"Why, you don't want this old thing for a play-fellow, child?" said the

farmer.

"I do! I do!" wept Daisy.

"But why, in the name of whims and whamsies?"

"Because I love him," said Daisy.

When it comes to this with the heart, argument is wasted on the head;

but the farmer-went on: "Why he's neither useful nor ornamental. He's

been a good dog in his day, I dare say; but now--"

At this moment Flaps threw his head up in the air and sniffed, and his

one eye glared, and he set his teeth and growled.

He smelt the gipsy, and the gipsy's black pipe, and every hair stood on

end with rage.

"The dog's mad!" cried the swineherd, seizing a pitchfork.

"You're a fool," said the farmer (who wasn't). "There's some one behind

that haystack, and the old watch-dog's back is up. See! there he runs;

and as I'm a sinner, it's that black rascal who was loitering round, the

day my ricks were fired, and you lads let him slip. Off after him, for I

fancy I see smoke." And the farmer flew to his haystacks.

Hungry and tired as he was, Flaps would have pursued his old enemy, but

Daisy would not let him go. She took him by the ear and led him indoors

to breakfast instead. She had a large basin of bread-and-milk, and she

divided this into two portions, and gave one to Flaps and kept the other

for herself. And as she says she loves Flaps, I leave you to guess who

got most bread-and-milk.

That was how the gipsy came to live for a time in the county gaol, where

he made mouse-traps rather nicely for the good of the rate-payers.

And that was how Flaps, who had cared so well for others, was well cared

for himself, and lived happily to the end of his days.

* * * * *

"Why, it's in print!" said Father Cock; "and I said as plain as any cock

could crow, that it was a secret. Now, who let it out?"

"Don't talk to me about secrets," said the fair foreigner; "I never

trouble my head about such things."

"Some people are very fond of drawing attention to their heads," said

the common hen; "and if other people didn't think more of a great

unnatural-looking chignon than of all the domestic virtues put together,

they might have their confidences respected."

"I's all very well," said Father Cock, "but you're all alike. There's

not a hen can know a secret without going and telling it."

"Well, come!" said a little Bantam hen, who had newly arrived;

"whichever hen told it, the cock must have told it first."

"What's that ridiculous nonsense your talking?" cried the cock; and he

ran at her and pecked her well with his beak.

"Oh! oh! oh!" cried the Bantam.

Dab, dab, dab, pecked the cock.

"Now! has anybody else got anything to say on the subject?"

But nobody had. So he flew up on to the wall, and cried

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

[Illustration]

A WEEK SPENT IN A GLASS POND.

BY THE GREAT WATER-BEETLE.

Very few beetles have ever seen a Glass Pond. I once spent a week in

one, and though I think, with good management, and in society suitably

selected, it may be a comfortable home enough, I advise my

water-neighbours to be content with the pond in the wood.

The story of my brief sojourn in the Glass Pond is a story with a moral,

and it concerns two large classes of my fellow-creatures: those who live

in ponds and--those who don't. If I do not tell it, no one else will.

Those connected with it who belong to the second class (namely, Francis,

Molly, and the learned Doctor, their grandfather) will not, I am sure.

And as to the rest of us, there is none left but--

However, that is the end of my tale, not the beginning.

The beginning, as far as I am concerned, was in the Pond. It is very

difficult to describe a pond to people who cannot live under water, just

as I found it next door to impossible to make a minnow I knew believe in

dry land. He said, at last, that perhaps there might be some little

space beyond the pond in hot weather, when the water was low; and that

was the utmost that he would allow. But of all cold-blooded

unconvinceable creatures, the most obstinate are fish.

Men are very different. They do not refuse to believe what lies beyond

their personal experience. I respected the learned Doctor, and was

really sorry for the disadvantages under which he laboured. That a

creature of his intelligence should have only two eyes, and those not

even compound ones--that he should not be able to see under water or in

the dark--that he should not only have nothing like six legs, but be

quite without wings, so that he could not even fly out of his own window

for a turn in the air on a summer's evening--these drawbacks made me

quite sorry for him; for he had none of the minnow's complacent

ignorance. He knew my advantages as well as I knew them myself, and bore

me no ill-will for them.

"The _Dyticus marginalis_, or Great Water-Beetle," I have heard him say,

in the handsomest manner, "is equally at home in the air, or in the

water. Like all insects in the perfect state, it has six legs, of which

the hindmost pair are of great strength, and fringed so as to serve as

paddles. It has very powerful wings, and, with Shakespeare's witches, it

flies by night. It has two simple, and two sets of compound eyes. When

it goes below water, it carries a stock of air with it, on the

diving-bell principle; and when this is exhausted, comes to the surface,

tail uppermost, for a fresh supply. It is the most voracious of the

carnivorous water-beetles."

The last sentence is rather an unkind reflection on my good appetite,

but otherwise the Doctor spoke handsomely of me, and without envy.

And yet I am sure it could have been no matter of wonder if my compound

eyes, for instance, had been a very sore subject with a man who knew of

them, and whose one simple pair were so nearly worn out.

More than once, when I have seen the old gentleman put a green shade on

to his reading-lamp, and glasses before his eyes, I have felt inclined

to hum,--"Ah, my dear Doctor, if you could only take a cool turn in the

pond! You would want no glasses or green shades, where the light comes

tenderly subdued through water and water-weeds."

Indeed, after living, as I can, in all three--water, dry land, and

air,--I certainly prefer to be under water. Any one whose appetite is as

keen, and whose hind-legs are as powerful as mine, will understand the

delights of hunting, and being hunted, in a pond; where the light comes

down in fitful rays and reflections through the water, and gleams among

the hanging roots of the frog-bit, and the fading leaves of the

water-starwort, through the maze of which, in and out, hither and

thither, you pursue, and are pursued, in cool and skilful chase, by a

mixed company of your neighbours, who dart, and shoot, and dive, and

come and go, and any one of whom at any moment may either eat you or be

eaten by you.

And if you want peace and quiet, where can one bury oneself so safely

and completely as in the mud? A state of existence, without mud at the

bottom, must be a life without repose.

I was in the mud one day, head downwards, when human voices came to me

through the water. It was summer, and the pond was low at the time.

"Oh, Francis! Francis! The Water-Soldier[D] is in flower."

"Hooray! Dig him up for the aquarium! Grandfather says it's very

rare--doesn't he?"

"He says it's not at all common; and there's only one, Francis. It

would be a pity if we didn't get it up by the roots, and it died."

"Nonsense, Molly. I'll get it up. But let's get the beasts first. You

get the pickle-jar ready, whilst I fix the stick on to the colander."

"Does cook know you've taken it, Francis?"

"By this time she does, I should think. Look here, Molly--I wish you

would try and get this stick right. It wants driving through the

handles. I'm just going to have a look at the Water-Soldier."

"You always give me the work to do," Molly complained; and as she spoke,

I climbed up an old stake that was firmly planted in the mud, and seated

myself on the top, which stood out of the water, and looked at her.

She was a neat-looking little soul, with rosy cheeks, and a resolute

expression of countenance. She looked redder and firmer than usual as

she drove the broomstick through the handles of the colander, whilst the

boy was at the other side of the pond with the Water-Soldier, whose

maiden-blossom shone white among its sword-leaves.

It shone in the sunshine which came gaily through a gap in the trees,

and warmed my coat through to my wings, and made the pond look lovely.

That greedy _Ranatra_, who eats so much, and never looks a bit the more

solid for his meals, crept up a reed and sunned his wings; the

water-gnats skimmed and skated about, measuring the surface of the water

with their long legs; the "boatmen" shot up and down till one was quite

giddy, showing the white on their bodies, like swallows wheeling for

their autumn-flight. Even the water-scorpion moved slowly over a sunny

place from the roots of an arrow-head lily to a dark corner under the

duck-weed.

"Molly!" shouted the boy; "I wish you'd come and give a pull at the

Water-Soldier. I've nearly got him up; but the leaves cut my hands, and

you've got gloves. If the colander is ready, I'll begin to fish. There's

a beetle on that stick. I wish I were near enough, I could snatch him up

like anything."

"I wouldn't advise you to," said Molly. "Grandfather says that

water-beetles have got daggers in their tails. Besides, some of the

beetles are very greedy and eat the fish."

"The Big Black one doesn't," said Francis. "He said so. _Hydröus piceus_

is the name, and I dare say that's the one. It's the biggest of all the

water-beetles and very harmless."

"He _may_ be a good one," said Molly, looking thoughtfully and

unmistakably at me, "but then he may be one of the bad ones; and if he

is, he'll eat everything before him."

But by this time Francis was dipping the colander in and out on the

opposite side, and she was left to struggle with the Water-Soldier.

"He's up at last," she announced, and the Soldier was landed on the

bank.

"Come round," said the boy; "I've filled three jars."

"I hope you've been careful, Francis. You know Grandfather says that to

stock a fresh-water aquarium is like the puzzle of the Fox and the Geese

and the bag of seed. It's no use our having things that eat each other."

"They must eat something," said the boy; "they're used to it at home;

and I wish you wouldn't be always cramming Grandfather down my throat. I

want to do my aquarium my own way; and I gave most towards buying the

bell-glass, so it's more mine than yours."

"Well, do as you like; only let us have plenty of water-boatmen," said

Molly.

"I've got half-a-dozen at least; and the last sweep I went very low,

quite in the mud, and I've got some most horrid things. There's one of

them like a flat-iron, with pincers at the point."

"That's a water-scorpion. Oh, Francis! he eats dreadfully."

"I don't believe he can, he's so flat. Molly, is that nasty-looking

thing a dragon-fly larva?"

"I believe it is; for there is the mask. You know his face is so ugly

nothing would come near him if he didn't wear a mask. Then he lifts it

up and snaps suddenly; _he_ really _does_ eat everything!"

"Well, I can't help it. I must have him. I want to see him hatch; and I

shall plant a bullrush for him to climb up."

"I found a caddis-worm, with a beautifully built house, in the roots of

the Water-Soldier, and I'm going to look along the edge for some shells.

We must have shell-fish, you know, to keep the aquarium clean. Oh!"

"What is it, Molly? What have you found?"

"Oh, such a lovely spider! A water-spider--a scarlet spider. He's very

small, but such a colour! Francis dear, may I keep him all to myself? I

don't think I _can_ let him go in with the others. If the dragon-fly

larva ate him, I should never forgive myself, and you know you don't

know for certain that the beetle is _Hydröus piceus_. I shall give him

an aquarium of his very own in a green finger-glass, with nothing but a

little very nice duckweed, and one small snail to keep it clean, like a

general servant. May I, Francis?"

"By all means. I don't want your scarlet spider. I can get lots more."

He went on dipping with the colander, and she began to dig up

water-plants and lay them in a heap. I sat and watched them, but the

_Ranatra_ got nervous and tried to go below. As usual, the dry bristles

in his tail would not pierce the water without a struggle, and after

floundering in the most ludicrous fashion for a few minutes, he fell

straight into the colander, and was put into one of the pickle-jars.

"I've got enough now," said the boy, "and I want to go home and see

about my net. I must have some fish. Can you carry the plants, Molly?"

"I'll manage," said Molly. "Now I'm ready."

"Wait a minute, though--I'd forgotten the beetle."

When I heard this I dropped into the water; but somehow or other I

turned over very clumsily, and, like the _Ranatra_, I fell through into

the colander, and was transferred to a pickle-jar.

Anything more disagreeable than being shaken up in a glass bottle, with

beetles, and boatmen, and larvæ of all sorts and sizes, including a

dragon-fly in the second stage of his career, I can hardly imagine. When

they took us out and put us into the glass pond, matters were certainly

better, though there is a vast difference between a glass pond and a

pond in a wood.

The first day it was by no means a bad imitation of a real pond, except

for the want of a bed of mud. Molly had covered the bottom of the glass

with gravel which she had steadily washed till water would run clear

from it, in spite of the impatient exclamations of Francis, that it

"would do now," and quite regardless of the inconvenience to which I was

subjected by being kept in the pickle-jar. In this gravel she had

embedded the roots of some Water Crowfoot and other pond-plants. The

stones in the middle were nicely arranged, and well covered with moss

and water-weeds. When water had been poured in up to the brim of the

bell-glass, and we had been emptied out of the jars, the dragon-fly

larva got into a good hole among the stones and ate most of the May-fly

grubs, water-shrimps, and so forth, as they came into sight. I did not

do badly myself, and only the bigger and stronger members of our society

and a few skins were there next day, when Francis brought a jar full of

minnows, a small carp, and a bull's-head, and turned them out in our

midst.

"How they dart and swim round and round!" he exclaimed.

"Splendid," said Molly. "I _am_ so sorry I am going away just now. You

will try and keep the water fresh, won't you?"

"Of course I will. And let me have the scarlet spider whilst you are

away. I couldn't find another."

"Well, if you must; but do take care, Francis. And here are the two

bits of gutta-percha tubing to make into syphons. You must put them into

hot water for a minute before you bend them, you know."

"I'll do it to-morrow, Molly; I have nothing else _to_ do, you know,

because Edward Brown won't be back for three or four days. So we can do

nothing about the cricket club."

It was on the third day, when both the pieces of gutta-percha tubing

were in a wash-hand basin of hot water, and the dragon-fly larva and I

were finishing a minnow, with the help of the water-scorpion, that

Master Edward Brown arrived unexpectedly, and so pressed his friend

Francis to come out and consult "just for two minutes," and so delayed

him when he got him, that the tubing melted into a shapeless lump, and

the carp died unnoticed by any one but myself.

On the fourth day the glass pond was moved into the conservatory, "to be

out of the way." The fish were excellent eating, and though the snails

were at their wits' end as the refuse rotted, and the water became more

stagnant, and the weeds grew, till all the shell-fish in the pond could

not have kept the place clean,--I did not mind it myself. As the water

got low, I found a nice bit of rockwork above water, where I could sit

by day, and at night the lights from the drawing-room gave an

indescribable stimulus to my wings, and I sailed in, and flew round and

round till I was tired, and (forgetting that no pond, not even a bed of

mud, was below me!) drew in my wings, and dropped sharply down on to the

floor. To do the family justice, they learned to know the sound of my

fall, and even the old Doctor himself would go down on hands and knees

to hunt for me under the sofa, for fear I should be trodden on.

On the fifth day I swallowed the scarlet spider. I hated myself for

doing it, when I thought of Molly; but the spider was very foolish to

meet me. He should have kept behind. And if I hadn't eaten him, the

dragon-fly larva would. What _he_ had eaten, I do not think he could

have told himself. There was very little left now for any one; even the

water-scorpion had disappeared.

On the sixth day the glass pond had only two tenants worth speaking

of--the dragon-fly larva and myself. We had both over-eaten ourselves,

and for some hours we moved slowly about through the thickening puddle,

nodding civilly when we passed each other among the feathery sprays of

the Water Crowfoot. Then I began to get hungry. I knew it by feeling an

impulse to look out for the dragon-fly larva, and I knew he knew it

because he began to avoid me.

On the seventh day Molly ran into the conservatory, followed by her

brother, and uttered a cry of dismay.

"Oh, what a state it's in! Where are the syphons?"

"Why, they melted the day Edward Brown came back. We've been having such

a lot of cricket, Molly!"

"There isn't a fish left, and it smells horribly."

"I'm very sorry, Molly. Let's throw it out. I don't want Grandfather to

see it. Let me come."

"No, no, Francis! There may be some left. Yes, there's the beetle. I

shall put it all in a pail and take it back to the pond. Oh dear! oh

dear! I can't see anything of the scarlet spider. My beautiful scarlet

spider! I was so fond of him. Oh, I am so sorry! And no one has watered

the Soldier, and he's dead too."

"Don't cry, Molly! Please don't cry! I dare say the spider is there,

only it's so small."

For some time Molly poked carefully here and there, but the spider was

not to be found, and the contents of the aquarium were carried back to

the wood.

I was very glad to see the pond again. The water-gnats were taking

dimensions as usual, a blue-black beetle sat humming on the stake, and

dragon-flies flitted hungrily about, like splinters of a broken

rainbow; but the Water-Soldier's place was empty, and it was never

refilled. He was the only specimen.

Molly was probably in the right when, after a last vain search for the

scarlet spider, as Francis slowly emptied the pail, she said with a

sigh,

"What makes me so very sorry is, that I don't think we ought to have

'collected' things unless we had really attended to them, and knew how

to keep them alive."

FOOTNOTES:

Footnote D: Water-soldier--_Stratiotes aloides._ A handsome and rare

plant, of aloe-like appearance, with a white blossom rising in the

centre of its sword-leaves.

AMONG THE MERROWS.

A SKETCH OF A GREAT AQUARIUM.

I remember the time when I, and a brother who was with me, devoutly

believed in a being whom we supposed to live among certain black,

water-rotted, weed-grown stakes by the sea. These old wooden ruins were,

I fancy, the remains of some rude pier, and amid them, when the tide was

low, we used to play, and to pay fancy visits to our fancy friend.

We called her Shriny--why, I know no more than when I first read

Croker's delightful story of "The Soul Cages" I knew why the Merrow whom

Jack went to see below the waves was called Coomara.

My remembrance of even what we fancied about Shriny is very dim now; and

as my brother was only four years old (I was eight), his is not more

distinct. I know we thought of her, and talked of her, and were always

eager to visit her supposed abode, and wander together amongst its

rotten pillars (which, as we were so small, seemed lofty enough in our

eyes), where the mussels and limpets held tightly on, and the slimy,

olive-green fucus hung loosely down--a sea-ivy covering ruins made by

the waves.

I have never been to the place since those days. If Shriny's palace is

there now at all, I dare say I should find the stakes to be stumps, and

all the vastness and mystery about them gone for ever. And yet we used

to pretend to feast with her there. We served up the seed-vessels of the

fucus as fish. I do not think we really ate them, we only sucked out the

salt water, and tried to fancy we were enjoying the repast. Once we

_began_ to eat a limpet!--Beyond that point my memory is dumb.

I wonder how we should have felt if Shriny had really appeared to us, as

Coomara appeared to Jack Dogherty, and taken us down below the waves, or

kept us among the stakes of her palace till the tide flooded them, and

perhaps filled it with wonderful creatures and beautiful things, and

floated out the dank, dripping fucus into a veil of lace above our

heads; as our mother used to float out little dirty lumps of seaweed

into beautiful web-like pictures when she was preserving them for her

collection.

Shriny never did come, though Mr. Croker says Coomara came to Jack.

Perhaps, young readers, some of you have never read the story of the

Soul Cages. It is a long one, and I am not going to repeat it here,

only to say a word or two about it, for which I have a reason.

Jack Dogherty--so the story goes--had always longed to see a Merrow.

Merrow is the Irish name for seafolk; indeed, it properly means a

mermaid. And Jack, you know, lived in a fairy tale, and not in lodgings

at a watering-place on the south coast; so he saw his Merrow, though we

never saw Shriny.

I do not think any of the after-history of the Merrow is equal to Mr.

Croker's account of his first appearance to Jack: afterwards "Old Coo"

becomes more like a tipsy old fisherman than the man-fish that he was.

The first appearance was on the coast to the northward, when "just as

Jack was turning a point, he saw something, like to nothing he had ever

seen before, perched upon a rock at a little distance out to sea; it

looked green in the body, as well as he could discern at that distance,

and he would have sworn, only the thing was impossible, that it had a

cocked-hat in its hand. Jack stood for a good half-hour, straining his

eyes and wondering at it, and all the time the thing did not stir hand

or foot. At last Jack's patience was quite worn out, and he gave a loud

whistle and a hail, when the Merrow (for such it was) started up, put

the cocked-hat on its head, and dived down, head foremost, from the

rocks."

For a long time Jack could get no nearer view of "the sea-gentleman

with the cocked-hat," but at last, one stormy day, when he had taken

refuge in one of the caves along the coast, "he saw, sitting before him,

a thing with green hair, long green teeth, a red nose, and pig's eyes.

It had a fish's tail, legs with scales on them, and short arms like

fins. It wore no clothes, but had the cocked-hat under its arm, and

seemed engaged thinking very seriously about something."

As I copy these words--_It wore no clothes, but had the cocked-hat under

its arm, and seemed engaged thinking very seriously about something_--it

seems to me that the portrait is strangely like something that I have

seen. And the more I think of it, the more I am convinced that the type

is familiar to me, and that, though I do not live in a fairy story, I

have been among the Merrows. And further still that any one who pleases

may go and see Coomara's cousins any day.

There can be no doubt of it! I have seen a Merrow--several Merrows. That

unclothed, over-harnessed form is before me now; sitting motionless on a

rock, "engaged thinking very seriously," till in some sudden impulse it

rises, turns up its red nose, makes some sharp angular movements with

head and elbows, and plunges down, with about as much grace as if some

stiff, red-nosed old admiral, dressed in nothing but cocked-hat,

spectacles, telescope, and a sword between his legs, were to take a

header from the quarter-deck into the sea.

I do not want to make a mystery about nothing. I should have resented it

thoroughly myself when I was young. I make no pretence to have had any

glimpses of fairyland. I could not see Shriny when I was eight years

old, and I never shall now. Besides, no one sees fairies now-a-days. The

"path to bonnie Elfland" has long been overgrown, and few and far

between are the Princes who press through and wake the Beauties that

sleep beyond. For compensation, the paths to Mother Nature's Wonderland

are made broader, easier, and more attractive to the feet of all men,

day by day. And it is Mother Nature's Merrows that I have seen--in the

Crystal Palace Aquarium.

How Mr. Croker drew that picture of Coomara the Merrow, when he probably

never saw a sea crayfish, a lobster, or even a prawn at home, I cannot

account for, except by the divining and prophetic instincts of genius.

And when I speak of his seeing a crayfish, a lobster, or a prawn at

home, I mean at their home, and not at Mr. Croker's. Two very different

things for our friends the "sea-gentlemen," as to colour as well as in

other ways. In his own home, for instance, a lobster is of various

beautiful shades of blue and purple. In Mr. Croker's home he would be

bright scarlet--from boiling! So would the prawn, and as solid as you

please; who in his own home is colourless and transparent as any ghost.

Strangely beautiful those prawns are when you see them at home. And that

one seems to do in the Great Aquarium; though, I suppose, it is much

like seeing land beasts and birds in the Zoological Gardens--a poor

imitation of their free life in their natural condition. Still, there is

no other way in which you can see and come to know these wonderful "sea

gentlemen" so well, unless you could go, like Jack Dogherty, to visit

them at the bottom of the sea. And whilst I heartily recommend every one

who has not seen the Aquarium to visit it as soon as possible, let me

describe it for the benefit of those who cannot do so at present. It may

also be of some little use to them hereafter to know what is most worth

seeing there, and where to look for it.

No sooner have you paid your sixpence at the turnstile which admits you,

than your eye is caught by what seems to be a large window in the wall,

near the man who has taken your money. You look through the glass, and

find yourself looking into a deep sea-pool, with low stone-grey rocks

studded with sea-anemones in full bloom. There are twenty-one different

species of sea-anemones in the Aquarium; but those to be seen in this

particular pool are chosen from about seven of the largest kinds. The

very biggest, a _Tealia crassicornis_, measures ten inches across when

he spreads his pearly fingers to their full extent. "In my young days"

we called him by the familiar name of Crassy; and found him so difficult

to keep in domestic captivity, that it was delightful to see him

blooming and thriving as he does in Tank No. 1 of the Great Aquarium.

His squat build--low and broad--contrasts well with those tall white

neighbours of his (_Dianthus plumosa_), whose faces are like a plume of

snowy feathers. All the sea-anemones in this tank have settled

themselves on the rocks according to their own fancy. They are of lovely

shades of colour, rosy, salmon-coloured, and pearly-white.

There are more than five thousand sea-anemones of various kinds in the

Aquarium; and they have an attendant, whose sole occupation is to feed

them, by means of a pair of long wooden forceps.

Reluctantly breaking away from such old friends, we pass through a door

into a long vault-like stone passage or hall, down one side of which

there seem to be high large windows, about as far apart as windows of a

long room commonly are. Behind each of these is a sea-pool like the

first one.

Take the first of the lot--Tank No. 2. It is stocked with _Serpulæ_.

Sea-anemones are well-known to most people, but tube-worms are not such

familiar friends; so I will try to describe this particular kind of

"sea-gentlemen." The tube-worms are so called because, though they are

true worms (sea-worms), they do not trust their soft bodies to the sea,

as our common earth-worms trust theirs in a garden-bed, but build

themselves tubes inside which they live, popping their heads out at the

top now and then like a chimney-sweep pushing his brush out at the top

of a tall round chimney. Now if you can fancy one of our tall round

manufactory chimneys to be white instead of black, and the round

chimney-sweep's brush to have lovely gay-coloured feathers all round it

instead of dirty bristles, or if you can fancy the sweep letting off a

monster catherine-wheel at the chimney's mouth, you may have some idea

what a tube-worm's head is like when he pokes it out of his tube.

The _Serpulæ_ make their tubes of chalky stuff, something like

egg-shell; and they stick them on to anything that comes to hand down

below. Those in the Great Aquarium came from Weymouth. They were dredged

up with the white pipes or tubes sticking to oyster-shells, old bottles,

stones, and what not, like bits of maccaroni glued on to old crockery

sherds. These odds and ends are overgrown, however, with weeds and

zoophytes, and (like an ugly house covered by creepers) look picturesque

rather than otherwise. The worms have small bristles down their bodies,

which serve as feet, and help them to scramble up inside their tubes,

when they wish to poke their heads out and breathe. These heads are

delicate, bright-coloured plumes. Each species has its own plume of its

own special shape and colour. They are only to be seen when the animal

is alive. A good many little _Serpulæ_ have been born in the Aquarium.

Through the next window--Tank No. 3--you may see more tube-worms, with

ray-like, daisy heads, and soft muddy tubes. They are _Sabellæ_.

Have you ever see a "sea-mouse"? Probably you have: preserved in a

bottle. It is only like a mouse from being about the size of a mouse's

body, without legs, and with a lot of rainbow-coloured hairs. You may be

astonished to hear that it is classed among the worms. There is a

sea-mouse in the Great Aquarium. I did not see him; perhaps because he

is given to burrowing. If he is not in one of the two tanks just named

he is probably in No. 21 or No. 25. He is so handsome dead and in a

bottle, that he must be gorgeous to behold alive and in a pool. You

should look out for him.

It is a disappointing feature of this water wonderland that some of the

"sea-gentlemen" are apt to hide, like hobbledehoy children, when

visitors call. Indeed, a good many of them--such as the swimming-crabs,

the burrowing-crabs, the sea-scorpions, and the eels--are night-feeders,

and one cannot expect them to change their whole habits and customs to

be seen of the British public. Anyhow, whether they hide from custom or

caprice, they are quite safe from interference. Much happier, in this

respect, than the beasts in the Zoological Gardens. One may disturb the

big elephant's repose with umbrella-points, or throw buns at the brown

bear, but the "sea-gentlemen" are safe in their caves, and humanity

flattens its nose against the glass wall of separation in vain.

When I looked into Tank No. 5, however, there were several

swimming-crabs and sea-scorpions to be seen. The sea-scorpions are fish,

but bold-faced, fiery, greedy little fellows. The swimming-crabs are

said to be "the largest, strongest, and _hungriest_" of English crabs.

What a thought for those they live on! Let us picture to ourselves the

largest, strongest, and _hungriest_ of cannibals! Doubtless he would

make short work even of the American Giant, as the swimming-crabs, by

night, devour other crabs, larger but milder-tempered than themselves.

It speaks volumes for the sea-scorpions, who are small fish, that they

can hold their own in the same pool with the swimming-crabs.

Tank 4 contains big spider-crabs, who sit with their knees above their

heads, winking at you with their eyes and feelers; or scramble out

unexpectedly from dens and caves here and there, high up in the rocky

sides of the pool.

Nos. 6, 7, and 8 contain fish.

It really is sad to think how completely our ideas on the subject of cod

spring from the kitchen and the fish-kettle. (As to our cod-liver oil,

we know no more how much of it has anything to do with cod-fish than we

can guess where our milk and port-wine come from.) Poor cod! If of a

certain social standing, it's odds if we will recognize any of him but

his head and shoulders. I have seen him served up in country inns with a

pickled walnut in the socket of each eye; and in life, and at home, he

has the attentive, inquisitive, watchful, humorous eyes common to all

fishes.

Fishes remind me rather of Chinese, who are also a cold-blooded race:

slow, watchful, inquisitive, acquisitive, and full of the sense of

humour. There are fishes in the Great Aquarium whose faces twinkle again

with quiet fun.

The cod here seemed quite as much interested in looking at us through a

glass window as we were in looking at them. They are tame, and have

very large appetites--so tame, and so hungry, that the fish who live

with them are at a disadvantage at meal-times, and it is feared that

they must be removed.

These other fish are plaice, soles, brill, turbot, and skate. The skate

love to lie buried over head and ears in the sand. The faintest outline

of tail or a flapping fin betrays the spot, and you long for an

umbrella-poke from some Zoological-Garden-frequenting old lady, to stir

the lazy creature up; but it is impossible.

Suddenly, when you are as tired of waiting as Jack was when Coomara was

"engaged thinking," the fin movement becomes more distinct, a cloud of

sand rises into the water, and a grey-coated skate, with two ornamental

knobs upon his tail, flaps slowly away across the pool.

Sometimes these flat-fish flap upwards to the surface, poke their noses

into the other world, and then, like larks, having gone up with effort,

let themselves easily down again to the ground.

As we were looking into No. 7, an ambitious little sole took into his

head to climb up the rocks, in the caves of which dwell crusty crabs. By

marvellously agile doubles of his flat little body, he scrambled a good

way up. Then he fell, and two or three valiant efforts still proving

vain, he gave it up.

"He's turned giddy!" shouted a man beside us, who, like every one else,

was watching the sea-gentlemen with rapt interest.

Why the little sole tried rock climbing I don't know, and I doubt if he

knew himself.

Tank 7 is full of Basse--glittering fish who keep their silver armour

clean by scrubbing it among the stones. Like other prettily-dressed

people, they look out of the window all along.

At Tanks 1, 2, and 3, your chief feelings will be curiosity and

admiration. The sea-flowers and the worms are rather low in the scale of

living things. Far be it from you to decide that there are any living

creatures with whom a loving and intelligent patience will not at last

enable us to hold communion. But though, when you put the point of your

little finger towards a Crassy, he gives it a very affectionate squeeze,

and seems rather anxious to detain it permanently, the balance of

evidence favours the idea that his appetite rather than his affections

are concerned, and that he has only mistaken you for his dinner.

At present our intercourse is certainly limited, and though the

_Serpulæ_ and _Sabellæ_ have their heads out of their chimneys all

along, there is no reason to suppose that they take the slightest

interest in the human beings who peer at them through the glass.

But with the fishes it is quite another thing. When you can fairly look

into eyes as bright and expressive as your own, a long stride has been

taken towards friendly relations. You flatten your nose on one side of

the glass, and Mr. Fish flattens his on the other. If you have the

stoniest of British stares he will outstare you. You long to scratch his

back, or show him some similar attention, and (if he be a cod) to ask

him, as between friends, why on earth (I mean in sea) he wears that

queer horn under his chin.

Now with the _Crustaceans_(hard-shelled sea-gentlemen) it is different

again. So far as one feels friendly towards a fish it is a fellow

feeling. You know people like this or that cod, as one knows people like

certain sheep, dogs, and horses. And a very short acquaintance with fish

convinces you that not only is there a type of face belonging to each

species, but that individual countenances vary, as with us. It is said

that shepherds know the faces of their sheep as well as of their other

friends, and I have no doubt that the keeper of the Great Aquarium knows

his cod apart quite well.

And if one's feeling for the _Crustaceans_--the crabs, lobsters, prawns,

&c.--is different, it is not because one feels them to be less

intelligent than fishes, but because their intelligence is altogether a

mysterious, unfathomable, unmeasurable quantity. There's no saying what

they don't know. There is no telling how much they can see. And the

great puzzle is what they can be thinking of. For that the spiny

lobsters are thinking, and "thinking very seriously about something,"

you can no more doubt than Jack did about the Merrow.

The spiny lobsters (commonly, but erroneously called craw-fish or

cray-fish) and the common lobsters are in Tank No. 9.

Ah! that is a wonderful pool. The first glimpse of the spiny lobsters is

enough for any one who has read of Coomara. We are among the Merrows at

last.

I don't know that Coomara was a lobster, but I think he must have been a

crustacean. Even his green hair reminds one of the spider-crabs; though

matter-of-fact naturalists tell us that _their_ green hair is only

seaweed which grows luxuriantly on their shells from their quiet habits,

and because they are not given to burrowing, or cleaning themselves

among the stones like the silver-coated basse. At one time, by the bye,

it was supposed that they dressed themselves in weeds, whence they were

called "vanity-crabs."

But the spiny lobsters--please to look at them, and see if you can so

much as guess their age, their capabilities, or their intentions. I

fancy that the difference between the feelings with which they and the

fishes inspire us is much the same as that between our mental attitude

towards hill-men or house-elves, and towards men and women.

The spiny lobsters are red. The common lobsters are blue. The spiny

lobsters are large, their eyes are startlingly prominent, their powerful

antennæ are longer and redder than Coomara's nose, and wave about in an

inquisitive and somewhat threatening manner. When four or five of them

are gathered together in the centre of the pool, sitting solemnly on

their tails, which are tucked neatly under them, each with his ten sharp

elbows a-kimbo "engaged thinking" (and perhaps talking) "very seriously

about something," it is an impressive but _uncanny_ sight.

We witnessed such a conclave, sitting in a close circle, face to face,

waving their long antennæ; and as we watched, from the shadowy caves

above another merrow appeared. How he ever got his cumbersome coat of

mail, his stiff legs, and long spines safely down the face of the cliff

is a mystery. But he scrambled down ledge by ledge, bravely, and in some

haste. He knew what the meeting was about, though we did not, and soon

took his place, arranged his tail, his scales, his elbows, his

cocked-hat, and what not, and fell a-thinking, like the rest. We left

them so.

Most of the common lobsters were in their caves, from which they

watched this meeting of the reds with fixed attention.

In their dark-blue coats, peering with their keen eyes from behind

jutting rocks and the mouths of sea caverns, they looked somewhat like

smuggler sailors!

Tanks 10 to 13 have fish in them. The Wrasses are very beautiful in

colour. Most gorgeous indeed, if you can look at them in a particular

way. Tank 32 has been made on purpose to display them. It is in another

room.

No tank in the Aquarium is more popular than Tank 14. Enthusiastic

people will sit down here with needlework or luncheon, and calmly wait

for a good view of--the cuttle-fish!

Cuttle is the name for the whole race of cephalopods, and is supposed to

be a corruption of the word cuddle, in the sense of hugging.

They are curious creatures, the one who favoured us with a good view of

him being very like a loose red velvet pincushion with eight legs, and

most of the bran let out.

Yet this strange, unshapely creature has a distinct brain in a soft kind

of skull, mandibles like a parrot, and plenty of sense. His sight,

hearing, touch, taste, and smell are acute. He lies kicking his legs in

the doorway of his favourite cavern, which he selected for himself and

is attached to, for a provokingly long time before he will come out.

When he does appear, a subdued groan of gratified expectation runs

through the crowd in front of his window, as head over heels, hand over

hand, he sprawls downwards, and moves quickly away with the peculiar

gait induced by having suckers instead of feet to walk with.

Tank 15 contains eels. It seems to be a curious fact that fresh-water

eels will live in sea-water. I should think, when they have once got

used to the salt, they must find a pond very tasteless afterwards. They

are night-feeders, as school-boys know well.

Tank 16. Fish--grey mullet. Tank 17. Prawns.

If with the fishes we had felt with friends, and with the lobsters as if

with hobgoblins, with the prawns we seemed to find ourselves among

ghosts.

A tank that seems only a pool for a cuttle-fish, or a cod, is a vast

region where prawns and shrimps are the inhabitants. The caves look

huge, and would hold an army of them. The rocks jut boldly out, and

throw strange shadows on the pool. The light falls effectively from

above, and in and out and round about go the prawns, with black eyes

glaring from their diaphanous helmets, in colourless, translucent, if

not transparent armour, and bristling with spears.

"They are like disembodied spirits," said my husband.

But in a moment more we exclaimed, "It's like a scene from Martin's

mezzo-tint illustrations of the _Paradise Lost_. They are ghostly hosts

gathering for battle."

This must seem a most absurd idea in connection with prawns; but if you

have never seen prawns except at the breakfast-table, you must go to the

Great Aquarium to learn how impressive is their appearance in real life.

The warlike group which struck us so forcibly had gathered rapidly from

all parts of the pool upon a piece of flat table-rock that jutted out

high up. Some unexplained excitement agitated the host; their

innumerable spear-like antennæ moved ceaselessly. From above a ray of

light fell just upon the table-rock where they were gathered, making the

waving spears glitter like the bayonet points of a body of troops, and

forming a striking contrast with the dark cliffs and overshadowed water

below, from which stragglers were quickly gathering, some paddling

across the deep pool, others scrambling up the rocks, and all with the

same fierce and restless expression.

How I longed for a chance of sketching the scene!

Prawns are not quite such colourless creatures in the sea as they are

here. Why they lose their colour and markings in captivity is not known.

They seem otherwise well.

They are hungry creatures, and their scent is keen.

The shrimps keep more out of sight; they burrow in the sand a good deal.

You know one has to look for fresh-water shrimps in a brook if one wants

to find them.

In Tank 18 are our old friends the hermit-crabs. As a child, I think I

believed that these curious creatures killed the original inhabitants of

the shells which they take for their own dwelling. It is pleasant to

know that this is not the case. The hermit-crab is in fact a

sea-gentleman, who is so unfortunate as to be born naked, and quite

unable to make his own clothes, and who goes nervously about the world,

trying on other people's cast-off coats till he finds one to fit him.

They are funnily fastidious about their shells, feeling one well inside

and out before they decide to try it, and hesitating sometimes between

two, like a lady between a couple of becoming bonnets. They have been

said to be pugnacious; but I fancy that the old name of soldier-crabs

was given to them under the impression that they killed the former

proprietors of their shells.

With No. 18 the window tanks come to an end.

In two other rooms are a number of shallow tanks open at the top, in

which are smaller sea-anemones, star-fish, more crabs, fishes, &c., &c.

Blennies are quaint, intellectual-looking little fish; friendly too,

and easy to be tamed. In one of Major Holland's charming papers in

_Science Gossip_ he speaks of a pet blenny of his who was not only tame

but musical. "He was exceedingly sensitive to the vibrations of stringed

instruments; the softest note of a violin threw him into a state of

agitation, and a harsh scrape or a vigorous _staccato_ drove him wild."

In Tank 34 are gurnards, fish-gentlemen, with exquisite blue fins, like

peacock's feathers.

No. 35 contains dragonets and star-fish. The dragonets are quaint,

wide-awake little fish. I saw one snap at a big, fat, red star-fish, who

was sticking to the side of a rock. Why the dragonet snapped at him I

have no idea. I do not believe he hurt him; but the star-fish gradually

relaxed his hold, and fell slowly and helplessly on to his back; on

which the dragonet looked as silly as the Sultan of Casgar's purveyor

when the hunchback fell beneath his blows. Another dragonet came hastily

up to see what was the matter; but prudently made off again, and left

the star-fish and his neighbour as they were. I waited a long time by

the tank, watching for the result; but in vain. The star-fish, looking

abjectly silly, lay with his white side up, without an effort to help

himself. As to the dragonet, he stuck out his nose, fixed his eyes, and

fell a-thinking. So I left them.

In Tank 38 are some Norwegian lobsters; red and white, very pretty, and

differing from the English ones in form as well as colour.

The green anemones in Tank 33 are very beautiful.

The arrangement of most of these tanks is temporary. As some

sea-gentlemen are much more rapacious than others, and as some prey upon

others, the arranging of them must have been very like the old puzzle of

the fox, the goose, and the bag of seed. Then when new creatures arrive

it necessitates fresh arrangements.

There is not much vegetation as yet in the tanks, which may puzzle some

people who have been accustomed to balance the animal and vegetable life

in their aquaria by introducing full-grown sea-weeds. But it has been

found that these often fail, and that it is better to trust to the weeds

which come of themselves from the action of light upon the invisible

seeds which float in all sea-water.

The pools are also kept healthy by the water being kept in constant

motion through the agency of pipes, steam-engines, and a huge reservoir

of sea-water.

It is not easy to speak with due admiration of the scientific skill, the

loving patience, the mindfulness of the public good which must have gone

to the forming of this Public Aquarium. With what different eyes must

innumerable "trippers" from the less-educated masses of our people look

into tide pools or crab holes, during their brief holiday at the

seaside, if they have previously been "trippers" to the Crystal

Palace, and visited the Great Aquarium.

Let us hope that it may stir up some sight-seers to be naturalists, and

some naturalists to devote their powers to furthering our too limited

friendship with the sea-gentry. How much remains to be done may be

gathered from the fact that we can as yet keep no deep-sea Merrows in

aquaria, only shore-dwellers will live with us, and not all of these.

And so insuperable, as yet, are the difficulties of transport, that

"distinguished foreigners" are rare indeed.

Still, as it stands, this Great Aquarium is wonderful--wonderful

exceedingly. There is a still greater one at Brighton, holding greater

wonders--a baby alligator amongst them--and we are very glad to hear

that one is to be established in Manchester also.

It has been well said that a love of nature is a strong characteristic

even of the roughest type of Britons. An Englishman's first idea of a

holiday is to get into the country, even if his second is apt to be a

search for the country beer-house.

Of birds, and beasts, and trees, and flowers, there is a good deal even

of rustic lore. Of the wonders of the deep we know much less.

Thousands of us can sing with understanding,

O Lord, how manifold are thy works!

In wisdom hast thou made them all.

The earth is full of Thy riches.

Surely hereafter more of us shall swell the antiphon,

So is the great and wide sea also,

Wherein are things creeping innumerable,

Both small and great beasts.

* * * * *

NOTE.--A Great Aquarium (and something more) is being made

at Naples by a young German naturalist--Dr. Dohrn, of Stettin--at

an expense of between £7000 and £8000, nearly all of which comes

out of his own pocket. The ground-floor of the building (an area of

nearly eight thousand square feet) is to hold the Great Aquarium.

It is hoped that the money obtained by opening this to the public

will both support the Aquarium itself, and do something towards

defraying the expenses of the upper story of the Zoological

Station, as it is called. This will contain a scientific library,

including Dr. Dohrn's own valuable private collection, and tables

for naturalists to work at, furnished with necessary appurtenances,

including tanks supplied with a constant stream of sea-water.

Sea-fishing and dredging will be carried on in connection with the

establishment, to supply subjects for study. Dr. Dohrn proposes to

let certain of these tables to governments and scientific

societies, who will then have the privilege of giving certificates,

which will enable their naturalists to enjoy all the benefits of

the institution.

Surely some new acquaintances will be made among the sea-gentry in

this paradise of naturalists!

TINY'S TRICKS AND TOBY'S TRICKS.

TINY.

[Illustration]

"Oh Toby, my dear old Toby, you portly and princely Pug!

"You know it's bad for you to lie in the fender:--Father says that's

what makes you so fat--and I want you to come and sit with me on the

Kurdistan rug.

"Put your lovely black nose in my lap, and I'll count your great velvet

wrinkles, and comfort you with kisses.

"If you'll only keep out of the fender--Father says you'll have a fit if

you don't!--and give good advice to your poor Little Missis.

"Father says you are the wisest creature he knows, and you are but eight

years old, and three months ago I was six.

"And yet Mother says I'm the silliest little girl that she ever met

with, because I am always picking up tricks.

[Illustration]

"She does not know where I learnt to stand on one leg (unless it was

from a goose), but it has made one of my shoulders stick out more than

the other.

"It wasn't the goose who taught me to whistle up and down-stairs. I

learnt that last holidays from my brother.

"The baker's man taught me to put my tongue in my cheek when I'm writing

copies, for I saw him do it when he was receipting a bill.

"And I learnt to wrinkle my forehead, and squeeze up my eyes, and make

faces with my lips by imitating the strange doctor who attended us when

we were ill.

"It was Brother Jack himself who showed me that the way to squint is to

look at both sides of your nose.

"And then, Toby--would you believe it?--he turned round last holidays

and said--'Look here, Tiny, if the wind changes when you're making that

face it'll stay there, and remember you can't squint properly and keep

your eye on the weathercock at the same time to see how it blows.'

"But boys are so mean!--and I catch stammering from his school

friend--'_Tut-tut-tut-tut-Tom_,' as we call him--but I soon leave it off

when he goes.

"I did not learn stooping and poking out my chin from any one; it came

of itself. It is so hard to sit up; but Mother says that much my worst

trick

"Is biting my finger nails; and I've bitten them nearly all down to the

quick.

"She says if I don't lose these tricks, and leave off learning fresh

ones, I shall never grow up like our pretty great-great-grandmamma.

"Do you know her, dear Toby? I don't think you do. I don't think you

ever look at pictures, intelligent as you are!

"It's the big portrait, by Romney, of a beautiful lady, sitting

beautifully up, with her beautiful hands lying in her lap.

"Looking over her shoulder, out of lovely eyes, with a sweet smile on

her lips, in the old brocade Mother keeps in the chest, and a pretty

lace cap.

"I should very much like to be like her when I grow up to that age;

Mother says she was twenty-six.

"And of course I know she would not have looked so nice in her picture

if she'd squinted, and wrinkled her forehead, and had one shoulder out,

and her tongue in her cheek, and a round back, and her chin poked, and

her fingers all swollen with biting;--but, oh, Toby, you clever Pug! how

am I to get rid of my tricks?

"That is, if I must give them up; but it seems so hard to get into

disgrace

"For doing what comes natural to one, with one's own eyes, and legs, and

fingers, and face."

TOBY.

"Remove your arms from my neck, Little Missis--I feel unusually

apoplectic--and let me take two or three turns on the rug,

"Whilst I turn the matter over in my mind, for never was there so

puzzled a Pug!

"I am, as your respected Father truly observes, a most talented

creature.

"And as to fit subjects for family portraits and personal

appearance--from the top of my massive brow to the tip of my curly

tail, I believe myself to be perfect in every feature.

"And when my ears are just joined over my forehead like a black velvet

cap, I'm reckoned the living likeness of a late eminent divine and once

popular preacher.

[Illustration]

"Did your great-great-grandmamma ever take a prize at a show? But let

that pass--the real question is this:

"How is it that what I am most highly commended for, should in your

case be taken amiss?

"Why am I reckoned the best and cleverest of dogs? Because I've picked

up tricks so quickly ever since I was a pup.

"And if I couldn't wrinkle my forehead and poke out my chin, and grimace

at the judges, do you suppose I should ever have been--Class Pug. First

Prize--Champion and Gold Cup?

"We have one thing in common--I do _not_ find it easy to sit up.

"But I learned it, and so will you. I can't imagine worse manners than

to put one's tongue in one's cheek; as a rule, I hang mine gracefully

out on one side.

"And I've no doubt it's a mistake to gnaw your fingers. I gnawed a good

deal in my puppyhood, but chewing my paws is a trick that I never tried.

"How you stand on one leg I cannot imagine; with my figure it's all I

can do to stand upon four.

"I balance biscuit on my nose. Do you? I jump through a hoop (an

atrocious trick, my dear, after one's first youth--and a full meal!)--I

bark three cheers for the Queen, and I shut the dining-room door.

"I lie flat on the floor at the word of command--In short, I've as many

tricks as you have, and every one of them counts to my credit;

"Whilst yours--so you say--only bring you into disgrace, which I could

not have thought possible if you had not said it.

"Indeed--but for the length of my experience and the solidity of my

judgment--this would tempt me to think your mamma a very foolish person,

and to advise you to disobey her; but I do _not_, Little Missis, for I

know

"That if you belong to good and kind people, it is well to let them

train you up in the way in which they think you should go.

"Your excellent parents trained me to tricks; and very senseless some of

them seemed, I must say:

"But I've lived to be proud of what I've been taught; and glad too that

I learned to obey.

"For, depend upon it, if you never do as you're told till you know the

reason why, or till you find that you must;

"You are much less of a Prize Pug than you might have been if you'd

taken good government on trust."

* * * * *

"Take me back to your arms, Little Missis, I feel cooler, and calmer in

my mind.

"Yes, there can be no doubt about it. You must do what your mother

tells you, for you know that she's wise and kind.

"You must take as much pains to _lose your_ tricks as I took to _learn

mine_, long ago;

"And we may all live to see you yet--'Class, Young Lady. First Prize.

Gold Medal--of a Show.'"

TINY.

"Oh, Toby, my dear old Toby, you wise and wonderful Pug!

"Don't struggle off yet, stay on my knee for a bit, you'll be much

hotter in the fender, and I want to give you a great, big hug.

"What are you turning round and round for? you'll make yourself giddy,

Toby. If you're looking for your tail, it is there, all right.

"You can't see it for yourself because you're so fat, and because it is

curled so tight.

"I dare say you could play with it, like Kitty, when you were a pup, but

it must be a long time now since you've seen it.

"It's rather rude of you, Mr. Pug, to lie down with your back to me, and

a grunt, but I know you don't mean it.

"I wanted to hug you, Toby, because I do thank you for giving me such

good advice, and I know every word of it's true.

"I mean to try hard to follow it, and I'll tell you what I shall do.

"Nurse wants to put bitter stuff on the tips of my fingers, to cure me

of biting them, and now I think I shall let her.

"I know they're not fit to be seen, but she says they would soon become

better.

"I mean to keep my hands behind my back a good deal till they're well,

and to hold my head up, and turn out my toes; and every time I give way

to one of my tricks, I shall go and stand (_on both legs_) before the

picture, and confess it to great-great-grandmamma.

"Just fancy if I've no tricks left this time next year, Toby! Won't that

show how clever we are?

"I for trying so hard to do what I'm told, and you for being so wise

that people will say--'That sensible pug cured that silly little girl

when not even her mother could mend her.'

"--Ah! Bad Dog! Where are you slinking off to?--Oh, Toby, darling! do,

_do_ take a little of your own good advice, and try to cure yourself of

lying in the fender!"

[Illustration: THE OWL IN THE IVY BUSH]

THE OWL IN THE IVY BUSH;

OR,

THE CHILDREN'S BIRD OF WISDOM.

INTRODUCTION.

"Hoot toots, man, yon's a queer bird!"

_Bonnie Scotland._

I AM an Owl; a very fluffy one, in spite of all that that Bad

Boy pulled out! I live in an Ivy Bush. Children are nothing to me,

naturally, so it seems strange that I should begin, at my time of life,

to observe their little ways and their humours, and to give them good

advice.

And yet it is so. I am the Friend of Young People. In my flight abroad I

watch them. As I sit meditating in my Ivy Bush, it is their little

matters which I turn over in my fluffy head. I have established a

letter-box for their communications at the Hole in the Tree. No other

address will find me.

It is well known that I am a Bird of Wisdom. I am also an Observing

Bird; and though my young friends may think I see less than I do,

because of my blinking, and because I detest that vulgar glare of bright

light without which some persons do not seem able to see what goes on

around them, I would have children to know that if I can blink on

occasion, and am not apt to let every starer read my counsel in my eyes,

I am wide awake all the same. I am on the look-out when it's so dark

that other folk can't see an inch before their noses, and (a word to the

foolish and naughty!) I can see what is doing behind my back. And

Wiseacre, Observer, and Wide-awake--I am the Children's Owl.

Before I open my mouth on their little affairs, before even I open my

letters (if there are any waiting for me) I will explain how it came

about that I am the Children's Owl.

It is all owing to that little girl; the one with the fluffy hair and

the wise eyes. As an Observer I have noticed that not only I, but other

people, seem to do what she wants, and as a Wiseacre I have reflected

upon it as strange, because her temper is as soft and fluffy as her hair

(which mine is not), and she always seems ready to give way to others

(which is never my case--if I can help it). On the occasion I am about

to speak of, I could _not_ help it.

[Illustration]

It was last summer that that Bad Boy caught me, and squeezed me into a

wicker cage. Little did I think I should ever live to be so poked out,

and rummaged, and torn to shreds by such a thing as a boy! I bit him,

but he got me into the cage and put a cloth over it. Then he took me to

his father, who took me to the front door of the house, where he is

coachman and gardener, and asked for Little Miss to come out and see the

new pet Tom had caught for her.

"It's a nasty-tempered brute, but she's such a one for taming things,"

said the coachman, whipping off the cloth to show me to the housemaid,

and letting in a glare of light that irritated me to a frenzy. I flew at

the housemaid, and she flew into the house. Then I rolled over and

growled and hissed under my beak, and tried to hide my eyes in my

feathers.

"Little Miss won't tame me," I muttered.

[Illustration]

She did not try long. When she heard of me she came running out, the

wind blowing her fluffy hair about her face, and the sun shining on it.

Fluffed out by the wind, and changing colour in the light and shade, the

hair down her back is not entirely unlike the feathers of my own, though

less sober perhaps in its tints. Like mine it makes a small head look

large, and as she had big wise eyes, I have seen creatures less like an

owl than Little Miss. Her voice is not so hoarse as mine. It is clear

and soft, as I heard when she spoke:

"Oh, _how_ good of you! And how good of Tom! I do so love owls. I

always get Mary to put the silver owl by me at luncheon, though I am

not allowed to eat pepper. And I have a brown owl, a china one, sitting

on a book for a letter weight. He came from Germany. And Captain Barton

gave me an owl pencil-case on my birthday, because I liked hearing

about his real owl, but, oh, I never hoped I should have a real owl of

my very own. It _was_ kind of Tom."

[Illustration]

To hear that Bad Boy called kind was too much for endurance, and I let

them see how savage I felt. If the wicker work had not been very strong

the cage would not have held me.

"He's a Tartar," said the coachman.

"Oh no, Williams!" said Little Miss, "he's only frightened by the light.

Give me the cloth, please."

"Take care, Miss. He'll bite you," cried the coachman, as she put the

cloth over the cage, and then over her own head.

"No he won't! I don't mind his snapping and hissing. I want him to see

me, and know me. Then perhaps he'll get to like me, and be tame, and sit

on the nursery clock and look wise. Captain Barton's owl used to sit on

his clock. Poor fellow! Dear old owlie! Don't growl, my owl. Can you

hoot, darling? I should like to hear you hoot."

Sometimes as I sit in my Ivy Bush, and the moon shines on the spiders'

webs and reminds me of the threads of her hair, on a mild, sleepy night,

if there's nothing stirring but the ivy boughs; sitting, I say, blinking

between a dream and a doze, I fancy I see her face close to mine, as it

was that day with the wicker work between. Our eyes looking at each

other, and our fluffiness mixed up by the wind. Then I try to remember

all the kind things she said to me to coax me to leave my ivy bush, and

go to live on the nursery clock. But I can't remember half. I was in

such a rage at the time, and when you are in a rage you miss a good

deal, and forget a good deal.

I know that at last she left off talking to me, and I could see her wise

eyes swimming in tears. Then she left me alone under the cloth.

"Well, Miss," said the coachman, "you don't make much of him, do ye?

He's a Tartar, Miss, I'm afraid."

[Illustration]

"I think, Williams, that he's too old. Captain Barton's owl was a little

owlet when he first got him. I shall never tame this one, Williams, and

I never was so disappointed in all my life. Captain Barton said he kept

an owl to keep himself good and wise, because nobody could be foolish in

the face of an owl sitting on his clock. He says both his godfathers are

dead, and he has taken his owl for his godfather. These are his jokes,

Williams, but I had set my heart on having an owl on the nursery clock.

I do think I have never wished so much for anything in the world as that

Tom's owl would be our Bird of Wisdom. But he never will. He will never

let me tame him. He wants to be a wild owl all his life. I love him very

much, and I should like him to have what he wants, and not be miserable.

Please thank Tom very much, and please ask him to let him go."

"I'm sorry I brought him, Miss, to trouble you," said the coachman. "But

Tom won't let him go. He'd a lot of trouble catching him, and if he's no

good to you, Tom'll be glad of him to stuff. He's got some glass eyes

out of a stuffed fox the moths ate, and he's bent on stuffing an owl, is

Tom. The eyes would be too big for a pheasant, but they'll look well

enough in an owl, he thinks."

My hearing is very acute, and not a word of that Bad Boy's brutal

intentions was lost on me. I shrunk among my feathers and shivered with

despair; but when I heard the voice of Little Miss I rounded my ear once

more.

"No, Williams, no! He must not be stuffed. Oh, please beg Tom to come

to me. Perhaps I can give him something to persuade him not. If he must

stuff an owl, please, please let him stuff a strange owl. One I haven't

made friends with. Not this one. He is very wild, but he is very lovely

and soft, and I do so want him to be let go."

"Well, Miss, I'll send Tom, and you can settle it with him. All I say,

he's a Tartar, and stuffing's too good for him."

Whether she bribed Tom, or persuaded him, I don't know, but Little Miss

got her way, and that Bad Boy let me go, and I went back to my Ivy Bush.

OWLHOOT I.

"What can't be cured must be endured."

_Old Proverb._

It was the wish to see Little Miss once more that led my wings past her

nursery window; besides, I had a curiosity to look at the clock.

It is an eight-day clock, in a handsome case, and would, undoubtedly,

have been a becoming perch for a bird of my dignified appearance, but I

will not describe it to-day. Nor will I speak of my meditations as I sit

in my Ivy Bush like any other common owl, and reflect that if I had not

had my own way, but had listened to Little Miss, I might have sat on an

Eight-day Clock, and been godfather to the children. It is not seemly

for an owl to doubt his own wisdom, but as I have taken upon me, for the

sake of Little Miss, to be a child's counsellor, I will just observe,

in passing, that though it is very satisfactory at the time to get your

own way, you may live to wish that you had taken other folk's advice

instead.

[Illustration]

From that nursery I have taken flight to others. I sail by the windows,

and throw a searching eye through these bars which are, I believe,

placed there to keep top-heavy babies from tumbling out. Sometimes I

peer down the chimney. From the nook of a wall or the hollow of a tree,

I overlook the children's gardens and playgrounds. I have an eye to

several schools, and I fancy (though I may be wrong) that I should look

well seated on the top of an easel--just above the black-board, with a

piece of chalk in my feathery foot.

Not that I have any notion of playing school-master, or even of advising

school-masters and parents how to make their children good and wise. I

am the Children's Owl--their very own--and all my good advice is

intended to help them to improve themselves.

It is wonderful how children _do_ sometimes improve! I knew a fine

little fellow, much made of by his family and friends, who used to be so

peevish about all the little ups and downs of life, and had such a

lamentable whine in his voice when he was thwarted in any trifle, that

if you had heard without seeing him, you'd have sworn that the most

miserable wretch in the world was bewailing the worst of catastrophes

with failing breath. And all the while there was not a handsomer,

healthier, better fed, better bred, better dressed, and more dearly

loved little boy in all the parish. When you might have thought, by the

sound of it, that some starving skeleton of a creature was moaning for a

bit of bread, the young gentleman was only sobbing through the soap and

lifting his voice above the towels, because Nurse would wash his fair

rosy cheeks. And when cries like those of one vanquished in battle and

begging and praying for his life, rang through the hall and up the front

stairs, it proved to be nothing worse than Master Jack imploring his

friends to "_please, please_" and "_do, do_," let him stay out to run in

a final "go as you please" race with the young Browns (who dine a

quarter of an hour later), instead of going in promptly when the gong

sounded for luncheon.

[Illustration]

Now the other day I peeped into a bedroom of that little boy's home. The

sun was up, and so was Jack, but one of his numerous Aunts was not. She

was in bed with a headache, and to this her pale face, her eyes

shunning the light like my own, and her hair restlessly tossed over the

pillow bore witness. When a knock came on the bedroom door, she started

with pain, but lay down again and cried--"Come in!"

[Illustration]

The door opened, but no one came in; and outside the voices of the

little boy and his nurse were audible.

"I want to show her my new coat."

"You can't, Master Jack. Your Aunt's got a dreadful headache, and can't

be disturbed."

No peevish complaints from Jack: only a deep sigh.

"I'm very sorry about her headache; and I'm very very sorry about my

coat. For I am going out, and it will never be so new again."

His Aunt spoke feebly.

"Nurse, I must see his coat. Let him come in."

Enter Jack.

It was his first manly suit, and he was trying hard for a manly soul

beneath it, as a brave boy should. He came in very gently, but with

conscious pride glowing in his rosy cheeks and out of his shining eyes.

His cheeks were very red, for a step in life is a warming thing, and so

is a cloth suit when you've been used to frocks.

It was a bottle-green coat, with large mother-o'-pearl buttons and three

coachman's capes; and there were leggings to match. The beaver hat, too,

was new, and becomingly cocked, as he stood by his Aunt's bedside and

smiled.

"What a fine coat, Jack!"

"Made by a tailor, Auntie Julie. Real pockets!"

"You don't say so!"

He nodded.

"Leggings too!" and he stuck up one leg at a sudden right angle on to

the bed; a rash proceeding, but the boy has a straight little figure,

and with a hop or two he kept his balance.

"My dear Jack, they are grand. How warm they must keep your legs!"

He shook his beaver hat.

"No. They only tickles. That's what they do."

There was a pause. His Aunt remembered the old peevish ways. She did not

want to encourage him to discard his winter leggings, and was doubtful

what to say. But in a moment more his eyes shone, and his face took that

effulgent expression which some children have when they are resolved

upon being good.

"--_and as I can't shake off the tickle, I have to bear it_," added the

little gentleman.

I call him the little gentleman advisedly. There is no stronger sign of

high breeding in young people, than a cheerful endurance of the rubs of

life. A temper that fits one's fate, a spirit that rises with the

occasion. It is this kind of courage which the Gentlemen of England

have shown from time immemorial, through peace and war, by land and sea,

in every country and climate of the habitable globe. Jack is a child of

that Empire on which the sun never sets, and if he live he is like to

have larger opportunities of bearing discomfort than was afforded by the

woolly worry of his bottle-green leggings. I am in good hopes that he

will not be found wanting.

Some such thoughts, I believe, occurred to his Aunt.

"That's right, Jack. What a man you are!"

[Illustration]

The rosy cheeks became carmine, and Jack flung himself upon his Aunt,

and kissed her with resounding smacks.

A somewhat wrecked appearance which she presented after this boisterous

hug, recalled the headache to his mind, and as he settled the beaver

hat, which had gone astray, he said ruefully,

"Is your headache _very_ bad, Auntie Julie?"

"Rather bad, Jack. _And as I can't shake if off, I have to bear it._"

He went away on tiptoe, and it was only after he had carefully and

gently closed the bedroom door behind him, that he departed by leaps

and bounds to show himself in his bottle-green coat and capes, and

white buttons and leggings to match, and beaver hat to boot, first to

the young Browns, and after that to the General Public.

[Illustration]

As an Observer, I may say that it was a sight worth seeing; and as a

Bird of some wisdom, I prophesy well of that boy.

PROVERBS.

Fine feathers make fine birds.

Manners make the man.

Clowns are best in their own company; gentlemen are best everywhere.

Where there's a will there's a way.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

What can't be cured must be endured.

[Illustration: OWL HOOT NO 2]

OWLHOOT II.

"Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling."

_The Raven._

"Taffy was a thief."--_Old Song._

I find the following letters at the Hole in the Tree.

"X LINES, SOUTH CAMP, ALDERSHOT.

"SIR,--You speak with great feeling of that elevated position

(I allude, of course, to the top of the eight-day clock), which

circumstances led you somewhat hastily to decline. It would undoubtedly

have become you, and less cannot be said for such a situation as the

summit of an easel, overlooking the blackboard, in an establishment for

the education of youth. Meanwhile it may interest you to hear of a bird

(not of your wisdom, but with parts, and a respectable appearance) who

secured a somewhat similar seat in adopting that kind of home which you

would not. It was in driving through a wood at some little distance from

the above address that we found a wounded crow, and brought him home to

our hut. He became a member of the family, and received the name of

Slyboots, for reasons with which it is unnecessary to trouble you. He

was made very welcome in the drawing-room, but he preferred the kitchen.

The kitchen is a brick room detached from the wooden hut. It was once,

in fact, an armourer's shop, and has since been converted to a kitchen.

The floor is rudely laid, and the bricks gape here and there. A barrack

fender guards the fire-place, and a barrack poker reposes in the fender.

It is a very ponderous poker of unusual size and the commonest

appearance, but with a massive knob at the upper end which was wont to

project far and high above the hearth. It was to this seat that Slyboots

elevated himself by his own choice, and became the Kitchen Crow. Here he

spent hours watching the cook, and taking tit-bits behind her back. He

ate what he could (more, I fear, than he ought), and hid the rest in

holes and corners. The genial neighbourhood of the oven caused him no

inconvenience. His glossy coat, being already as black as a coal, was

not damaged by a certain grimeyness which is undoubtedly characteristic

of the (late) armourer's shop, of which the chimney is an inveterate

smoker. Companies of his relatives constantly enter the camp by ways

over which the sentries have no control (the Balloon Brigade being not

yet even in the clouds); but Slyboots showed no disposition to join

them. They flaunt and forage in the Lines, they inspect the ashpits and

cookhouses, they wheel and manoeuvre on the parades, but Slyboots sat

serene upon his poker. He had a cookhouse all to himself.... He died. We

must all die; but we need not all die of repletion, which I fear, was

his case. He buried his last meal between two bricks in the kitchen

floor, and covered it very tidily with a bit of newspaper. The poker is

vacant. Sir, I was bred to the sword and not to the pen, but I have a

foolish desire for literary fame. I should be better pleased to be in

print than to be promoted--for that matter one seems as near as the

other--and my wife agrees with me. She is of a literary turn, and has

helped me in the composition of this, but we both fear that the story

having no moral you will not admit it into your Owlhoots. But if your

wisdom could supply this, or your kindness overlook the defect, it would

afford great consolation to a bereaved family to have printed a

biography of the dear deceased. For we were greatly attached to him,

though he preferred the cook. I can at any rate give you my word as a

man of honour that these incidents are true, though, out of soldierly

modesty, I will not trouble you with my name, but with much respect

subscribe myself by that of

"SLYBOOTS."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

The gallant officer is too modest. This biography is not only true but

brief, and these are rare merits in a memoir. As to the moral--it is not

far to seek. Dear children, for whom I hoot! avoid greediness. If

Slyboots had eaten tit-bits in moderation, he might be sitting on the

poker to this day. I have great pleasure in making his brief career

public to the satisfaction of his gallant friend, and I should be glad

to hear that the latter had got his step by the same post as his

Owlhoot.

The second letter is much farther from literary excellence than the

first. I fear this little boy plays truant from school as well as taking

apples which do not belong to him. It is high time that he learnt to

spell, and also to observe the difference between _meum_ and _tuum_.

From not being well grounded on these two points, many boys have lost

good situations in life when they grew up to be men.

"deer mister howl,--as you say you see behind your bak i spose its you

told varmer jones of me for theres a tree with a whole in it just behind

the orchurd he wolloped I shameful and I'll have no more of his apples

they be a deal sowerer than yud think though they look so red, but do

you call yourself a childerns friend and tell tails i dont i can tell

you.

"TOM TURNIP."

Richard Clay & Sons, Ltd., London & Bungay.

The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized,

complete, and uniform Edition published.

It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. per vol.,

issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will

appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Series

will be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover was

specially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing.

The following is a list of the books included in the Series--

1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES.

2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES.

3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES.

4. A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING.

5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES.

6. SIX TO SIXTEEN.

7. LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES.

8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL.

9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS.

10. THE PEACE EGG--A CHRISTMAS MUMMING

PLAY--HINTS FOR PRIVATE

THEATRICALS, &c.

11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHER

TALES.

12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES

OF BEASTS AND MEN.

13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I.

14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II.

15. JACKANAPES--DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOTE--THE

STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALES

OF FIELDS AND FLOWERS.

17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of the

Bloody Hand--Wonder Stories--Tales of the

Khoja, and other translations.

18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HER

BOOKS, with a selection from Mrs. Ewing's

Letters.

* * * * *

S.P.C.K., NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, LONDON, W.C.