she told John

to drive me over in the dog-cart. And, best news of all, when I go back

to the office there's to be a new arrangement. I'm going into Uncle

Gregory's private office and am to have a salary; think of that, Aunt

Amy! I'm beginning to make my fortune already, and I dare say I'll be

rich before very long, then Eddie and Agnes shall have Riversdale; but I

think I'll be a merchant always, and perhaps be Lord Mayor of London

some day, like Whittington, though instead of having a favourite cat

I've only white mice!"

Aunt Amy laughed almost as heartily as Bertie. It was good to see the

boy's happy, honest face, and hear his cheery voice. Whatever Bertie

Rivers undertook to do he certainly did with all his heart, and that was

the true secret of his happiness. While they were still enjoying the

idea of Bertie being a Lord Mayor, the door opened, and Uncle Clair,

Agnes, and Eddie entered the room, and it was hard to say whether they

were more amazed or pleased to see Bertie established there.

(_To be continued._)

THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN AUGUST.

[Illustration]

Beds and borders which have been very showy and pretty from the latter

part of May to the end of July will now have reached their highest stage

of perfection. Such plants as geraniums, calceolarias, lobelias, &c.,

make an exceedingly small amount of growth all through the summer, but

so soon as the dewy nights and often wet days of August and September

arrive, they start into growth with the greatest of rapidity. This state

of things is, of course, almost an infallible sign that the irksome

labour of watering can be dispensed with. At the same time, the plants

must on no account be allowed to flag from want of water, and this

matter needs very careful attention; it will be often found, even after

what seems to be a heavy shower of rain, that the earth is perfectly

dust-dry half an inch under the surface. This circumstance is a most

misleading one, and a valuable plant is quickly lost through neglecting

to take necessary precautions.

* * * * *

Whilst making the strong growth just mentioned, it will be very

necessary to properly train the young shoots in such a manner as to

ensure a neat and compact growth. All decaying vegetation, such as

leaves, stems, &c., must be promptly removed, and that before they cause

other leaves, &c., to become equally diseased. Nothing looks so

excessively deplorable as to see what was at one time a neat bed of

plants in a semi-rotten state. When a stem or leaf of a geranium becomes

wholly or partly separated, it rapidly decays; hence the great

importance of removing such before it becomes a mass of decomposition.

It is the same with the fuchsia and many others. Hoeing and otherwise

cleaning the surfaces of beds and borders must be carried out where

practicable. Weeds and objectionable vegetation of all sorts should be

removed to the rubbish-heap at the earliest possible moment, thereby

securing a general tidy appearance to the place.

* * * * *

Almost every day will occasion some new operation to be carried out, and

all plants having a naturally rambling habit, such as petunias and

verbenas, must be strictly kept within bounds by being pegged down. This

can be done by using what are known as "verbena-pins," and these can be

purchased at a cheap rate from any local seedsman, or may be easily made

by converting pieces of galvanised or any thin wire into sizes and

shapes identical with small hair-pins. Each shoot must be carefully

secured close to the earth with one of these. It must be remembered that

the young shoots are very tender, and that the least clumsy handling

will destroy them. Hollyhocks and dahlias, and, indeed, all tall-growing

herbaceous plants, will require very careful looking after, in the

matter of tying and training more especially. Dahlias and hollyhocks are

really the supreme ornaments of the garden during the latter part of the

summer and throughout the autumnal months. The latter-named,

unfortunately, is extremely liable to the attacks of a virulent form of

fungoid disease, which rapidly destroys it. We know of no real

preventative, and the only plan we can recommend is to select strong

young plants, which are in no degree affected with it, and on the very

first appearance of the disease to destroy all those infested.

* * * * *

The rose--that "Queen of flowers"--will, in all probability, require

attention; extra strong and gross-growing shoots may be cut back, and

train all young growth with the view of securing not only a well-formed

specimen, but also a robust growth. As a general rule, the training of

roses must be left to a good practical gardener, but we strongly advise

all our young friends to pay careful attention to what he does, and to

the advice he gives, so that they may themselves at another time perform

the necessary operations, with, of course, a considerable amount more

pleasure. We may here remark that all young people must never be above

taking hints and advice from gardeners, because the power to give such

has been almost invariably acquired by long experience, and is given

with the best of intentions. And, moreover, few things are more pleasing

to a gardener than to see young folk taking a practical interest in his

favourite pursuit.

* * * * *

Cuttings may now be made of a great number of plants, and cold frames or

shady spots in the garden may be utilised for growing them. As a rule,

the separation should be made a little way under the joint. A cutting

has been truly defined as a part of a plant with growing appendages at

either end, and a space between to keep them sufficiently apart, so that

one part shall be in the soil to form roots, and the other in the air

to form leaves and stem. They are usually obtained from the young wood,

and strike most freely in sand. It is easy to determine whether a shoot

be in a proper state for making a cutting: bend it carefully back, and

if it breaks or snaps it is in a right condition, and if it bends

without snapping it is then too hard. The most general "cut" is a

slanting one, but we have invariably found a level one both easiest made

and quickest rooted. Whichever is done, let it be done with a sharp

knife, and let the cut be "clean," not jagged--this is an important

consideration.

* * * * *

The kitchen-gardens of young folk will require but little attention

during the month of August, although just the reverse is the case in

large establishments. However, all the necessary weeding, raking, and

hoeing should be done without fail. Seeds also may be now sown of cress,

mustard, and radishes, but they must all be gathered when in a very

young state. Seeds of the American Red-stone Turnip or other good sort

can be sown in any odd piece of ordinary garden soil. Delicious little

turnips will be produced in about five or six weeks very easily, if a

small amount of care is given, the chief requirements being water when

the weather is dry, thinning-out where they come up very close together,

and keeping thoroughly clear of weeds--mere matters of detail, which

require but little time to carry out, and which will ensure a very good

crop of a most desirable vegetable.

JEMMY'S AND MY ADVENTURE.

_By the Author of "Claimed at Last" &c._

[Illustration]

Jemmy was five, I seven--two quaint little people we must have looked,

as we trotted out through the lengthening shadows from the old Manor

Farmhouse, where we had been sojourning with our grandmother and Uncle

John, all the summer-time. Now August was fast glowing itself away

towards September, and all was rich, ripe grain, happy toiling and

mirth, in the far-stretching fields. Out from the old flower-wreathed

porch we both of us trudged, and away on an expedition of our own.

"We mustn't be idle--the bees are not idle, are they?" piped Jemmy,

turning to watch the bees working in the flower-beds. And I responded--

"No, nor are we idle if we try to be busy."

"And seeing other folk work is like working ourselves, isn't it?"

reasoned Jemmy.

"And picking flowers for grandmamma is real work," was my complacent

rejoinder, pressing the wooden basket I carried closer to my side, and

thinking myself a very industrious little woman.

Away on the downs, all beautiful colours were chasing each other among

the sunbeams, and the trees waved overhead, as if they liked to fan all

the busy toilers on the earth. And by the old beech-tree, at the

cross-roads, we met Uncle John.

"Well," was his greeting; "where do you two midges think you're off to?"

"I'm going to look after the harvest folk," quoth Jemmy, with a swagger.

"And I'm going to gather flowers for grandmamma--and we're not midges,

uncle," said I, with a girl's protest.

"Ah! what are you, then, little fluffy hair?" was his smiling reply,

putting back my yellow curls from my forehead with his finger.

"Two busy people that don't like to be idle."

"Ah! well, go on, you make-believes; mind and be home by sundown, and

don't lose yourselves." Thus he admonished us; then he went his way, and

we ours.

"Sundown is a long time, isn't it, Nell?" remarked Jemmy; "and we're not

such sillies as to lose ourselves."

"No; uncle doesn't know how wise we are," I answered; and then we

travelled on all through the rich, ripe harvest-glory of cornfields.

But the harvest folk seemed very far off; the silent fields lay basking

in the sunshine, with the lengthening shadows stretching athwart them,

some with the golden grain cut and ready for carting, some still

standing awaiting the sickle. But no happy toilers were to be seen. Yes,

we alighted upon one, a lad sitting manufacturing a whistle-pipe, and

watching some sheep wandering in a field, where the wheat had been

reaped and gleaned.

"Where are the harvest folk?" questioned Jemmy, with dignity.

"Harvest folk, young sir! That's a wide question, 'cause them's

everywhere," replied the lad, with a grin.

"I don't see them," was the reply.

"I'm a harvest folk, and so is them--them's havin' their harvest,"

saying which the boy jerked his thumb in the direction of the sheep.

"They're not folk, they are sheep," dissented Jemmy, with scorn.

"Well, follow your noses, youngsters;' and you'll find some harvest

folk, if ye go far enough."

"He's a great rude boy, Nell, come away," quoth Jemmy to me, taking my

hand, and boy-like leading me on. And as we went we met a mite of a boy

of about Jemmy's age, with a small bundle of corn on his shoulder, like

a miniature man.

"Are you come from the harvest people?" asked Jemmy.

"Yes," was the child's reply.

"And where are they?"

"I don't know; ever so far away. I'm carrying home mother's corn." With

that the little man trudged on his way, and we went flitting here and

there, I picking corn-flowers, and Jemmy looking for fat toads and

shrews. And all the while our shadows standing by our sides warned us of

what would befall us ere long.

"I think," said I, presently, "that I'll sit down here by these sheaves

awhile;" but ere we had bent our tired little limbs, out flew a

beautiful bird from their midst, all blue and gold, and many other tints

intermingling to our imaginative eyes, viewing it in the sunlight.

"Oh, Nell, what a beauty!" cried Jemmy, and hand in hand we drew near to

admire it, as it poised itself in mid air over our heads. To our

childish fancy it was a stranger bird, a wanderer from some foreign

clime.

"Oh, if I could sketch it!" I sighed.

"Oh, if I could catch it!" cried more matter-of-fact Jemmy; and then, as

the bird flew away, we followed it as if we were charmed, spell-bound.

Away and away, across the fields, up the steep hill-side, our backs to

the sun, our faces--ah, me! that pretty bird led us far astray; and now

we were in the copse, on the sloping hill-side. Thus our bird had wiled

us on; we heard it sing to us, as in merry laughter, as we wandered here

and there seeking it in the shady tangle, but we never found it, nor

caught a glimpse of it; we saw it wing its way thither, and that was

all. When we emerged upon the open downs again, the sun had set, the

cornfields below looked dim and gloomy, as if something were lost, dead,

and over the wild waste of downs, shadows were creeping and crawling.

And oh, how our little legs ached! We were fain to sit down and rest

awhile. What was worse, we had turned and twisted, and gone hither and

thither, till we did not know in what direction lay our home. We rose

and turned to right and left, east, west, north, and south, but those

dark, deepening shadows seemed to be creeping after us, and monsters

came crawling and stealing up the hill-side, and went we knew not

whither. Then a mist gathered over, not deep and blinding, but just

enough to make everything look unreal and terrible to us small, lonely

creatures.

"Oh, Jemmy, what is that?" cried I, as a great, dark something loomed

near us.

"Oh, I don't know," said he, in a frightened whisper; but he threw his

arm about me, his boy-nature strong within him.

Then the wind swept cold and bleak, bringing with it a low growl--at

least so it sounded to our poor frightened senses, and we fairly clung

to each other.

"That's wolves!" moaned Jemmy, while that great threatening something at

our side seemed to fade away, others stealing up and taking its place.

[Illustration: IN THE HARVEST FIELD.

"_JEMMY'S AND MY ADVENTURE_" (_p. 102_).]

"Wolves don't live in England," said I.

"They did when little William was a boy," returned Jemmy, and I, as I

remembered the tragic story of the little woodman and his dog Caesar,

felt that we too, for aught we knew, were to pass through a time of

terror, as did he.

In an instant the incidents of that story rose before me like living

pictures. The death of little William's father, his cruel brothers

banding together, and taking him three days' journey into the forest,

just to be free of him, to let him die of hunger or what not, shutting

up his only friend, his trusty dog Caesar, at home. Their stealing away

on the third night while he slept, his awakening, his long, weary

waiting for their return during the day, his terror at nightfall. Then I

saw him praying, as the weird sounds of the wood made his little heart

quake. Then followed the unmistakable howl of the wolves, his flight

hither and thither, his climbing a tree to be safe from the hideous

animals, and his seeing a light while there. Next, I saw him rushing

toward it, a wolf on his track, the glare of fiery eyes behind him, the

pat of feet, the panting breath; the river which barred his progress,

and stayed his flying, stumbling, uncertain feet; the leaping of the

animal on his back, which proved to be his dear little dog Caesar, broke

loose from home, and come to find him; Caesar's fight with a wolf which

followed, and, oh, joy! his coming upon his grandmother's cottage, to

home and safety. Tears rushed to my eyes as it all rose before me.

"Let us hide away in the copse," said I, for I fancied that growling,

wailing sound came sweeping up to us from over the downs.

"I think if we could get out on the other side, that would be our way

home," said I to my wee brother, as we groped and threaded our way.

But the other side of the copse was like this side, a tangle, a mystery;

we were like two birds caught in a net. We sat down and cried bitterly.

And now there was a stirring among the bushes, and that howling,

moaning, fearful sound seemed now upon us, now afar, till it lost itself

in space. Crash, crash, crash, came something through the brambles and

bushes, and, as by instinct, we leaped to our feet and ran. None but a

child knows a child's terror: so weak, so puny, so unaccustomed to rely

on itself for protection, for a means to escape from danger and peril.

Hand in hand, we rushed forward like the wandering babes in the wood;

now we fell, tripped up by a root of a tree; now that moan swept over

us, that terrible moan more like a roar, and we were on our feet,

scudding on as before.

On, on, still on--glancing over my shoulder, what did I espy but two

fiery eyes gleaming through the darkness, as did poor hapless William,

and the rush of some eager animal bent on prey, which would not be

driven back, came distinct and clear. I did not tell Jemmy what my

startled eyes beheld, but hurried him on, on--whither?

Now came the pant, pant of the creature's breath, and now--as in the

story of little William--there stretched before us a stream of water.

What could we do?

I glanced behind me as we halted by the river in front, into which we

had well-nigh rushed.

Ah! those burning eyes were upon us, so to speak, the creature's breath

fanned my cheek. Now his paws were on my shoulders to tear me down. I

shrieked as to some unknown hand to save me, and Jemmy belaboured him

with a stick he caught up in desperation. But the beast did not bite me,

only whined out his joy, and licked my face. It was Ben, Uncle John's

old dog Ben; and oh, joy! there was Uncle John himself bearing down upon

us, like some giant in the gloom.

"Well, you youngsters, what have you to say for yourselves to Ben and

me?" so he questioned, as we clung tightly to him, each holding a hand.

"Uncle," said I, after I had kissed the dear old dog, and Jemmy had

caressed him, "uncle, did you hear anything growling all about? We did,

and thought 'twas wolves, same as little William heard."

"No, Nell, I heard no sound of wolves--how could I when there are no

wolves to hear? That was the wind you heard, little one," was the reply.

"And we saw great monsters that crawled, and crept, and frightened us

ever so much," I told him, with a quaver in my voice.

"That was the mist wreathing and curling, which your frightened little

hearts made monsters of. But come, you've not answered my question--what

have you to say to Mr. Ben and me for leading us this long dance?"

"It was a bird's fault, uncle," said I, true to my sex in making my

excuse, "a dear, lovely bird, which flew away in here, and we followed

it, and so--and so we forgot and were lost."

"Ah! children," said Uncle John, as he led us home, one on either side

of him, I wearing uncle's pocket-handkerchief on my head, knotted into

something like a turban, Ben trotting on before--"Ah, children, little

feet shouldn't wander far from home; little heads shouldn't think

themselves overwise; and little things like pretty birds shouldn't make

small people forget their uncle's command to be home before sundown.

Now, if you will only just get home by moondown, 'twill do very well."

MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VII.--ABOUT THE BATS.

[Illustration: HEAD OF BARBASTELLE BAT.]

Perhaps none of the inmates of the Zoological Gardens, London, cause

such serious disappointment as the Bats. Indeed, it may fairly be

questioned whether one half of the visitors are aware that the Gardens

contain specimens of these really interesting animals. The fact is, the

creatures do not obtrude themselves upon any person's notice, and those

who do not know their whereabouts, but want to see them, might spend a

day in vainly looking for them, unless they invoked the aid of one of

the keepers. Yet the bats are often enough discovered quite by accident

where they are least expected. Their cages will be found in the

monkey-house, screened from the light by a blind. Raise the blind and

you will observe them hanging by their hind feet, with their wings

wrapped round them like a cloak. They are no doubt asleep, but the

raising of the screen may rouse some of them, who will turn their wee

sharp noses and bright eyes towards the inquisitive stranger, and utter

a little "cheeping" cry of complaint at having their repose disturbed.

Night being the season of their activity, the bats do not favourably

impress the casual visitor. After the Gardens have closed, however, they

get more lively, though the smallness of their domicile prevents them

from flying. They crawl about their cages and fight for the titbits of

food. Tame bats may be trained to display some amount of fondness for

their keeper. If set free they will creep about his person and get on to

his shoulder and lick his face like a dog.

Until the time of the illustrious Linnaeus the bats had been more or less

a puzzle both to scientific folk and to common people. The general

notion was that they were a kind of bird with wings of skin, while the

German name for the creature, _Fledermaus_, or fluttering mouse, points

to another opinion that they were neither bird nor beast, but a mixture

of both. Other delusions remained in force up to a recent period. "Blind

as a bat," is an old saying so much the reverse of fact, that it is not

easy to explain how it ever obtained currency among people who had seen

the animal. So far from being afflicted with blindness, they are, says

Mr. Dallas, "furnished with very efficient eyes, although, in most

cases, these are little bead-like organs, very unlike the eyes usually

seen in animals whose activity is nocturnal."

Nevertheless bats are not dependent upon their eyesight for a means of

getting about in the dark. They are able to fly with great speed and

accuracy, to avoid obstacles, and to enter small holes without making

the least mistake. Experiments have shown that this singular power of

direction is due to a remarkable development of the sense of touch

especially to be found in their great expanse of wing. Further, these

animals possess large ears and curious nostrils, some of which are

leaf-like formations of the most extraordinary description. These skin

growths are all supposed to have reference to the skill with which the

creatures wing their way in the darkest caves.

As regards diet their wants are simple. Most bats feed on insects which

they catch on the wing; some of them eat fruit; and a few enjoy a bad

name because they suck the blood of other animals. Of these last are the

so-called vampire bats, respecting which it used to be said that they

fanned their victim with their wings while they sucked its life's blood.

Though it is quite true that horses and cattle in South America are

attacked by some bats, this hideous tale is altogether fabulous.

In considering the habits of these queer beings we shall confine

ourselves to the fruit-eaters, to which the bats in the Zoo belong. In

their native haunts the flying foxes, as they are called, are terribly

destructive creatures. In Ceylon they hang upon some trees in such

numbers that the branches often give way beneath their weight. While

hovering round the trees stripping them of their fruit, the beating of

their broad wings creates quite a hum. In the forenoon they take a

"constitutional," just for a little exercise, and to air and dry their

fur after the dews of the early morning. Then they return to the

shadiest nook they can find till nightfall. Sometimes an attempt is made

by its fellows to plunder a bat before it can manage to retire to a safe

and snug retreat where it may enjoy its dinner in peace and quiet. Then

fighting takes place, during which they tear one another with their

hooks, screaming angrily the while. At last the would-be victim

contrives to escape by flight to a distant spot, where in hot haste it

devours its fruit. When the flying foxes drink, they lap by hanging head

downwards from a branch over the water. Some of the Indian fruit bats,

according to Mr. Francis Day, "often pass the night partaking of the

toddy from the chatties in the cocoa-nut trees, which results either in

their returning home in the early morning in a state of extreme and

riotous intoxication, or in being found the next day at the foot of the

trees sleeping off the effects of their midnight drinking." These

"chatties," I may explain, are bowls containing various liquors

belonging to natives, which are placed in the trees to keep them cool.

The margined fruit bat--so called from the white border that surrounds

its ears--works great mischief in the plantations upon which it feeds.

They will fly as many as thirty or forty miles and back the same night

in search of food. It is a greedy animal, individuals kept in captivity

seeming to be always eating. The fruit bats are found in Asia, Africa,

and Australia.

Many readers have doubtless seen bats in the course of their evening

walks, and it may, therefore, be worth while to remind them that British

bats--the long-eared and the barbastelle bats, for example,--feed upon

insects. The blood-suckers, again, do not appear to belong to any other

country but South America. All the fruit-eaters are, comparatively

speaking, big bats. In size they range from the Great Kalong, the

largest of all bats, which measures fourteen inches long, and has a wing

expansion of upwards of four feet, to the dwarf long-tongued fruit bat,

which is only from two and a half to three inches in length, with an

expanse of wing of from eight to ten inches. The conditions of existence

in the Zoo at present entirely prevent the captive bats from ever having

an opportunity of doing justice to themselves. Perhaps at some date,

more or less distant, they may be accommodated with a cage roomy enough

to enable them to use their wings freely, and otherwise to display their

powers.

JAMES A. MANSON.

A GAME OF CRICKET IN ELFLAND.

A FAIRY STORY.

It was a large gander, and it seemed to be a fierce gander, for it

hissed loudly when Felix waved a switch before it, and pointed his

finger at it crying, "Bohoo, bohoo, you goosey gander."

It was not very polite, and the gander seemed to grow more and more

angry, and yet it would not leave Felix. At length Felix still pointing

at the gander, said--

"Goosey, goosey, gander,

Whither shall we wander,

Up the hill, or through the vale,

Or in the pinewoods yonder."

And to his great surprise the gander drew in his head, and replied

promptly--

"Pinewoods."

And a goose in the distance cried out--

"Make haste then."

Felix dropped the switch, put his hands in his pockets, and stared at

both the birds.

"Come," said the gander, spreading out his wings; "get on my back, and

Away we'll sail

Down the river in the vale,

Away to the pinewoods, away, away."

Splash, splash, such a spluttering in the water, and Felix, holding on

by the gander's neck, shivered as the water touched him, for it was very

cold; which much surprised him, as the day was hot, and the sun was

shining.

[Illustration: IT HISSED LOUDLY.]

How large the gander had grown! he had seemed a large gander before, but

now he seemed quite monstrous. And the river grew wider, and the trees

appeared to reach the sky, and the flags and bulrushes were like young

palm-trees, and the flowers shot up to a great size. There was one clump

of lilies of the valley much taller than Felix, and quite overshadowing

a girl in a large cap with a blue ribbon in it, who seemed to be

gathering some flowers growing in the water.

As Felix approached the bank the lily bells swayed to and fro with a

melodious sound as if bells of the purest silver were ringing.

"Welcoming us to Elfland," observed the gander.

"Isn't it the Pinewood?" asked Felix.

"It's all the same," answered the gander.

"Who is the little girl? She is coming to speak to us."

[Illustration: "THE LILY-BELLS SWAYED."]

"Little girl, indeed," returned the gander contemptuously; "it's the

Pine Queen; she has been asking you to come for weeks, but you took no

notice of her. She sent messages by the swallows and the blackbirds, and

the butterflies, and the grasshopper, but you did not heed them."

"I never heard them," said Felix, somewhat bewildered.

"Of course not; boys never do; they are always thinking of toys and

games, and tarts and plum-cake, and the birds and butterflies speak to

them in vain."

"I don't understand," said Felix.

"Of course not, but now," said the gander, suddenly rising in the water

and flapping his wings; "having done my duty in bringing you here, I

leave you to take care of yourself."

So saying he tossed Felix off his back to the bank, at the feet of the

Pine Queen.

As Felix looked at the Pine Queen he noticed that she was dressed in

silk and satin, and that her cap had turned into a crown of diamonds,

and that she had diamond buckles on her shoes, and that she seemed very

glittering and dazzling altogether.

She looked at Felix, and then said--

"Two little maidens winding wool all day,

If you want to see them please to walk this way."

"I don't care about seeing them," said Felix, who thought this a very

odd way of beginning a conversation; nevertheless he followed the Pine

Queen along the path through the trees.

It was very pleasant, the great straight pines with their tufted

branches, and the sun sending slanting rays of gold through them; whilst

the wild strawberries shone like heaps of rubies at his feet. Wonderful

birds and butterflies were darting hither and thither amongst the

loveliest flowers. And on a grassy nook not far from a waterfall he

perceived some white marble steps on which two little girls sat. The one

was holding a great skein of wool, and the other was winding it. There

was a great heap of wool of all colours on the ground.

"We wind, we wind till we've wound enough

Of wool a hundred balls to stuff."

sang the little maidens.

"What for?" asked Felix.

"For cricket-balls we work away,

With which pine-cricket players play."

sang the maidens.

"But cricket-balls should be hard," said Felix.

"Not in Elfland," answered the Pine Queen, smiling; "it's a different

game altogether; we hit 'soft' instead of 'hard,' and our bats are

brushes, and we make no scores."

"It must be a queer game," said Felix.

"_We_ think it a much better game than yours," answered the Queen, "pads

are never wanted; and there are no wickets, and no one is ever caught

out."

[Illustration: "HE PERCEIVED ... TWO LITTLE GIRLS."]

"How funny!" exclaimed Felix; "I should not care to play at such a

game."

The Queen made no answer, and they walked on until they met a girl with

a pail of water, who curtseyed respectfully.

"She's going to wash the cricket-ground," explained the Pine Queen.

"Oh!" said Felix, which was all that he could say, for the fact was

everything seemed so very strange to him.

"Scour the ground, mop it, and dry it with care,

Sprinkle it over with Eau-de-Cologne.

Roses in flower-pots put round here and there,

And the roses must all be full-blown."

[Illustration: "THEY MET A GIRL WITH A PAIL."]

The eyes of Felix grew rounder and rounder, as the Pine Queen gave these

directions, and he rubbed them to be quite certain that he was awake.

"_We_ roll and mow the grass," he half whispered.

"_We_ scour, and mop, and dry, and polish," murmured the Queen.

"_We_ play with bats," Felix went on.

"_We_ play with brushes," continued the Queen; "and here is one of our

players in full costume."

Felix glanced round, but he only saw a boy who looked like a street

sweeper, with a hand-brush in one hand and a broom in the other. He had

on a sailor's hat, and he touched the brim of it with the broom-handle,

as a salutation to the Queen.

"Queer, queerer, queerest!" thought Felix.

"Are you a good brusher?" asked the boy, suddenly; "can you brush the

balls well?"

Felix stared at him.

"Oh!" said the boy; "I thought you would be sure to be a good

cricketer."

"So I am," returned Felix; "I am a good batter. I've got a prize bat."

The boy burst out laughing, so did some magpies and squirrels. So did

the streamlet that was running along so fast. Even the little fishes

popped up their heads and laughed--

"Haha! haha! hoho! hoho!"

There was such a noise that Felix had to ask several times before he got

an answer.

"What are they laughing at?"

"At you," answered the boy.

"It's very rude of them," said Felix, taking up a stone to throw at the

magpies, which were chattering.

"Don't, don't," said the stone. "I don't want to hurt any one."

Felix, in his surprise, dropped the stone, and it fell to the ground,

saying--

"Thank you! thank you!"

"Queer, queerer, queerest!" said Felix to himself. But the Pine Queen

knew what he was saying, for she said--

"Wait till you have seen the practice." Felix rubbed his eyes again, for

though the sun was shining, there was certainly snow upon the ground,

and the two little players, who stood with brush and ball in their

hands, were clad in warm coats and gloves and winter boots, which Felix

thought must prevent their running well. The girl had a scarlet feather

in her felt hat, and the boy a long blue tassel hanging from his velvet

cap. The girl was raising her brush to ward off the ball that the boy

was about to throw.

"Isn't it pretty?" said the Pine Queen--

"Throw, throw, hit, hit!

No danger, not a bit."

But Felix was thinking about "Scour, mop, and dry it," as he looked at

the snow-covered patch of land.

"Ah!" continued the Pine Queen, divining his thoughts, "snow is soft, so

that if the players fall it does not hurt them. But there is no snow to

be seen when the regular game begins."

And the Queen waved a rose that she held in her hand, and in a moment

the scene was changed, and Felix saw before him a smooth piece of lawn

that looked like shining velvet. The flower-pots with full-blown roses

were there, so was the girl with the pail and the player with the long

broom, looking quite hot, as if they had been at work for hours.

"A good morning's work," observed the Queen. "See how neat it is."

[Illustration: "HE ONLY SAW A BOY ... LIKE A STREET-SWEEPER."]

Felix grew more and more perplexed. How could they scour and sweep under

the snow? And how did the flower-pots get there, and the players; for

the ground was all covered with the pine-wood cricket-players, dressed

in the gayest and airiest of costumes. Half had brushes and half had

balls. And the balls were flying here and there, and if the players hit

them so that they rose in the air, they burst, and butterflies of the

loveliest colours issued forth; whilst if the balls fell to the ground,

frogs innumerable hopped out of them, and making their way to the banks

of the river, sat there singing in a most delightful manner.

[Illustration: "THE GIRL WAS RAISING HER BRUSH" (_p. 107_).]

Yet, sweet as it was, the music seemed to confuse him as much as the

game, which grew every moment more and more intricate; the players,

brandishing their brushes, flew round, and the balls flashed about, and

at last all that Felix could see was a mass of dazzling rainbow colours

whirling past him.

All at once he heard a loud hissing, and he saw the large gander

waddling up from the river; and beside him was the little girl with the

large cap with the blue bow in it, and she held out her hand, saying--

"Good-bye, Felix. Come and see us again."

"That I will," replied Felix.

But he never did.

For from that day he never saw the gander again; nor could he ever find

the way to the pine-forest, though he fancied he had remembered it quite

well; nor did he ever see the game of brush-cricket played again.

Sometimes he even doubted whether he had been to Pineland, and had seen

the wonderful game.

"But yet," said he, "if I had not seen it, how should I know anything

about the forest and the Pine Queen? and how should I know how

brush-cricket is played?"

And how should he?

JULIA GODDARD.

HARVEST DAYS.

Over the cornfield fell the sunlight,

And turned all the stubble to gold,

And 'neath the pale cloud-shades of evening

Deep crimson and purple unrolled.

The gleaners were busily gleaning

The yellow corn scattered around;

The waggons, all heavily laden,

Were tracing with furrows the ground.

The farmer stood lazily viewing

The harvesting in of his wheat,

His daughters were standing beside him,

His faithful dog lay at his feet.

There came by a shy little gleaner,

Flaxen-headed, with eyes bright and blue,

And the farmer smiled down, "Little maiden,

Come here--here's a gleaning for you."

[Illustration: THE GLEANER. (_See p. 108._)]

He pulled from the waggon an armful

Of corn; and the gleaner's eyes gleamed:

She dimpled, she flushed, and she curtsied,

Such a great golden treasure it seemed.

"Ay, sowing, and reaping, and harvest,"

The farmer soft spake as she passed,

And he thought of earth's sowing and reaping,

And the harvest that must come at last.

LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.--VIII.

_By_ PHILLIS BROWNE, _Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do,"

&c._

When Margaret and Mary entered the kitchen on the day on which the

children were to learn how to bake meat, they found Mrs. Herbert already

there. As usual, everything was laid ready for them. The meat was on a

dish, the tins and various utensils were clean and bright, and there was

a clear bright fire, while a general feeling of warmth and comfort

pervaded everything, which was very agreeable, as it was a cold day.

"You have cleared out the flues properly and cleaned the oven for us, I

hope, cook," said Mrs. Herbert.

"Oh yes, ma'am; it is all as it should be," replied cook, with a

satisfied look as she watched Mrs. Herbert open the oven door, glance

quickly in all the corners, put her hand inside for a moment to test the

heat, then draw it out, and shut the oven door once more.

"That is well," said Mrs. Herbert. "Now remember, children, when you are

going to bake meat, the first thing you have to look after is the

condition of the oven. If the soot has not been swept away from the back

and round about, your oven will not heat satisfactorily, no matter how

much coal you pile on the fire; and if the shelves are dirty, that is,

if a little syrup from the last pie which was baked in it, or splashes

of fat from the last joint, are left to burn on the shelves, the meat

will taste unpleasantly, and very likely be indigestible also."

"But we cannot prevent syrup boiling over," said Margaret.

"Perhaps not; but you can scrape off what was spilt before it has time

to burn on the shelves, and you can clean out thoroughly, and wash the

shelves with weak vinegar and water, to make them fresh and sweet. We

very often hear people say they do not like baked meat, because it

tastes of the oven."

"Yes, I have often heard them say so," said Margaret.

"Ah! This remark would not be made so frequently as it is if cooks were

careful to keep the oven _perfectly_ clean. Cleanliness is most

important in all cookery, and never more so than with regard to an

oven."

"What is that little iron slide which you pushed in when you opened the

oven, mother?" said Margaret.

"It is a ventilator, and is intended to let fresh air into the oven, and

to allow the smell of the roasting meat and the fumes which rise from it

to escape. I shut it because we are just going to put in the meat, and I

wish it to remain shut for about ten minutes, so as to make the oven

very hot till the outside is cooked."

"I know what that is for," said Mary, hurriedly: "to harden the outside,

and make a case to keep in the juice."

"Quite right, Mary," said Mrs. Herbert, smiling. "In ten minutes,

however, we will push the slide out again, and that will admit the fresh

air, slightly cool the oven, and allow the fumes to escape. Always

recollect, however, that the oven must be hot. We need a good hot oven

for roasting meat."

"Cook has put two dripping-tins here," said Margaret. "We do not want

two tins."

"Yes, we do. To use two tins is another way of preventing the taste of

the oven which is so objectionable. Usually I should use what is called

a hot-water tin for baking meat. That is a tin made for the purpose,

with a place inside for holding hot water. I shall not do so to-day,

however, because I want to show you how to manage when there is no

hot-water tin. See, I lay two or three thick sticks in the larger of the

two tins, and put the smaller tin inside the other. Then I fill the

bottom tin with hot water. I put this small stand in the uppermost tin,

and place the meat on this, and then I put the whole affair into the

oven."

"But what is the good of it all?" said Margaret.

"This is the good: when the meat has been a little while in the oven,

the fat will melt, and will fall into the dripping-tin."

"I know that," said Margaret.

"Well, then, if we were to let the meat lie in the tin, don't you think

it would get soaked in fat? Of course it would, and that wouldn't be

agreeable."

"And the hot water: what is that for?"

"If we were to leave a tin containing melted dripping in a hot oven it

would get brown, burnt, smoky, and disagreeable?"

"But what has the water to do with the fat burning?" persisted Margaret.

"I will try to explain, if you on your part will try to understand

something which is difficult to understand. First of all, what is

boiling water?"

"It is water which is so hot that it bubbles all over, and steam rises

from it."

"Quite so. If we were using a thermometer, and were to put it into water

which was bubbling all over, we should find that the silvery line, or

mercury, in the thermometer rose until it came to 212 deg.. We might put a

hotter fire under the water, but under ordinary circumstances we should

never get the mercury higher than 212 deg.. Under extraordinary

circumstances, I confess we could get it higher. For instance, if we

were at the bottom of a mine, boiling-point would be two degrees higher,

and if we were to put some salt in the water, boiling-point would be

four degrees higher."

The little girls listened very attentively while Mrs. Herbert was

speaking. When she paused, they looked very solemn, and said nothing.

"Fat, on the other hand, can be made very much hotter: more than three

times as hot as boiling water. When heat is first applied to fat, it

bubbles, but as it gets hotter it becomes still. As it gets hotter and

hotter, it remains still, but it turns dark, and smokes, and smells

burnt. This is what would happen to our fat in the tin if we were to let

it come in contact with the heat of the oven shelf; but you can see that

when water, which never rises beyond 212 deg., is under it, it cannot burn

in this way."

"I see that perfectly," said Margaret, joyfully. "I like to be told

difficult things when once I understand them. But, mother, will not the

water boil away?"

"Yes; we must watch it, and as it does so, we must add fresh boiling

water. It would never do to add cold water, because that would make the

fat too cool, and would lessen the heat of the oven also."

"We should have to open the door, though, to see how the water was

getting on," said Mary. "Would not that be a pity?"

"It would have to be done in any case to baste the meat," said Mrs.

Herbert. "Remember, we can no more dispense with basting in baking meat

than we can in roasting it before the fire. If we try to do so, our meat

will be spoilt. We must baste every quarter of an hour, and to do this

we must lift the meat right out of the oven, and shut the door as soon

as possible. If we were to baste the meat while it was in the oven, the

latter would become cool, and we wish to keep the heat up the whole

time. We should be careful also to shut the oven door gently. If we slam

it, we shall force some of the hot air out of it."

"I never saw anything like it," said Margaret. "In cookery there are so

many little things to remember."

"That is the case with whatever we learn, my dear little girl, if we try

to learn thoroughly. And there is still another point to remember: when

we take the meat out of the oven to baste it, we must notice whether it

is browner in one part than another, and if it is, we must turn the tin,

so that the side which is less cooked may take its turn in going to the

hottest part of the oven. You know that one part of the oven is always

hotter than another. In the same way, you should turn the meat over once

or twice, that it may be equally cooked."

"How long will it have to be in the oven, ma'am?" said Mary.

"If you use the ventilator as I have told you to do, you may follow the

same rules in baking meat that would hold good for roasting it: that is,

you may allow a quarter of an hour to the pound, and a quarter of an

hour over for red meats, and twenty minutes to the pound for white

meats. But if the ventilator is not used, the oven would get very hot,

and ten minutes to the pound, with ten minutes over, would probably be

sufficient, excepting in cases where the meat was very thick and solid."

"And do we make gravy for baked meat in the same way that we make it for

roast meat, ma'am?" said Mary.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Herbert.

"Well, I must say," said Margaret, when in course of time the baked meat

was dished and set on the table, "that I think baked meat tastes quite

as well as roast meat, and it is much less troublesome to cook."

"I do not agree with you, Margaret," replied her mother. "I do not

consider baked meat is equal to roast meat. Nevertheless, if it is

carefully cooked, if the ventilator is left open, and if the meat is

well basted, there is not much difference between the two, and certainly

baking is a very convenient mode of dressing meat. Besides this, it is a

way which nine people out of every ten must adopt; they have no choice

in the matter. Therefore, I hope you will try to remember what I have

told you about baking."

"Indeed we will," said both the children.

(_To be continued._)

A Harvest Song.

_Words by_ GEORGE DAVIES.

_Music by_ J. M. BENTLEY, Mus. Doc.

[Illustration]

1. With the set-ting of the sun All the work is near-ly done,

And the last up-lift-ed sheaf Brings the toil-ers sweet re-lief.

2. Down the nar-row coun-try lane Trails the hea-vy-la-den wain;

Men and wo-men, old and young, Singing loud their sim-ple song.

3. Now the barn the corn re-ceives--Piled up high the gold-en sheaves;

While the jol-ly reap-ers sing Till the ve-ry raft-ers ring.

Repeat in CHORUS.

Greet the reap-ers as they come With a wel-come har-vest-home!

WAITING FOR FATHER.

[Illustration: "ON THE SHORE STAND WATCHING."]

Father's boat comes sailing,

Sailing from the west;

On the shore stand watching

Those who love him best.

Blooms the gorse so golden

On the breezy down,

Comes a sound of joy-bells

From the busy town.

In the fisher's cottage

Mother's work is done,

Through the open window

Streams the sinking sun.

Cheerily the kettle

Sings upon the fire,

Ticks the old clock loudly,

Creep the shadows higher.

Just now, in the gloaming,

When the boat is in,

And the fish are counted

With a merry din,

All those five together

Up the cliff will come,

Peacefully and gladly,

To their cosy home.

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

_By_ EDWIN HODDER ("OLD MERRY").

II.--THE CORONATIONS IN THE ABBEY.

Come with me now inside the Abbey. We take off our hats here with great

reverence, for we are not only in the House of God, but in the midst of

the memorials of some of the most gifted of our countrymen. It is Poet's

Corner. But we will not linger here; I want you to come right away into

the chapel of Edward the Confessor, and as we pass along picture to

yourselves how the Abbey looked on Coronation days, when the light from

the great stained glass windows fell upon crowds of brave men and fair

women, all robed in costumes of state to see the crown of England placed

upon a monarch's head. You must try and imagine the moment when, as the

Coronation rubric has it, "the Dean of Westminster bringeth the crown,

and the Archbishop taking it of him, putteth it reverently upon the

Queen's head. At the sight whereof the people with loud and repeated

shouts cry, 'God save the Queen!' and trumpets sound, and by a signal

given the great guns at the Tower are shot off."

Well, now we are in the chapel of Edward the Confessor, and I see you

all look at that chair standing by the screen. It is well worth looking

at, for it is doubtful whether there is any curiosity in all England to

compare with it in interest. It is King Edward's chair, upon which

English monarchs have been crowned for many centuries, and while we

stand near it, I shall tell you very briefly about the crowning of some

of our kings and queens.

For more than 800 years the coronations of English monarchs have

regularly taken place in Westminster Abbey. Duke William of Normandy

claimed the throne as lawful successor of Edward the Confessor, and upon

the Confessor's gravestone the burly Norman stood to receive the crown

of England. There were two nations represented in the throng assembled

here that day. Godfrey, Bishop of Coutances, made a speech in French,

Alred, Archbishop of York, spoke in English, and then the crowd, some in

French and some in English, hailed William the Conqueror as their king.

While this was going on inside the Abbey the Norman cavalry were without

sitting on their war-horses, ready to quell any disturbance should it

arise. They had not long to wait. It seems that they were not aware that

their leader was to go through the form of receiving by popular vote the

crown which he had already won by his sword, and when they heard the

excited shouting inside the building they thought something had gone

wrong, and so they set fire to the gates of the Abbey. Then the crowd

inside the building were sure there was something wrong without, and

they rushed out, only to be trodden down by the Norman horse-hoofs. Only

monks and prelates remained within, and the ceremony of coronation was

hurried through, while William, for the first time in his life, it is

said, trembled from head to foot; and so ended the first coronation in

the Abbey of which we have any authentic information.

Nothing of importance marks the coronation of William Rufus. When he

perished in the New Forest, within four days Henry I. was in the Abbey

claiming the crown, and making all sorts of promises in order to get the

thing done speedily. So he was crowned by the Bishop of London, being in

too great a hurry to wait for the arrival of either of the archbishops,

who were away from London.

In those days, when times were troublous, kings were not so anxious to

have throngs of people in fine dresses, and specially composed music and

all that sort of thing. They only wanted men with good swords, and as

much speed in being crowned as possible, for "delays were dangerous."

Stephen was almost as prompt as his predecessor; Henry ate his supper of

lampreys on December the 1st, and Stephen was crowned on St. Stephen's

Day, December 26th, 1135. At the next coronation, that of Henry II.,

Norman and Saxon rejoiced together at the prospect of an era of peace.

Prince Henry, son of Henry II., was crowned during his father's

lifetime, on June 14th, 1170. At the coronation banquet, when his

father stood behind him, the Prince remarked, "The son of an earl may

well wait on the son of a king." The event took place during the height

of the quarrel between Henry II. and Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury,

whose right it was to put the crown on the royal head. Accordingly

Becket excommunicated the Archbishop of York and the assistant bishops

who had officiated on the occasion. This led to the murder of Becket,

with disastrous consequences too numerous for me to allude to here.

At the coronation of Richard I. there was a grand array of nobles and

prelates, who came with the king from his palace to the Abbey and

witnessed the ceremony. Ill omens attended the occasion; a bat fluttered

round and round the throne at mid-day, and at night (they say) there was

a peal upon the bells, of which no one could give an explanation. But

the day was also marked by real horrors. From superstitious fears the

Jews had been forbidden to witness the ceremony. But at the banquet some

of them were discovered amongst the bystanders. They were at once beaten

almost to death. The mob began plundering the Jews' houses, and

murdering the inmates, and at York and other cities similar scenes

quickly followed.

At John's coronation the custom began of having the canopy over the

king's head carried by the five Barons of the Cinque Ports. This was in

return for their aid to John in his frequent voyages. When Henry III.

succeeded, Westminster was in the hands of Prince Louis of France, "the

Dauphin" of Shakespeare's play. The king was accordingly crowned at

Winchester; but he had a second coronation in Westminster Abbey, on May

17, 1220, having on the previous day laid the foundation-stone of his

Lady Chapel, which was to be the germ of an entirely new edifice. All

previous coronations were said to be outdone by the feasting and

joviality on this occasion.

There was high rejoicing when Edward I. came back from the Holy Land,

two years after his accession, and was crowned in company with his

beloved Eleanor, the first royal couple who were crowned in the Abbey

together. Alexander III. of Scotland did homage on the following day,

and in his honour 500 great horses were let loose in the crowd for any

persons to catch and keep that could.

Edward I. brought from Scotland the noted stone upon which for centuries

the Scottish monarchs had been installed, and had it placed in this

oaken chair which still covers it. According to tradition, this stone

was the one on which Jacob slept at Bethel, and which by a series of

remarkable adventures had been transported successively to Egypt,

Sicily, Spain, and Ireland. In Ireland they say it stood on the hill of

Tara, and that upon it were enthroned the ancient Irish kings. Fergus,

founder of the Scottish monarchy, took the stone to Dunstaffnage Castle,

and Kenneth II. (here we get hold of historic fact) placed it at Scone

in the ninth century. Wherever it may have wandered, it is

unquestionably a piece of sandstone from the western coasts of Scotland,

and is most probably (says Stanley) the stony pillow of St. Columba, on

which his dying head was laid in the Abbey of Iona. On this stone the

reign of every English monarch from Edward I. to Victoria has been

inaugurated. Only once has it been taken out of the Abbey, and that was

for Oliver Cromwell to be installed upon it as Lord Protector in

Westminster Hall.

At the coronation of Edward II. the crown was carried by Piers Gaveston,

the unworthy favourite whom it had been the dying wish of Edward I. to

have excluded from the court. In 1327, Edward III. (by consent of his

deposed father) was crowned whilst his mother Isabella, "the she-wolf of

France" (as Gray calls her), pretended to weep all through the ceremony.

Of the coronation of Richard II. full details are preserved in the

"Liber Regalis," a book drawn up by Abbot Littlington, and ever since

carefully preserved by the Abbots and Deans, as it sets forth the order

which has been observed in all subsequent ceremonials. Proceedings

commenced with a grand procession through the city from the Tower, a

custom which was kept up till the time of Charles I. The young king rode

bareheaded, and was escorted by a body of knights, created for the

occasion, and who, from the bath they took in company before assuming

their armour, were styled the Knights of the Bath. The young king was

taken out fainting from the long ceremonial just as Sir John Dymote, as

champion, rode up to the Abbey gates on his charger, to challenge any

who dared to dispute the royal succession. It is the first time we hear

of the Champion; but it was an age of knightly revivals, and this was

probably one of them.

We next see Henry IV. and Henry V. successively installed on the Stone

of Scone; and then comes Henry VI., a child of nine, "beholding all the

people about sadly and wisely;" his queen, Margaret of Anjou, was

crowned here fourteen years afterwards. The coronation of Edward IV.

presents no particular feature of interest. For that of Edward V. all

was ready, robes for the guests, provisions for the banquet. But the

Tower beheld the "midnight murder" of the only English monarch who never

wore the crown. Then with splendid ceremonial Richard III. tried to

cover the defects of his title. Six thousand gentlemen rode with him to

Westminster Hall on June 26th, 1483, and a few days afterwards there was

a very grand procession to the Abbey, when Richard and his wife were

anointed King and Queen of England. Amongst the Queen's train was

Margaret of Richmond, little dreaming that within three years her son

should be crowned here as Henry VII. But this monarch's real coronation

had already taken place, when the crown of England was found in the

hawthorn bush on Bosworth Field, and placed on Richmond's head by Lord

Stanley. The public ceremonial was only a poor display. Not so the next

event of this character, when Henry VIII. and Catherine of Arragon were

crowned with great splendour, and when for the last time a Roman

Catholic Archbishop performed the ceremony. Anne Boleyn's coronation

(commemorated by Shakespeare) was a noticeable one, and Cranmer, fresh

from sentencing Catherine, performed the ceremony.

Edward VI. came to the Abbey, now a Cathedral, amidst much curious

pageantry, and for the first time a Bible was presented to the

sovereign.... Mary's procession to the Abbey is signalised by the

exploits of a Dutchman, who sat astride on the weathercock of St. Paul's

five hundred feet in the air, as the Queen passed. The two Archbishops

and the Bishop of London were all in the Tower, so Gardiner, Bishop of

Winchester, put the crown on Mary's head. On Jan. 14th, 1559, London was

wild with joy, as Elizabeth passed from the Tower to the Abbey. The

women flung flowers into her lap, groups of children sang welcomes, even

old men wept for gladness. The Bishop of Carlisle crowned the Queen.

James I. was crowned in the time of the Plague, so there was no

procession. There was a slight hitch because his wife refused the

sacrament. She had "changed once from Lutheran to Presbyterian, and that

was enough." The coronation of Charles I. was marked by a slight

earthquake shock. This was not the only bad omen. The dove of gold on

the staff of Edward the Confessor had been broken, none knew how, and

had to be replaced. Oliver Cromwell did not venture on a ceremony in the

Abbey; he was enthroned, as I have already said, in Westminster Hall.

At the Restoration, Charles II. was crowned "with the greatest solemnity

and glory," as the old historian says. The Regalia was all new, to

replace that which had been lost during the Commonwealth. The crown was

placed on the king's head by the weak and aged Archbishop Juxon, who had

attended Charles I. on the scaffold. At the coronation of James II., a

hundred thousand pounds were spent over the Queen's robes and jewels,

and the procession was omitted to save expense, much to the wrath of the

Londoners. As the crown was placed on James's head, it tottered and

would have fallen, but for the Keeper of the Robes, who held it up.

The next coronation, that of William and Mary, was delayed two hours by

the receipt of the news that James II. had just landed in Ireland. The

Queen, being very short, had to be lifted into the chair of state. When

girt with the sword and invested with crown and sceptre, the Princess

Anne, who stood near her, said, "Madame, I pity your fatigue." The Queen

sharply replied, "A crown, sister, is not so heavy as it seems." When

the King came to make the usual offering, he found he had no money with

him, and had to borrow twenty guineas from a nobleman. Anne was

suffering from gout when her turn came to be crowned, and she had to be

carried to the Abbey. Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, acted as Lord High

Chamberlain. At the coronation of George I., the king knew no English

and his ministers knew no German, but they all knew Latin imperfectly,

and everything had to be explained to the monarch in that language. The

crowning of George II. presents no particular feature of interest; that

of George III. was a splendid show, and was marked by a curious

incident. Amongst the witnesses was Prince Charles Edward, the Young

Pretender, who had been staying in London under the name of Mr. Brown,

and had managed to procure admission to the scene of his rival's

triumph. George the Fourth's coronation was a splendid ceremony; but the

portly monarch found it very exhausting, and whilst the peers were doing

homage in succession, he used up pocket-handkerchiefs innumerable in

wiping his streaming face, handing them when done with to the Archbishop

of Canterbury. His unfortunate Queen, Caroline, had vainly tried to be

present at the ceremony, but was repulsed at each of the doors she

attempted to enter, and had to drive away discomfited. William IV., to

please the political reformers of the period, wanted to dispense with a

coronation altogether, and the procession and banquet _were_ omitted.

Our present gracious Queen was crowned in the Abbey, in the flower of

her youth, in June, 1838, and the ancient building was crowded with all

that was eminent in the land as the crown was placed upon the girlish

head of the illustrious lady who for nearly half a century has worn it

so faithfully and so well.

THE LITTLE FLOWERS' WISH.

Some daisies grew in a green piece of turf just outside the palings of a

garden. The grass all round them was soft and fine; they had plenty of

room to grow in, and they were near enough to the road to see all that

went by. Would you not have thought they were contented?

Little yellow butterflies came and told them stories, little shadowy

clouds went scampering over the grass-plot, the pleasant warm sun shone

down on their little round faces. And yet they were unhappy with all

this.

Through a crack in the palings they had seen into the garden, and it

made them all long to be there. Flowers of different kinds grew happily

in the garden-beds. Some of them had sticks to lean against and some

were trained against the wall.

"Oh, what care is taken of them!" thought the foolish little daisies.

Every day the gardener came and watered these choice flowers. And a

stately lady paced the garden walks, and noticed if the flowers grew or

faded.

"Oh, if only we could get into the garden!" sighed the daisies, ruffling

all their little leaves; "oh, how much happier we should be if we were

only growing in there!"

Just then there came running out of the garden a little child with

golden hair. Whether he heard what the daisies said I do not know, but

it almost seemed as if he did.

"Come along, little flowers," he cried, "would you like to come and live

in the garden? See, I will plant you in nicely."

With his soft baby hands he plucked the little daisies from their

stalks, sped back with them through the garden gate, and commenced to

plant them in the earth. First he made a little hole for each of them in

the soft brown mould, then put the rootless flowers in and pressed the

earth round tightly.

"It is cold, it is cold," said the daisies.

"I shall have a nice little garden of my own now," said the child, and

he ran away contented to his play.

Next day little Harold came to see his garden, and he burst into tears,

for the poor little daisies were dead.

And other daisies grew in the grass-plot outside, and the butterflies

told tales to them as of old.

THE EDITOR'S POCKET-BOOK.

JOTTINGS AND PENCILLINGS. HERE, THERE AND EVERYWHERE

[Illustration]

The Wounded Cat and the Doctor.

Colonel Stuart Wortley says that when he entered the Malakoff, so famous

in the Crimean war, he found a cat whose paw had been pinned to the

ground by a bayonet that had fallen upon it. He released the poor thing,

and took her for two mornings to the doctor to have her foot dressed.

The next day he was absent on duty before daybreak, and puss went

herself to the doctor's, scratched the tent to be admitted, and when she

was let in, held up her foot to be attended to. This cat was very

grateful to the colonel, for she followed him about the camp till the

close of the war.

A Remarkable Bell.

In the temples at Kyoto, Japan, is a great bell, which swings in a huge

wooden tower. The bell is a large bronze cup, with nearly perpendicular

sides and a flat crown; and is sounded by bringing a big beam against

the rim. It needs twelve natives to ring it. It used to be rung once a

year, but it may now be heard twice or thrice a month. It is 18 feet

high, 9-1/2 inches thick, 9 feet in diameter, and weighs almost 74 tons.

It was cast in 1633, rim upwards; and the gold that entered into its

composition is estimated at about 1,500 pounds. The tone of the bell is

described as magnificent, and when struck with the open hand, the

vibration may be heard a hundred yards off.

About the Mina Bird.

A lady in India sends me some interesting notes about a mina bird which

she obtained possession of while travelling in the Presidency of Madras.

These birds talk better even than parrots, and this one soon displayed

his cleverness. On the day after his arrival he began to make such a

noise that it was thought he was hungry, and the _ayah_, or nurse, was

told to feed him. He was then heard to say "Mina wants his dinner."

After he had had some food he said "Mina wants clean water." He calls

out "Ayah" and "Boy," so naturally that at first the servants thought it

was their master calling them. One day he created some amusement by

crying out "Mina wants his breakfast dinner." It appeared he had already

had some bread and milk, and being doubtful as to which meal he ought to

ask for, gave an order comprehensive enough to include both meals, so as

to make sure of one. He is dainty, and will eat only particular food.

One day his curry and rice contained plenty of rice but not much curry,

whereupon his dissatisfaction was promptly evinced by a shout of "No

curry." He gave evidence of soon becoming an excellent linguist, and had

acquired a knowledge of some of the native tongues.

An Historical Cocoa-Plant.

In a greenhouse belonging to the Royal Botanic Society there is a

cocoa-plant which has achieved greatness, for it has actually borne

fruit, and is, according to Professor Bentley, the first that has done

so in England. The fruit gave evidence of reaching maturity and of

ripening its seeds. Linnaeus called cocoa "Theobroma," by which he meant

to imply that it was food for the gods, but Belzoni, writing in the

sixteenth century, regarded it as fitter for pigs than for men. Readers

will be able to decide this knotty point for themselves, despite the

proverbial difficulty of deciding when doctors disagree. Sixty years ago

the annual consumption of cocoa amounted to only a quarter of a million

pounds, but now it has reached a total of probably not less than twelve

millions of pounds.

The International Health Exhibition.

The great Health Show which was opened in May has already proved itself

to be the most prominent feature of the London summer season. It

embraces a display of everything even remotely connected with Health,

and a more interesting and attractive collection it would be impossible

to form. Appealing, as it does, to the taste of all ages, its variety is

certainly charming. Nor is it without its educational value, as the

"bits" of Old London, the historical costumes, and the trades in

operation, abundantly testify. And not the least pleasing circumstance

is that those very exhibits which are of an instructive character are

the most popular. One sees in different ways that the experience gained

by the Fisheries Exhibition of last year has been of immense service to

the promoters of the Health Exhibition. The grounds have been decorated

and illuminated by night so successfully that the Horticultural Gardens

have been transformed into fairyland itself. The lakes and terrace

picked out in many-coloured lamps, the lawns festooned with Chinese

lanterns, the dazzling brilliancy of the electric light that lords it

supreme overhead, the strains of the military bands, all combine to

render the grounds of the exhibition the favourite open-air resort of

Londoners and visitors during the warm summer nights.

Famous Old London Buildings.

The most novel feature of the exhibition is a street in which have been

constructed imitations of several of the most celebrated buildings in

Old London. Each has been carefully reproduced from engravings and

drawings in Mr. Gardner's priceless collection. The street begins with

an excellent imitation of Bishopsgate, one of the City gates, with

moss-grown walls, and statues of Bishop William the Norman, and of

Alfred the Great and Aldred. On one side of the street will be found

such quaint and picturesque buildings as the "Rose" Inn and "Cock"

Tavern, the "Three Squirrels," Izaak Walton's House, and All Hallows'

Church, Staining; on the other side will be seen, among others, Dick

Whittington's House and the Hall of the Holy Trinity Guild in

Aldersgate. The street ultimately narrows into Elbow Lane, in which will

be observed a number of historical places, such as Gunpowder Plot House,

where Guy Fawkes and his fellows concocted their detestable plot; and

the curious houses at Pye Corner--which are illustrated on the opposite

page--where the Great Fire of London ceased its ravages. The street runs

down to London Wall. The ground floor of the houses is occupied by

shops, in which the different trades of the old City Guilds are carried

on. Perhaps the only thing that spoils the illusion--apart from the

unavoidably modern crowds of sightseers--is that the interiors of the

houses are connected by a gallery that runs from one end of the street

to the other, so that you may enter the "Rose" Inn and come out at All

Hallows' Church, or _vice versa_.

Model Dairies.

In the South Gallery will be noticed a number of Model Dairies, which

are well worth a visit. Here little folk will see how the trade has been

revolutionised, and how in such matters even as milk and butter

machinery has to a very large extent replaced hand labour. These dairies

are beautifully clean, and the effect is in one case decidedly improved

by the introduction of a few stalls occupied by some pretty cows and a

little calf, some ewes and two kids, and some queer-looking Zulu sheep,

all of which excite much admiration.

Trades in Operation.

The West Gallery is one of the most popular and instructive in the

Exhibition. Here a variety of trades are in full operation, in which it

is possible to trace an article from the raw to the finished state. In

one stand, for instance, may be seen the whole process of

mustard-making. The seed may be viewed in the _pulveriser_, then in the

_crusher_, then in the _sieve_, and then being done up in packets of

various sizes for sale. The making of jam also affords much

entertainment to onlookers. Doubtless the nature of the trade will

account for the large crowds who surround the stand where Messrs.

Allen's industrious workmen turn out lozenges, and almonds, and

chocolate in enormous quantities. Their machines are busy from morn till

night. Where all the operations are interesting it is difficult to

specify any in particular; but, perhaps, the process of preparing,

cutting out, and printing lozenges is as worthy of special attention as

any. Elsewhere the mysteries of meat-cutting machines may be solved, and

the processes of aerated water making and of soap-making studied with

profit. These are but types of the busy life of the West Gallery, which

resounds with the clang of machinery in motion, and the hum of hundreds

of voices of amused spectators.

The Costume Show.

In the Western Quadrant will be found an exhibition of waxworks that

would have filled poor Artemus Ward's heart with joy. There are two

series of figures, representing English civil costumes and military

uniforms from William the Conqueror almost to the present day. They have

been prepared under the personal superintendence of the Hon. Lewis

Wingfield, and may therefore be relied upon for accuracy in every

respect. These series will repay careful study. The civil costumes start

with those of two women, a shepherd, and a man of the period of William

I. and wind up with samples of the era of George IV. It is impossible

here to go into details, but it may be said that costume does not

necessarily improve with time, as the dress of the last period is

certainly the worst. The military uniforms begin with some suits of

armour from the Tower, then proceed to a halberdier of Henry VII., and

so on down to the uniforms now in actual use. The West Quadrant should

on no account be missed by visitors to the Exhibition. In the Eastern

Quadrant will be seen some specimens of present-day attire, chiefly

ladies' and children's dresses.

[Illustration: PYE CORNER IN 1789. (_See p. 118._)

(_From a Drawing in Mr. Gardner's Collection._)]

Street of Furnished Rooms.

Those who feel an interest in the modern methods of furnishing rooms

will be glad to have their attention called to this street in the South

Central Gallery. Here room after room has been equipped in the richest

and most artistic fashion, and full advantage should be taken of this

opportunity for comparison between styles of furnishing a house of the

most varied character possible.

[Illustration]

Other Exhibits.

I cannot stay to mention even one-twentieth of the different exhibits.

Little folk who have seen the Show will know it is not possible for me

to do so here. There are foreign annexes full of interesting articles.

The London Water Companies have a pavilion all to themselves. The South

Gallery may be regarded as an elaborate model of the food of London.

Then the British Beekeepers' Association will explain much of an

instructive kind about the busy bee. In short, the whole Exhibition is

so full of information of a useful and, in some cases, even of a

delightful sort, that I must now leave the subject with the intimation

of that fact.

Young Heroes.

Some time ago a child fell off Oreston Pier, near Plymouth, and had

drifted out about seven yards in twelve feet of water, when a little

boy, nine years old, named S. G. Pike, plunged into the sea with his

clothes on, reached the child, and swam back with it to some steps,

where they were both assisted out. Another boy, W. W. Haynes, aged

twelve, saved the life of a child who had fallen from a bridge into the

river at Llanberis, near a whirlpool. E. S. Deacon, a girl, twelve years

old, rescued a lad from drowning at Blackpool, near Dartmouth. The boy

had slipped off a rock and become unconscious, when Miss Deacon jumped

into the water fully dressed, and succeeded in holding him up until help

arrived. We are glad to know that the Royal Humane Society rewarded

these brave children for their noble heroism.

An Intelligent Mare.

A mare, with her young foal, was grazing in an orchard on an American

farm, when she was noticed to run at full speed from a distant part of

the orchard, making a loud cry--not like her usual voice, but a kind of

unnatural "whinny," like a scream of distress. She came up to a farm

servant, as near as a fence would allow, turned back for a short

distance, and then returned, keeping up the shrill noise all the while.

The man's curiosity became excited, and as soon as he started to follow

her, she went off in the direction of a miry place that had been left

unguarded, and stopped upon its very brink. Hurrying on as fast as he

could, the man found the colt lying dead, suffocated in the mud and

water. The poor mare had unfortunately been unable to procure his

help--though she tried her best--in time to save her foal. This touching

instance of maternal affection is a very interesting example of the way

in which the "dumb" animals--as they are somewhat absurdly called--make

up for the want of speech. The mare's strange cry and her extreme

restlessness were as eloquent as words.

[Illustration: SOME BIRDS OF THE CAUCASUS. (_See p. 121._)]

ABOUT THE FRANCOLIN.

Partridges by any name would taste as sweet, and when you have learnt

that the francolin is one of the few different kinds of partridge, you

will have obtained the chief clue to the life-history of these birds.

They may in a general way be defined as the representatives in various

parts of Asia (as in India and the Caucasus mountains) and Africa, of

the well-known family which is so diligently searched for in this

country during the month of September. One sort of francolin is still to

be met with in the countries of Europe that border on the Mediterranean.

The bird was at one time common in Sicily, and it is yet to be found in

the island of Cyprus. Some of them live on level plains, and others in

forests. They differ from our partridge in that they studiously shun

cultivated ground, preferring the proximity of woods, in which they

carefully select damp spots overgrown with reeds. In time of danger they

conceal themselves in the densest brushwood, out of which they do not

emerge until the peril is past. Should no shelter be at hand, they will

try to seek safety in flight, and will use their wings only in the last

resort. Partridges, as we are all aware, are not averse from feeding

many times and oft on grain; but the francolins, whose taste is not so

fastidious, will not refuse to dine on the wild berries as well as on

grain, while they hunt for worms and insects with a zeal worthy of the

cause. Some of them have rather a fondness for perching and roosting on

trees of a night, and they display the same affection for their young as

partridges show for theirs. The cry is harsher and noisier than that of

the latter. There is one sort which has a cry of so curious a

description that a good deal of speculation has arisen as to its

significance. It sounds like "Tre-tre-tre," and is meant, according to a

prosaic Sicilian proverb, to be a declaration by the bird of its market

value, which it assesses at _three_ coins. Others have likened its cry

to the harsh, grating blast of a cracked trumpet. Such being the case,

it is just as well that we have no francolins in this country.

The "Little Folks" Humane Society.

_THIRTIETH 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._

AGE

42654 Mary Roberts 12

42655 Nellie Halse 13

42656 Ernest Wilson 7

42657 Susan Wills 16

42658 Sylvia Tapp 18

42659 William Angove 9

42660 John Wisdom 11

42661 M. B. Kneebone 7

42662 Eliza Halse 16

42663 Charles Angove 5

42664 Richard Angove 7

42665 A. Sherwood 20

42666 Lily Wisdom 7

42667 E. M. Spyers 15

42668 Lucy Woodman 16

42669 John Butcher 19

42670 W. J. H. Pott 9

42671 Thomas Hankins 11

42672 RACHEL E. SPYERS, Weybridge 13

42673 Kate Porter 17

42674 E. W. Hickens 12

42675 Cecil N. Money 12

42676 Sarah Heather 18

42677 E. Arkwright 11

42678 F. O'Fflahertie 11

42679 Frank Harper 10

42680 A. R. Hoskins 11

42681 Robert Jones 9

42682 William F. Smith 13

42683 John H. Watson 15

42684 Godfrey Brooks 14

42685 Percy James 13

42686 Elizabth. Diplock 19

42687 W. E. Smith 10

42688 A. S. McLachlan 7

42689 William Floyd 10

42690 Cleophas Fulker 9

42691 Herbert Caulder 9

42692 A. M. Beckett 15

42693 C. Threadgold 9

42694 Charles Jeffery 11

42695 Alice C. Wilson 13

42696 F. P Rennie 10

42697 Chas. M. Orme 12

42698 Henry McDonall 12

42699 Tom Spyers 11

42700 Percy Hewett 11

42701 Sidney F. Brooks 12

42702 Robt. McDonall 11

42703 C. J. Rennie 8

42704 H. J. Fellowes 13

42705 A. F. Fellowes 9

42706 C. Farquharson 14

42707 Tom James 10

42708 Wm. G. R. Orme 12

42709 Ellen B. Wilson 16

42710 Herbert Wilson 9

42711 Henry Verity 12

42712 Basil H. Wilson 10

42713 H. M. Hoskins 14

42714 J. H. Lawrence 12

42715 E. O. Beverley 12

42716 Henry Berrend 9

42717 Julia Spiers 16

42718 Amos Daws 19

42719 G. M. Wilson 17

42720 William Hodges 10

42721 George Wilson 11

42722 FLORA S. A. BEESON, Brentwd. 13

42723 Charles H. Haws 13

42724 Amy Young 12

42725 George Hall 16

42726 Alice Lucking 12

42727 Arthur Lucking 6

42728 Arthur R. Hall 11

42729 Ernest T. Hall 6

42730 Mabel Keeth 7

42731 Alice H. Haws 15

42732 Gertrd. Edmonds 12

42733 Robert Edmonds 8

42734 M. M. Lambert 12

42735 Sutton Lambert 10

42736 Florence Keith 13

42737 Blanche Keith 11

42738 Ethel Keith 8

42739 Katie Fuller 15

42740 Violet Chew 7

42741 S. Linwood 10

42742 Emma H. Cudby 17

42743 Florence Timms 8

42744 Lilian Brown 10

42745 Margie Young 14

42746 Eva Goodman 13

42747 A. B. Clowes 13

42748 F. M. Prior 12

42749 Clara A. Clowes 7

42750 Ellen A. Prior 10

42751 Nellie Simpson 18

42752 Ada E. Cudley 15

42753 Ethel A. Wallis 11

42754 Annie Wellings 10

42755 C. Webster 14

42756 Maud Wellings 8

42757 Geo. H. Harris 18

42758 Mary E. Harris 19

42759 Alice Pollock 9

42760 Margret Pollock 11

42761 M. F. E. Hughes 12

42762 J. A. Scrivener 10

42763 M. M. Scrivener 3

42764 J. M. Beveridge 17

42765 L. K. Scrivener 8

42766 Thos. Scrivener 14

42767 Ernest Scrivener 16

42768 E. E. Scrivener 18

42769 R. J. Beveridge 15

42770 J. M. Beveridge 18

42771 Adela L. Harris 15

42772 Ada Simpson 13

----

42773 Mary B. Mead 10

42774 Charles Culross 12

42775 Henry Wilkinson 10

42776 Kathl. Wilkinson 11

42777 Margt. Wilkinson 13

42778 Linda A. Spicer 13

42779 F. M. Whitehouse 11

42780 Mary Penzer 16

42781 F. M. E. Kenyon 12

42782 Ernest L. Sikes 12

42783 FLORENCE KEMSLEY, Epping 12

42784 Jessie E. Barnard 7

42785 Alice Andrews 17

42786 Edgar Larkin 9

42787 Walter W. Lyne 7

42788 Alfred J. Lyne 10

42789 Gertrde. M. Lyne 13

42790 Alice Adams 12

42791 Elizabeth Wright 7

42792 Amy E. Pegrum 14

42793 Eliza J. Blowes 19

42794 Ada Pegrum 8

42795 A. A. Dorrington 15

42796 Eliza French 17

42797 Gertrd. Simpson 6

42798 Ellen C. Teece 16

42799 Minnie T. Teece 10

42800 Julia Teece 12

42801 Kate Simpson 11

42802 Emily Teece 14

42803 Lilian L. Davis 6

42804 Cyril L. Davis 9

42805 Edith E. Rickett 9

42806 Rosa M. Kemsley 7

42807 W. H. Kemsley 9

42808 A. U. Kemsley 10

42809 Harry Doye 10

42810 Minnie Cripps 8

42811 Albert Adams 8

42812 Alice Wade 8

42813 Victor Adams 6

42814 Charlotte Cripps 14

42815 Mary Silvester 12

42816 Herbert Bailes 6

42817 George Doye 7

42818 Arthur Seymour 8

42819 Annie French 13

42820 Caleb Bailes 8

42821 Ellen Mansfield 9

42822 Emily Saban 9

42823 George Ford 9

42824 James Seymour 11

42825 Alice M. Soundy 13

42826 Jessie M. Collins 15

42827 Rosa M. Soundy 18

42828 Sarah E. Rowe 16

42829 E. A. Mansfield 13

42830 Janet Byles 11

42831 Ellen Leach 10

42832 Rose England 18

42833 Harold Larkin 15

----

42834 A. M. Crompton 16

42835 S. H. Crompton 18

42836 Alice Corbet 13

42837 Annie Corbet 17

42838 Clara E. Jannett 15

42839 Eliza Corbet 15

42840 Evelyn H. West 13

42841 Lucy Bradbury 14

42842 Minnie Ellwood 13

42843 May Waddington 14

42844 Ina Barrington 12

42845 Maud E. Bailey 17

42846 Jane T. Fildes 15

42847 Mary H. Fildes 14

42848 James R. Fildes 11

42849 Henry G. Fildes 9

42850 HERBT. G. FULLMER, Wolverhampton 13

42851 Harry Hedgecox 10

42852 Richard Clark 8

42853 Charles Carter 10

42854 Wm. Mullinder 12

42855 Geo. Farrington 9

42856 James Trow 9

42857 William T. Spicer 8

42858 John Munday 6

42859 William Rowley 8

42860 D. G. Thatcher 7

42861 Wm. H. Knowles 9

42862 Harriett Munday 9

42863 Jane E. Taylor 9

42864 William Crook 9

42865 Geo. E. Matthews 9

42866 William Brookes 5

42867 Sarah A. Dwight 10

42868 John Chatter 12

42869 Elizbth. H. Perry 8

42870 Alfred Allen 10

42871 Alice Thomason 10

42872 M. A. Poultney 10

42873 John Cornes 13

42874 Eva A. Thatcher 9

42875 Alice Thatcher 13

42876 A. E. Mansell 9

42877 Catherine Allen 13

42878 John Evans 14

42879 C. W. Knowles 11

42880 Richard Hopkins 15

42881 Albert Dwight 7

42882 R. E. Thatcher 16

42883 Fredk. Brasier 10

42884 Amy Cresswell 10

42885 Ellen Eaton 10

42886 Alfred Thatcher 12

42887 Annette Mansell 12

42888 Florry Munday 7

42889 Elizbth. Knowles 11

42890 G. E. Summers 5

42891 J. B. Parker 13

42892 Geo. S. Evans 11

42893 C. W. Livermore 6

42894 John Harley 11

42895 S. L. Parker 7

42896 J. P. Parker 9

42897 Gertrude Dwight 11

42898 Alice Mansell 13

42899 E. A. Brasier 12

42900 Wm. Thomason 12

42901 Emily Tisdell 12

42902 Ellen Priest 8

42903 May Summers 7

42904 C. W. Munday 5

42905 T. Cresswell 8

42906 W. B. Perry 9

42907 W. H. Crook 7

42908 Fred Cresswell 12

42909 H. E. Carter 7

42910 John Boucher 12

42911 Harry Law 8

42912 George Walker 13

----