man who could invent something that could be applied to ships as the
land _Kriegspiel_ to armies. I thought I could do with that fortune, so
packed the game in an empty Australian beef-tin and sent it to the
Admiralty, together with a letter in which the following magnificent
sentence occurred: 'I shall not be above accepting financial
remuneration, and for convenience this can be paid in instalments.'
"In due course 'My Lords' returned the game with thanks. They had
'inspected it with much interest,' they said.
"Somehow I doubt it. After the lapse of many years I still remember
vividly the smell of that old meat-tin in which the game was sent to
them.
"My next step was one which is, I believe, chronic with disappointed
inventors. I wrote letters to the newspapers attacking Admiralty policy
in general, with a view to making the callous authorities tremble! I
never witnessed the trembling, but as out of this campaign I grew into
what is called a 'naval expert,' I suppose I owe the Admiralty a debt of
gratitude! However, that is another story.
"Meanwhile, war game languished, till some seven years ago it was found
by accident in a lumber-room. Even then it was resuscitated only as a
toy. I used to take it to the _Majestic_, and it was played there very
much _a la_ ping-pong, till one day the captain, Prince Louis of
Battenberg, asked about it, and wished to see the rules.
"Feeling somewhat of a fraud," says Mr. Jane, "I hastily recast the
thing into its original serious mould, plus a variety of improvements
that occurred to me, or were suggested by various naval friends.
"The game was then played in the _Majestic_ once more, and 'caught on.'
To my astonishment I was deluged with letters asking about the game. The
first came from the Grand Duke Alexander of Russia, the Czar's
brother-in-law, who, with that absence of 'side' so characteristic of
the Romanoffs, wrote himself as a naval officer. He had, he told me,
himself invented a naval war game, the strategical part of which was
successful, but the tactical not what he had hoped for it. If mine were
satisfactory, he would do all he could for it.
"That is how the game came to have its Imperial and Royal 'godfathers,'
as announced on the title-page. Royal sailors are usually regarded as
mere ornamental dummies, but both the Grand Duke Alexander and Prince
Louis of Battenberg were responsible for many excellent improvements in
the game, for which I, perhaps, have received the credit.
"There were two other godfathers--Rear-Admiral H. J. May, of the British
Navy, and Captain Kawashima, of the Japanese Navy. The former expended
endless labour in revising the rules; the latter it was who played with
me all the early experimental games to test the rules, and alter them
when necessary to make practice as simple as possible. We used to fight
little one-man 'wars,' beginning at about ten in the morning and
carrying on till after midnight. Captain Kawashima is now in command of
the _Matsushima_ (the famous cruiser that was flagship at Yalu in the
Chino-Japanese War), and when I remember the painstaking enthusiasm he
used to put into the 'wars' he and I had, I think that he will go far in
the present war.
"A lecture at the United Service Institution followed the _Majestic_
battle, and thus the game 'took root.' It is in every navy in the world
now."
About this time a foreign Government approached the inventor with a view
to purchasing the game and its secret. The offer was declined, but Mr.
Jane gave a similar option to the British Admiralty, which, however,
made no reply whatever beyond an official acknowledgment of the receipt
of the letter. Perhaps, like Mr. Jane, the Permanent Secretary
remembered the old meat-tin!
After an interval the game was produced--the very first set to be sold
being secured by, of all people, the Chinese! This particular set later
on helped to make history; indeed, it has been seriously surmised that
it caused the Chinese attack on the allied fleets at Taku. After that
affair a British landing party found the ground inside one fort littered
with war-game models, each model ship being stuck full of pins. The
leader of the party being a war-game player followed up his find, to
discover a shed laid out for naval war game and "scorers"[1] of all the
allied fleets in various stages of destruction!
[1] For particulars of "scorers" see later.] The Chinese had
apparently worked out things by war game before opening
fire. They had, however, made one little mistake--they had
made no allowance for the allied fleet firing back!
Following China, the United States, Germany, Russia, and Japan secured
early sets, and a little while afterwards the British War Office. That
much-abused department was, curiously enough, the very first to
recognise the utility of the game for the chief purpose its inventor
designed it for--the teaching of the guns and armour of possible
enemies. It was procured for the use of artillery officers in sea forts,
and in his last report Lord Roberts emphasized the vast difference
between those officers who had played the game and those who had not.
The former knew the weak points of every possible enemy; the latter, on
hearing the name of any ship, could not tell whether she were a
battleship or gunboat, dangerous or harmless. Every War Office has since
followed suit in adopting the "Kindergarten war system."
[Illustration: A STANDARD NORWEGIAN NAVAL WAR-GAME SET.
_From a Photo. by Symonds & Co._]
And now for some account of how the game is played. A large table is the
primary requisite. This is covered with blue cards divided into a
multitude of little squares, each of which represents half a cable--that
is to say, a hundred yards. Over these squares are moved the
pieces--model ships on the same scale as the board.
These models are a most important part of the game. They are made of
cork, painted, and most accurate representations of actual ships; and
this they need to be, for the players have to recognise them. Each model
is fitted with tiny guns--little bits of wire set in at various angles
which indicate the arcs of training of the corresponding guns in the
real ships, while long pins mark the bearings of the torpedo tubes.
Other pins, fitted with delicate little military tops, make the masts;
and, to digress a moment, hereby hangs a tale.
One of the earliest experimenters with the naval war game was the
ubiquitous Kaiser. He took to it keenly, and himself played it often
with his admirals. One day, so runs the story in the German Navy, the
Kaiser was winning hand over fist, his fleet, led by his flagship,
bearing down upon the enemy. Excitement was high, when at the critical
moment the Kaiser's fleet suddenly disappeared!
The Kaiser gazed at the deserted board and then at his admirals. An
"awkward pause" is said to have ensued, and the writer for one can quite
believe that. It is undoubtedly an awkward thing to seem to have played
tricks with an Emperor so as to cheat him out of victory.
"Where is my fleet?" asked the Kaiser.
"I do not know, sire," exclaimed his chief opponent, a famous admiral.
He saluted as he spoke, and thereupon there fell to the floor,
apparently from down the admiral's sleeve, three of the missing
warships! What the admiral felt is better imagined than described.
Fortunately for his reputation one model still remained stuck in his
sleeve. In moving his own ships he had rested his arm on the Kaiser's
vessels, and so lifted the lot unawares. All's well that ends well, and
the Kaiser laughed most heartily; but there is an admiral in the German
fleet whom it is in no way wise to talk to about naval war game.
However, this admiral is not the only one who has met misadventure from
war-game models, no less a person than the Japanese Admiral Togo heading
the list of those who have had "naval war-game hand"--the result of
inadvertently leaning on the masts of a model ship!
To resume the description. Every player has assigned to him a particular
ship, and this he moves simultaneously with all the others at the
direction of his "admiral." Each move nominally occupies a minute of
time--actually it usually takes more, and it is in the ways and means
adopted to balance this that most of the confidential rules exist. A
most essential part of the game is to counterfeit with all possible
realism the hurry-scurry of an actual battle.
[Illustration: A NAVAL WAR-GAME TARGET--ACTUAL SIZE.]
The distance moved depends, of course, upon the speed of the ship
represented. A flier like H.M.S. _Drake_, for instance, can cover as
many as eight squares should full speed be ordered. This means eight
hundred yards a minute--equivalent, approximately, to a speed of
twenty-four knots per hour. In actual practice the ships do not move by
squares, else a vessel proceeding along the diagonals would go much
faster than one moving straight across; the squares merely exist to
afford a rough means of guessing the range. Special measures are,
therefore, employed.
Innumerable rules cover such matters as increasing and decreasing speed,
turning, and so forth. General conventions exist, but in actual practice
the real turning circles of ships are alone made--and here, of course,
confidential features are thick. The inventor of the game is probably
the repository of more secrets in this respect than three of the best
Naval Intelligence Departments of Europe put together.
At the end of each "minute" more firing takes place. This is the
characteristic feature of the game. Each player has a card with a plan
of his ship showing guns, armour, etc., and divided into arbitrary
vertical sections of twenty-five feet each. This card is known
technically as a "scorer." Pictures of each ship, similarly divided, but
showing no armour, and of different sizes for different ranges, are also
provided. These are the "targets."
They are struck at by "strikers," which at first sight are rather like
ping-pong bats with a pin in them.[2] This pin is nearly, but never
quite, in the centre of the striker. To ensure hitting any particular
part of a ship is, therefore, practically impossible, except at close
range, and not very often then. Nice calculation is required, and also
great coolness--too great effort after accuracy being usually as fatal
as too little. Thus, by automatic means, that great factor of modern
warfare, "moral effect," is provided for, since experience shows that no
player whose ship has been badly knocked about ever hurts the enemy very
much. One strike per gun is allowed; with reduced gun-fire he feels his
chances of hitting reduced, and tries harder to make the most of what he
has got, and the slight excitement, coupled with the extra effort that
he makes, invariably disconcerts his aim.
[2] "Strikers" will be seen on the table and in the hands of
players in the big picture of a war game.
[Illustration: "SCORER" FOR H.M.S. "KING EDWARD VII."]
To some extent the excitement of a battle always does this. When the
game was first exhibited at the Royal United Service Institution, a
certain admiral urged as a weak point in the shooting system that he
could hit the enemy every time. He took a target and did it. Yet in the
battle that ensued he never scored a single hit--the slight extra
tension upset his aim completely. And it is astonishing how many misses
are made by many players from this cause.
[Illustration: THE SAME "SCORER" AFTER A BATTLE IN WHICH THE
SHIP WAS KNOCKED ABOUT. THE DAMAGES HAVE BEEN SCORED ACCORDING
TO HITS RECEIVED ON "TARGETS."]
Hitting the enemy is, however, but half the battle. If the ship fired at
is armoured the impact may be on a cuirass that the gun represented
cannot get through, or an armour-piercing shot may hit a part where no
armour exists, and so do next to no harm. When harm is done it is scored
on the card of the ship hit on a scale corresponding to the actual
damage that would be inflicted. In a very little while the player
realizes that what will put one ship out of action will hardly hurt
another. This in theory he has, of course, always known, but between
knowing a thing and fully realizing it there is an enormous gap. He has
been firing, perhaps, at the German _Kaiser Friedrich_ and blown her to
pieces almost with big shell. He shifts his fire to the _Wittelsbach_,
hits her as often, and she comes on unhurt. These two ships have the
same armament and the same weight of armour--it is merely differently
disposed. That difference of disposition tells in naval war game as
heavily as it would in actual war.
In this little piece of realism lies the fascination of the game. That
it has extraordinary fascinations for some naval officers is beyond
dispute. The Grand Duke Alexander of Russia, for instance, had all the
furniture turned out of the big drawing-room at the Xenia Palace, St.
Petersburg, in order to have set up a table large enough to allow huge
fleets to be manoeuvred, and he invited the inventor over to stay with
him at St. Petersburg for a month in order to play against him. In a
Russian lunatic asylum there is at this day a captain who actually went
mad on the game and spends his existence in perpetual imaginary battles.
In the British Navy there are dozens of young officers who think nothing
of playing a game from half-past eight on to four in the morning, taking
their chances of being able to find a shore-boat to take them back to
their ships at that hour in the depth of winter. I have seen battles
often in which the opposing sides would not speak to each other; indeed,
when a regular "war" is being worked out this is the usual situation. It
is being "real war in miniature" that produces this. The writer can
vouch for the maddening effect in a battle of some apparently splendid
scheme being ruined by a single "lucky shell" from the enemy. Too late
one realizes that the best dispositions are not those that promise most,
but those in which a lucky shot or two will not bring about failure.
Torpedoes, however, perhaps take first place as maddening irritants. In
the game as now played in the British Navy, between each move screens
are usually put up. The object of these is to prevent the enemy
"answering" any change of formation more quickly than could be done in
actual battle. Under cover of these screens torpedoes are fired--the
firing method being to draw a pencil line following the bearing of the
tube, firing not at the enemy, but at the spot on which he is _expected
to be when the torpedo reaches him_. Torpedoes are slow things
relatively. They can travel a thousand yards in a minute, but take three
minutes to do two thousand yards, and six to go three thousand. Very
nice calculation is, therefore, needed. At the expiration of the
time--that is to say, anything from one to six moves after firing--if
the torpedo line and any ship (friend or foe) coincide, the ship is
torpedoed. Till then nothing has been said: the torpedo comes as a bolt
from the blue.
The panic caused by the first torpedoes fired under this system was
immense. Both fleets put about and rushed away from each other, never
getting within torpedo range again. In the centre, between the fleet,
lay the victim, which the umpire had notified as torpedoed. Not till the
battle was over was it made known that the torpedoed vessel had been hit
by a torpedo fired by one of her consorts, across the path of which she
had unwittingly wandered!
The acme of horror in this direction is perhaps provided by submarines.
Slow moving, they have more or less to take up their positions before
the battle begins. It is not permitted me to describe exactly how they
are worked. I may say, however, that they are manoeuvred on a separate
board, and work blindly enough; for all that the player of a submarine
sees of the battlefield is what he can find reflected in a tiny mirror.
He has, in fine, to guess a great deal as to the course and distance of
the enemy from the spot corresponding to that on which he is supposed to
be, which reproduces the conditions under which a periscope is used
fairly accurately. If a submarine can get within a square (one hundred
yards) of a ship, that ship is allowed torpedoed. Nothing is allowed for
the chance of the boat being seen by the ship, the assumption being that
these chances are too small to be worth consideration; at any rate, till
such time as it is too late for the ship to do anything.
This looks like an easy time for the submarine, but it is not so
comfortable in reality, because destroyers and picket-boats may be with
the enemy. Should a destroyer at any time pass within a hundred yards of
the submarine, it is exit submarine!
In the British Navy the official home of the naval war game is at
Greenwich Naval College, where captains play it during the "war course."
In the United States the War College is its home. Its real British
head-quarters are at Portsmouth, where a voluntary society plays it
twice a week. Admiral Sir John Hopkins is the president of this
association, and Mr. Fred. T. Jane, the inventor, its secretary. Both
naval and military officers are eligible for membership, and, as far as
possible, junior officers only. At the "war course" tactics are the
principal study, but at Portsmouth tactics play a minor part. "Tactics
cannot be taught by naval war game, save in a very general way," is the
dictum of the inventor. "The Portsmouth Naval War-Game Society exists
for quite different objects. It aims chiefly at teaching the guns and
armour of possible enemies; and for the rest tries to train officers to
think out war problems, to train them to think things quickly, and to
exhibit resource, to learn the value of all the vital side issues of
war, such as international law or the keeping up of communications, and
so forth. There is no such thing as the abstract right or wrong move in
war; to do a more or less wrong thing at once may often be better than
doing a better thing a little later. 'Act' is the motto that the society
strives to inculcate."
It is, it will be seen, far removed from a "theory hot-bed." In
pursuance of the plan the society's members are incessantly at war with
each other. Advantage is taken of the rivalry that exists between ships
in the Navy--and one ship's officers are usually pitted against those of
another ship. At other times it is the Navy against the Army; and before
now personal enemies have been pitted against each other.
"In cards and games you play for sport, but in war game you must 'play
to win,'" is the principle inculcated.
To this end anything whatever may be claimed, subject, however, to the
provision that, should the umpire consider any claim impossible or
absurd, the maker of it gets a breakdown to his best ship as a reward.
The record in claims is held by a young lieutenant who acted as Admiral
Alexieff in a Russo-Japanese War. His claim ran as follows:--
"Orders issued that no offal is to be thrown overboard from Russian
ships.
"A special field of small observation mines is to be laid at ---- (here
a place geographically suitable near Port Arthur is mentioned). At this
spot offal is to be freely thrown into the water to attract porpoises
and sharks. When a good number have collected the mines are to be
exploded and the stunned fish collected.
"Each is then to have strapped to it a leather band, holding a short
pole in position (as per small model accompanying), after which it is to
be liberated.
"I claim that these fish will, as usual, follow any vessels in the
neighbourhood of Port Arthur dropping offal--that is to say, Japanese
ships only--and that they will be taken for submarine boats when the
pole like a periscope is sighted.
"The Japanese will soon detect the imposition, and then grow so used to
the sight that after a time a real submarine will be able to approach
without attracting any suspicion."
[Illustration: Attacking destroyers (Japanese).
Russian merchantman. Russian battleship _Peresviet_.
A TORPEDO-BOAT ATTACK IN A RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR GAME--PLAYED
OCTOBER-DECEMBER LAST. AS USUAL IN TORPEDO OPERATIONS, THIS WAS
PLAYED ON A BOARD WITHOUT SQUARES, IN ORDER TO RENDER IT MORE
DIFFICULT TO JUDGE DISTANCES.
_From a Photo. by West._]
Truly an astounding claim! It was not allowed by the umpire, but the
fertile brain whence it originated is never likely to let its owner come
to grief for want of an expedient.
As a rule possible actual wars are not often played: more usually
imaginary countries are established in some part of Europe and given the
ships which it is most desired to study. Admiralty charts are used, and
an immense amount of study of harbours is thus put in as pastime, while
these little wars give prominence to such minor operations as attacks on
coastguard stations and so forth, which could not well enter into a
larger war. Usually, too, there is some special theme--international
law, perhaps, one time, gleaning and sifting intelligence another time,
and so forth.
What was, perhaps, the funniest war ever carried out had "Intelligence
Sifting" as its theme. The combatants were allowed to procure
information of each other's plans by any means they chose--any trick
being regarded as legitimate. The gamut of the possible was run in no
time. Both sides enrolled their friends as spies, and a silver-haired
old lady, who liked to hear officers talk of their professions, was most
deadly to one player. Two others, wishing to ensure private discussion,
hired a motor-car. They had only gone some little way into the country
when a policeman sprang from the hedge and stopped them. After the usual
protests the policeman admitted an element of doubt in the case; if they
would drive him to the police-station he would have his stop-watch
tested in their presence. They took him on board and, as motorists have
done before and since, marooned him far away after an hour's drive. By
then, plans being decided, they went home by devious routes, thinking no
more of the marooned policeman. Not till some days afterwards did it
dawn on them that the policeman was a bogus one--an enemy who had
availed himself of this means of learning their secret plans!
They were not, however, without resource. The day following the
discovery they called on the ship which the chief "admiral" of the other
side served in. Keeping out of sight, they waited till he went to his
cabin; then, slipping in, gagged and bound him, after which they
proceeded to rifle his cabin. Plans were soon found, but false
information had been disseminated once or twice, and they were wary.
They continued the search, being at last rewarded by finding the whole
plan of campaign concealed inside a telescope.
After this they departed happy, and made their dispositions accordingly,
handing these in to the umpire long before the gagged one--for they left
him gagged and bound--was able to release himself.
Total failure was theirs: their wily enemy had in some way anticipated
their raid, and the plan concealed in the telescope had been carefully
prepared for their undoing!
It must not be supposed, however, that a war game is often so frivolous
as this one, for in the ordinary way any such "spying" is strictly
forbidden. Yet few games, perhaps, have been more useful than this one,
for certainly half the players must have had impressed upon them in the
most direct and unexpectedly forcible of ways the urgent necessity of
taking no information for granted and also of sifting it all most
carefully, which was the object sought. And if in the hereafter any one
of them is the repository of important Service secrets he will have to
be a very wily spy who secures them from him. There cannot be much wrong
while young officers can be found ready to sacrifice such little leisure
as they get in studying war problems for amusement.
It is only in the British Navy that--so far as I can ascertain--this is
done. In other navies officially supervised games are plentiful enough,
but with them, of course, there is not the same interest. Here and there
isolated foreign ships have the game on board and use it for purposes
akin to those for which the inventor designed it. Two such ships are the
Russian _Bayan_ and _Novik_--the only two ships which have, so far,
distinguished themselves in the present war.
In connection with the former ship it is interesting to note that her
captain was a regular attendant at the Grand Duke Alexander's games in
St. Petersburg, and used there to be laughingly called the "War-Game
Skobeleff." Skobeleff, it will be remembered, was that Russian general
who, in the Turco-Russian War, led a hundred desperate forlorn hopes
untouched, though all around him were killed or wounded. Any ship played
by Captain Wiren of the _Bayan_ used to have similar extraordinary luck;
as one Russian officer, who must have Irish blood in him, put it: "The
enemy's hits on him were all misses." Strangely enough, the same luck
has followed him in the present war--the _Bayan_ survived the torpedo
attack of February 8th; in the battle of the 9th, though she charged the
Japanese fleet, she was untouched; in the action of the 25th February,
when Captain Wiren, with three Russian cruisers, tried to fight the
entire Japanese squadron, two were badly mauled, but the _Bayan_ was not
hurt.
In concluding this brief sketch of naval war game from the popular
standpoint a reference may be made to flying-machines, which some think
will be the warships of the future. Rules of the aerial fights of the
future are said to exist all ready cut and dried, together with an
ingenious machine by which the aerial warship's moves can be made. There
is, in fine, nothing in earth, sky, or sea, or under the sea, that has
not been the subject of rules in this "War by Kindergarten."
[Illustration: _The Phoenix and the Carpet._
_By E. NESBIT._]
Copyright 1904, by George Newnes, Limited.
XI.--THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
"Well, I _must_ say," mother said, looking at the Wishing Carpet as it
lay, all darned and mended and backed with shiny American cloth, on the
floor of the nursery--"I _must_ say I've never in my life bought such a
bad bargain as that carpet."
A soft "Oh!" of contradiction sprang to the lips of Cyril, Robert, Jane,
and Anthea. Mother looked at them quickly, and said:--
"Well, of course I see you've mended it very nicely, and that was sweet
of you, dears."
"The boys helped too," said the dears, honourably.
"But, still--twenty-two and ninepence! It ought to have lasted for
years. It's simply dreadful now. Well, never mind, darlings, you've done
your best. I think we'll have cocoanut matting next time. A carpet
doesn't have an easy life of it in this room, does it?"
"It's not our fault, mother, is it, that our boots are the really
reliable kind?" Robert asked the question more in sorrow than in anger.
"No, dear, we can't help our boots," said mother, cheerfully, "but we
might change them when we come in, perhaps. It's just an idea of mine. I
wouldn't dream of scolding on the very first morning after I've come
home. Oh, my Lamb, how could you?"
This conversation was at breakfast, and the Lamb had been beautifully
good until everyone was looking at the carpet, and then it was for him
but the work of a moment to turn a glass dish of syrupy blackberry jam
upside down on his young head. It was the work of a good many minutes
and several persons to get the jam off him again, and this interesting
work took people's minds off the carpet, and nothing more was said just
then about its badness as a bargain and about what mother hoped for from
cocoanut matting.
When the Lamb was clean again he had to be taken care of while mother
rumpled her hair and inked her fingers and made her head ache over the
difficult and twisted housekeeping accounts which cook gave her on dirty
bits of paper, and which were supposed to explain how it was that cook
had only fivepence-halfpenny and a lot of unpaid bills left out of all
the money mother had sent her for housekeeping. Mother was very clever,
but even she could not quite understand the cook's accounts.
The Lamb was very glad to have his brothers and sisters to play with
him. He had not forgotten them a bit, and he made them play all the old
exhausting games: "Whirling Worlds," where you swing the baby round and
round by his hands; and "Leg and Wing," where you swing him from side to
side by one ankle and one wrist. There was also climbing Vesuvius. In
this game the baby walks up you, and when he is standing on your
shoulders you shout as loud as you can, which is the rumbling of the
burning mountain, and then tumble him gently on to the floor and roll
him there, which is the destruction of Pompeii.
"All the same, I wish we could decide what we'd better say next time
mother says anything about the carpet," said Cyril, breathlessly ceasing
to be a burning mountain.
"Well, you talk and decide," said Anthea; "here, you lovey ducky Lamb.
Come to Panther and play Noah's Ark."
The Lamb came with his pretty hair all tumbled and his face all dusty
from the destruction of Pompeii, and instantly became a baby snake,
hissing and wriggling and creeping in Anthea's arms, as she said:--
I love my little baby snake,
He hisses when he is awake,
He creeps with such a wriggly creep,
He wriggles even in his sleep.
"Well, you see," Cyril was saying, "it's just the old bother. Mother
can't believe the real true truth about the carpet, and----"
"You speak sooth, O Cyril!" remarked the Phoenix, coming out from the
cupboard where the black-beetles lived, and the torn books, and the
broken slates, and odd pieces of toys that had lost the rest of
themselves. "Now hear the wisdom of the Phoenix, the son of the
Phoenix."
"There's a society called that," said Cyril.
"Where is it? And what is a society?" asked the bird.
"It's a sort of joined-together lot of people--a sort of brotherhood--a
kind of--well, something very like your temple, you know, only quite
different."
"I take your meaning," said the Phoenix. "I would fain see these calling
themselves Sons of the Phoenix."
"But what about your words of wisdom?"
"Wisdom is always welcome," said the Phoenix.
[Illustration: "'PRETTY POLLY!' REMARKED THE LAMB."]
"Pretty Polly!" remarked the Lamb, reaching his hands towards the golden
speaker.
The Phoenix modestly retreated behind Robert, and Anthea hastened to
distract the attention of the Lamb by murmuring:--
I love my little baby rabbit;
But oh, he has a dreadful habit
Of paddling out among the rocks
And soaking both his bunny-socks.
"I don't think you'd care about the Sons of the Phoenix, really," said
Robert. "I have heard that they don't do anything fiery. They only drink
a great deal. Much more than other people, because they drink lemonade
and fizzy things, and the more you drink of those the more good you
get."
"In your mind, perhaps," said Jane; "but it wouldn't be good in your
body. You'd get too balloony." The Phoenix yawned.
"Look here," said Anthea, "I really have an idea. This isn't like a
common carpet. It's very magic indeed. Don't you think, if we put Tatcho
on it and then gave it a rest, the magic part of it might grow, like
hair is supposed to do?"
"It might," said Robert, "but I should think paraffin would do as
well--at any rate as far as the smell goes, and that seems to be the
great thing about Tatcho."
But with all its faults Anthea's idea was something to do, and they did
it.
It was Cyril who fetched the Tatcho bottle from father's washhand-stand.
But the bottle had not much in it.
"We mustn't take it all," Jane said, "in case father's hair began to
come off suddenly; if he hadn't anything to put on it, it might all drop
off before Eliza had time to get round to the chemist's for another
bottle. It would be dreadful to have a bald father, and it would all be
our fault."
"And wigs are very expensive, I believe," said Anthea. "Look here, leave
enough in the bottle to wet father's head all over with in case any
emergency emerges--and let's make up with paraffin. I expect it's the
smell that does the good really--and the smell's exactly the same."
So a small teaspoonful of the Tatcho was put on the edges of the worst
darn in the carpet and rubbed carefully into the roots of the hairs of
it, and all the parts that there was not enough Tatcho for had paraffin
rubbed into them with a piece of flannel. Then the flannel was burned.
It made a gay flame, which delighted the Phoenix and the Lamb.
"How often," said mother, opening the door--"how often am I to tell you
that you are _not_ to play with paraffin? What have you been doing?"
"We have burnt a paraffiny rag," Anthea answered. It was no use telling
mother what they had done to the carpet. She did not know it was a magic
carpet, and no one wants to be laughed at for trying to mend an ordinary
carpet with lamp-oil.
"Well, don't do it again," said mother. "And now away with melancholy!
Father has sent a telegram. Look!" She held it out, and the children
holding it by its yielding corners read:--
"Box for kiddies at Garrick. Stalls for us, Haymarket. Meet Charing
Cross, 6.30."
"That means," said mother, "that you're going to see 'The Water Babies'
all by your happy selves, and father and I will take you and fetch you.
Give me the Lamb, dear, and you and Jane put clean lace in your red
evening frocks, and I shouldn't wonder if you found they wanted ironing.
This paraffin smell is ghastly. Run and get out your frocks."
The frocks did want ironing--wanted it rather badly, as it happened;
for, being of tomato-coloured Liberty silk, they had been found very
useful for _tableaux vivants_ when a red dress was required for Cardinal
Richelieu. They were very nice _tableaux_, these, and I wish I could
tell you about them--but one cannot tell everything in a story. You
would have been specially interested in hearing about the _tableaux_ of
the Princes in the Tower, when one of the pillows burst and the youthful
Princes were so covered with feathers that the picture might very well
have been called "Michaelmas Eve; or, Plucking the Geese."
Ironing the dresses and sewing the lace in occupied some time, and no
one was dull because there was the theatre to look forward to, and also
the possible growth of hairs on the carpet, for which everyone kept
looking anxiously. By four o'clock Jane was almost sure that several
hairs were beginning to grow.
The Phoenix perched on the fender, and its conversation, as usual, was
entertaining and instructive--like school prizes are said to be. But it
seemed a little absent-minded and even a little sad.
"Don't you feel well, Phoenix, dear?" asked Anthea, stooping to take an
iron off the fire.
[Illustration: "'DON'T YOU FEEL WELL, PHOENIX, DEAR?' ASKED ANTHEA."]
"I am not sick," replied the golden bird, with a gloomy shake of the
head, "but I am getting old."
"Why, you've only been hatched about two months."
"Time," remarked the Phoenix, "is measured by heart-beats. I'm sure the
palpitations I've had since I've known you are enough to blanch the
feathers of any bird."
"But I thought you lived five hundred years," said Robert, "and you've
hardly begun this set of years. Think of all the time that's before
you."
"Time," said the Phoenix, "is, as you are probably aware, merely a
convenient fiction. There is no such thing as time. I have lived in
these two months at a pace which generously counterbalances five hundred
years of life in the desert. I am old, I am weary. I feel as if I ought
to lay my egg, and lay me down to my fiery sleep. But unless I'm careful
I shall be hatched again instantly, and that is a misfortune which I
really do not think I _could_ endure. But do not let me intrude these
desperate personal reflections on your youthful happiness. What is the
show at the theatre to-night? Wrestlers? Gladiators? A combat of
camelopards and unicorns?"
"I don't think so," said Cyril; "it's called 'The Water Babies,' and if
it's like the book there isn't any gladiating in it. There are
chimney-sweeps and professors, and a lobster and an otter and a salmon,
and children living in the water."
"It sounds chilly," the Phoenix shivered, and went to sit on the tongs.
"I don't suppose there will be _real_ water," said Jane. "And theatres
are very warm and pretty, with a lot of gold and lamps. Wouldn't you
like to come with us?"
"_I_ was just going to say that," said Robert, in injured tones, "only I
know how rude it is to interrupt. Do come, Phoenix, old chap; it will
cheer you up. It'll make you laugh like anything. Mr. Bourchier always
makes ripping plays. You ought to have seen 'Shock-Headed Peter' last
year."
"Your words are strange," said the Phoenix, "but I will come with you.
The revels of this Bourchier of whom you speak may help me to forget the
weight of my years."
So the Phoenix snuggled inside the waistcoat of Robert's Etons--a very
tight fit it seemed both to Robert and to the Phoenix--and was taken to
the play.
[Illustration: "ROBERT HAD TO PRETEND TO BE COLD."]
Robert had to pretend to be cold at the glittering, many-mirrored
restaurant where they all had dinner, with father in evening dress, with
a very shiny white shirt-front, and mother looking lovely in her grey
evening dress, that changes into pink and green when she moves. Robert
pretended that he was too cold to take off his great-coat, and so sat
sweltering through what would otherwise have been a most thrilling meal.
He felt that he was a blot on the smart beauty of the family, and he
hoped the Phoenix knew what he was suffering for its sake. Of course, we
are all pleased to suffer for the sake of others, but we like them to
know it--unless we are the very best and noblest kind of people, and
Robert was just ordinary.
Father was full of jokes and fun, and everyone laughed all the time,
even with their mouths full, which is not manners. Robert thought father
would not have been quite so funny about his keeping his overcoat on if
father had known all the truth. And there Robert was probably right.
When dinner was finished to the last grape and the last paddle in the
finger-glasses--for it was a really truly grown-up dinner--the children
were taken to the theatre, guided to a box close to the stage, and left.
Father's parting words were:--
"Now, don't you stir out of this box, whatever you do. I shall be back
before the end of the play. Be good and you will be happy. Is this zone
torrid enough for the abandonment of great-coats, Bobs? No? Well, then,
I should say you were sickening for something--mumps or measles, or
thrush or teething. Good-bye."
He went, and Robert was at last able to remove his coat, mop his
perspiring brow, and release the crushed and dishevelled Phoenix. Robert
had to arrange his damp hair at the looking-glass at the back of the
box, and the Phoenix had to preen its disordered feathers for some time
before either of them was fit to be seen.
They were very, very early. When the lights went up fully the Phoenix,
balancing itself on the gilded back of a chair, swayed in ecstasy.
"How fair a scene is this!" it murmured; "how far fairer than my temple!
Or have I guessed aright? Have you brought me hither to lift up my head
with emotions of joyous surprise? Tell me, my Robert, is it not that
this, _this_ is my true temple, and the other was but a humble shrine
frequented by outcasts?"
"I don't know about outcasts," said Robert, "but you can call this your
temple if you like. Hush! the music is beginning."
I am not going to tell you about the play. As I said before, one can't
tell everything, and no doubt you saw "The Water Babies" yourselves. If
you did not it was a shame, or rather a pity.
What I must tell you is that, though Cyril and Jane and Robert and
Anthea enjoyed it as much as any children possibly could, the pleasure
of the Phoenix was far, far greater than theirs.
"This is indeed my temple," it said, again and again. "What radiant
rites! And all to do honour to me!"
The songs in the play it took to be hymns in its honour. The choruses
were choric songs in its praise. The electric lights, it said, were
magic torches lighted for its sake, and it was so charmed with the
footlights that the children could hardly persuade it to sit still. But
when the limelight was shown it could contain its approval no longer. It
flapped its golden wings, and cried in a voice that could be heard all
over the theatre:--
"Well done, my servants! Ye have my favour and my countenance!"
Little Tom on the stage stopped short in what he was saying. A deep
breath was drawn by hundreds of lungs, every eye in the house turned to
the box where the luckless children cringed, and most people hissed, or
said "Shish!" or "Turn them out!"
Then the play went on, and an attendant presently came to the box and
spoke wrathfully.
"It wasn't us, indeed it wasn't," said Anthea, earnestly; "it was the
bird."
The man said well, then, they must keep their bird quiet.
"Disturbing everyone like this," he said.
"It won't do it again," said Robert, glancing imploringly at the golden
bird; "I'm sure it won't."
"You have my leave to depart," said the Phoenix, gently.
"Well, he is a beauty, and no mistake," said the attendant, "only I'd
cover him up during the acts. It upsets the performance."
And he went.
"Don't speak again, there's a dear," said Anthea; "you wouldn't like to
interfere with your own temple, would you?"
So now the Phoenix was quiet, but it kept whispering to the children. It
wanted to know why there was no altar, no fire, no incense, and became
so excited and fretful and tiresome that four at least of the party of
five wished deeply that it had been left at home.
What happened next was entirely the fault of the Phoenix. It was not in
the least the fault of the theatre people, and no one could ever
understand afterwards how it did happen. No one, that is, except the
guilty bird itself and the four children. The Phoenix was balancing
itself on the gilt back of the chair, swaying backwards and forwards and
up and down, as you may see your own domestic parrot do. I mean the grey
one with the red tail. All eyes were on the stage, where the lobster was
delighting the audience with that gem of a song, "If you can't walk
straight, walk sideways!" when the Phoenix murmured warmly:--
"No altar, no fire, no incense!" and then, before any of the children
could even begin to think of stopping it, it spread its bright wings and
swept round the theatre, brushing its gleaming feathers against delicate
hangings and gilded wood-work.
It seemed to have made but one circular wing-sweep, such as you may see
a gull make over grey water on a stormy day. Next moment it was perched
again on the chair-back--and all round the theatre, where it had passed,
little sparks shone like tinsel seeds, then little smoke wreaths curled
up like growing plants--little flames opened like flower-buds.
People whispered--then people shrieked.
"Fire! Fire!" The curtain went down--the lights went up.
"Fire!" cried everyone, and made for the doors.
"A magnificent idea!" said the Phoenix, complacently. "An enormous
altar--fire supplied free of charge. Doesn't the incense smell
delicious?" The only smell was the stifling smell of smoke, of burning
silk, or scorching varnish.
The little flames had opened now into great flame-flowers. The people in
the theatre were shouting and pressing towards the doors.
"Oh, how _could_ you!" cried Jane. "Let's get out."
"Father said stay here," said Anthea, very pale, and trying to speak in
her ordinary voice.
"He didn't mean stay and be roasted," said Robert; "no boys on burning
decks for me, thank you."
"Not much," said Cyril, and he opened the door of the box.
[Illustration: "HE OPENED THE DOOR OF THE BOX."]
But a fierce waft of smoke and hot air made him shut it again. It was
not possible to get out that way.
They looked over the front of the box. Could they climb down?
It would be possible, certainly, but would they be much better off?
"Look at the people," moaned Anthea; "we couldn't get through." And,
indeed, the crowd round the doors looked thick as flies in the
jam-making season.
"I wish we'd never seen the Phoenix," cried Jane.
Even at that awful moment Robert looked round to see if the bird had
overheard a speech which, however natural, was hardly polite or
grateful.
The Phoenix was gone.
"Look here," said Cyril, "I've read about fires in papers; I'm sure it's
all right. Let's wait here, as father said."
"We can't do anything else," said Anthea, bitterly.
"Look here," said Robert, "I'm _not_ frightened--no, I'm not. The
Phoenix has never been a skunk yet, and I'm certain it'll see us through
somehow. I believe in the Phoenix!"
"The Phoenix thanks you, O Robert," said a golden voice at his feet, and
there was the Phoenix itself, on the Wishing Carpet.
"Quick!" it said, "stand on those portions of the carpet which are truly
antique and authentic--and----"
A sudden jet of flame stopped its words. Alas! the Phoenix had
unconsciously warmed to its subject, and in the unintentional heat of
the moment had set fire to the paraffin with which that morning the
children had anointed the carpet. It burned merrily. The children tried
in vain to stamp it out. They had to stand back and let it burn itself
out. When the paraffin had burned away it was found that it had taken
with it all the darns of Scotch heather-mixture fingering. Only the
fabric of the old carpet was left--and that was full of holes.
"Come," said the Phoenix, "I'm cool now."
The four children got on to what was left of the carpet. Very careful
they were not to leave a leg or a hand hanging over one of the holes. It
was very hot--the theatre was a pit of fire. Everyone else had got out.
Jane had to sit on Anthea's lap.
"Home!" said Cyril, and instantly the cool draught from under the
nursery door played upon their legs as they sat. They were all on the
carpet still, and the carpet was lying in its proper place on the
nursery floor, as calm and unmoved as though it had never been to the
theatre or taken part in a fire in its life.
Four long breaths of deep relief were instantly breathed. The draught
which they had never liked before was for the moment quite pleasant. And
they were safe. And everyone else was safe. The theatre had been quite
empty when they left. Everyone was sure of that.
They presently found themselves all talking at once. Somehow none of
their adventures had given them so much to talk about. None other had
seemed so real.
"Did you notice----?" they said, and "Do you remember----?"
When suddenly Anthea's face turned pale under the dirt which it had
collected on it during the fire.
"Oh," she cried, "mother and father! Oh, how awful! They'll think we're
burned to cinders. Oh, let's go this minute and tell them we aren't."
"We should only miss them," said the sensible Cyril.
"Well--_you_ go, then," said Anthea, "or I will. Only do wash your face
first. Mother will be sure to think you are burnt to a cinder if she
sees you as black as that. Mother, she'll faint or be ill or something.
Oh, I wish we'd never got to know that Phoenix."
"Hush!" said Robert; "it's no use being rude to the bird. I suppose it
can't help its nature. Perhaps we'd better wash too. Now I come to think
of it my hands are rather----"
No one had noticed the Phoenix since it had bidden them to step on the
carpet. And no one noticed that no one had noticed.
All were partially clean, and Cyril was just plunging into his
great-coat to go and look for his parents--he, and not unjustly, called
it looking for a needle in a bundle of hay--when the sound of father's
latchkey in the front door sent everyone bounding up the stairs.
"Are you all safe?" cried mother's voice; "are you all safe?" and the
next moment she was kneeling on the linoleum of the hall, trying to kiss
four damp children at once, and laughing and crying by turns, while
father stood looking on and saying he was blessed or something.
"But how did you guess we'd come home?" said Cyril, later, when everyone
was calm enough for talking.
"Well, it was rather a rum thing. We heard the Garrick was on fire and,
of course, we went straight there," said father, briskly. "We couldn't
find you, of course--and we couldn't get in--but the firemen told us
everyone was safely out. And then I heard a voice at my ear say, 'Cyril,
Anthea, Robert, and Jane'--and something touched me on the shoulder. It
was a great yellow pigeon, and it got in the way of my seeing who'd
spoken. It fluttered off, and then someone said in the other ear,
'They're safe at home'; and when I turned again, to see who it was
speaking, hanged if there wasn't that confounded pigeon on my other
shoulder. Dazed by the fire, I suppose. Your mother said it was the
voice of----"
[Illustration: "IT WAS A GREAT YELLOW PIGEON."]
"I said it was the bird that spoke," said mother, "and so it was. Or at
least I thought so then. It wasn't a pigeon. It was an orange-coloured
cockatoo. I don't care who it was that spoke. It was true--and you're
safe."
Mother began to cry again, and father said bed was a good place after
the pleasures of the stage.
So everyone went there.
Robert had a talk to the Phoenix that night.
"Oh, very well," said the bird, when Robert had said what he felt,
"didn't you know that I had power over fire? Do not distress yourself.
I, like my high priests in Lombard Street, can undo the work of flames.
Kindly open the casement."
It flew out.
That was why the papers said, next day, that the fire at the theatre had
done less damage than had been anticipated. As a matter of fact, it had
done none, for the Phoenix spent the night in putting things straight.
How the management accounted for this, and how many of the theatre
officials still believe that they were mad on that night, will never be
known.
Next day mother saw the burnt holes in the carpet.
"It caught where it was paraffiny," said Anthea.
"I must get rid of that carpet at once," said mother.
But what the children said in sad whispers to each other, as they
pondered over last night's events, was:--
"We must get rid of that Phoenix."
[Illustration: NIAGARA FALLS--THE POINT MARKED X SHOWS THE SPOT
REACHED BY GUIDE BARLOW AND SUPERINTENDENT PERRY.
_From a Photo._]
_Walking on the Brink of Niagara._
BY ORRIN E. DUNLAP.
There is no man who has so many adventures at Niagara to his credit as
John R. Barlow. Mr. Barlow, in the summer-time, is the chief guide at
the Cave of the Winds, that wonderful cavern under the waterfall as it
plunges between Goat and Luna Islands. Years of familiarity with the
waters of the world-famed Niagara have caused Guide Barlow to forget
what fear is, and he moves about in dangerous places without thinking of
possible disaster. He is the oldest and best-known guide at Niagara, and
people from many countries have crossed his palm with silver in token of
care bestowed upon them, or in return for the kindly information which
he is ever ready to give.
When the new stone arch bridges were built to connect Goat Island to the
mainland, a temporary bridge was erected on piers for the convenience of
pedestrians. When this temporary structure had ceased to be useful it
was destroyed, and, unfortunately for the scenic beauty of the portion
of the upper rapids lying between the brink of the American fall and the
island bridges, several of the cribs lodged on the reefs and refused to
be stirred by the rush of the downpouring waters. The hope of the State
Reservation officials was that the cribs would pass over the fall in
time of high water, but flood after flood poured down from Lake Erie and
the cribs refused to move. They were unsightly to a remarkable degree,
and quite an annoyance to the officials who had charge of the beauty of
Niagara. This was the condition when winter set in last autumn.
The winter proved of unusual severity. Ice came down from the lake in
large sheets, and a considerable quantity of it lodged on the reefs
between the mainland and Goat Island. By February the main part of the
channel through which the water flows to the American fall was blocked
with ice. Between Goat Island and the mainland there were three open
channels, through which the water ran streak-like to the brink. One of
these was close by the mainland, and made the plunge over the fall close
to Prospect Point. The second was close to the outer edge of Luna
Island, while the third was between Luna and Goat Islands. This left a
wide expanse of the American fall, and the river-bed immediately above
it, covered with ice. This ice-field remained unbroken for several days,
but by going out on the ice-bridge that spanned the river in front of
the fall it was possible to study the face of the cliff, and to see that
at several points the water crept through under the ice and found its
way to the fall.
However, the fact that the portion of the fall below Green Island was
covered with ice gave the impression to Superintendent Edward Perry, of
the State Reservation, that the unsightly cribs on the river-bed could
be removed. He called Guide Barlow to go with him, together with another
man named William Mullane, and the trio made their way to Green Island.
Going to the foot of this island, it was easy for them to step out over
the ice to several of the cribs, which Superintendent Perry then and
there ordered to be removed.
It was while Superintendent Perry and Guide Barlow were on this mission
that the latter recognised the unusual conditions of the ice. His
practised eye scanned the white expanse as it extended westward and
turned over the precipice.
"I believe it would be possible for us to walk to the brink of the
American fall," said Barlow, addressing Superintendent Perry.
The superintendent looked at him in amazement. So far as is known no
human being had ever stood where Guide Barlow contemplated going. Still,
the superintendent is a man of nerve, and as he looked down the river at
Robinson's Island, at Chapin's Island, at Crow and Blackbird Islands, he
longed to set foot on the possessions of the Empire State over which he
was the official guard.
[Illustration: GUIDE BARLOW AND SUPERINTENDENT PERRY STANDING ON
THE BRINK OF THE FALL AT A POINT NEVER BEFORE REACHED BY MAN.
_From a Photo._]
There was little said. Guide Barlow had already commenced to move down
the river over the ice. It was firm, and stood his weight well. In a
minute Superintendent Perry followed him. As they moved along the
untrodden path the condition of the ice gave them new courage, and both
felt that they were walking where man had never before been. Their route
carried them between Robinson's and Blackbird Islands, and on down by a
little isle as yet unnamed. Leaving the foot of Robinson's Island
behind, they moved cautiously over the frozen expanse down, farther
down, right to the brink of the American fall, midway between Luna
Island's shore and Prospect Park. Along the very crest of the brink they
walked, realizing that they were at the very centre of the great fall
that is a world-wonder. Guide Barlow pointed out to Superintendent Perry
the mighty ice-mountain that reared its head from below, and also
related how human beings passing over the fall at that point were never
found.
Their dark forms outlined against the pure white, snow covered ice,
standing only a few feet back from the awful brink of the fall, made a
startling picture. As they stood there a dark shadow crept down over the
ice, intimating that the river was rising and might overflow the ice on
which they stood. Yet it was such a novel place to be in that they
lingered and looked--looked and gained new and wonderful ideas of the
sublimity and awfulness of Niagara. So close did they go to the brink
that a slight advance would have carried them over the precipice to the
frightful, unknown, unexplored regions behind the icy mounds below.
Before they returned the author of this story hurried from Goat Island,
from which point he had taken a picture of the remarkable trip, to the
brink of the American fall, where he took another photograph of
Superintendent Perry and Guide Barlow as they stood at the edge of the
precipice over which the Niagara torrent flows in chaotic fury in
summer-time.
[Illustration: GUIDE BARLOW AND SUPERINTENDENT PERRY STANDING ON
THE BRINK OF NIAGARA.
_From a Photo._]
The trip up the channel carried the party outside of Robinson's Island,
all stopping to pay tribute to Chapin's Island, the little spot where,
in 1838, a man had lodged as he was being swept toward the fall by the
awful current.
"I am glad to be back," said Superintendent Perry, as the party reached
the lower end of Green Island.
"But you are also glad to have been where you have been," added Guide
Barlow, the only man who had ever conducted a party to that dangerous
point on the brink of the American fall.
The date was Saturday, February 13, 1904.
_Curiosities_
Copyright, 1904, by George Newnes, Limited.
[_We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section, and
to pay for such as are accepted._]
[Illustration]
A WHEEL--OR WHAT?
"This is a cross-section of a white pine tree about twenty-eight inches
in diameter. What appear to be carrots sticking through the sides are
the knots caused by the branches, which, owing to their resinous nature,
have not decayed, while the wood which formerly surrounded them has
rotted away."--Mr. A. S. Angell, care of _Times_ Printing and Publishing
Co., Victoria, B.C.
* * * * *
A HOMEMADE BICYCLE.
[Illustration]
This photograph, taken in Russia by a Blackburn contributor, is of an
extraordinary bicycle and its ingenious maker, a Russian peasant, who at
the time was employed as a mill watchman in St. Petersburg. The frame of
the bicycle is mainly made out of broomsticks, the wheels consist of
barrel hoops and wooden spokes, the cranks are of wood, and bobbins form
the principal part of the pedals; the front forks are likewise of wood,
working inside a ten-inch "slubbing bobbin"; the saddle (movable) is cut
out of an ordinary piece of wood, the back of a disused arm-chair does
duty as handle-bars, and the chain was taken off an old "flat-card"
machine. It only remains to add that this curiosity is not a mere
exhibit, for a friend of the gentleman who supplies the photo. rode it
more than once, though he never accomplished anything in the way of
record-breaking on the wooden "bike."
* * * * *
SWALLOWED BY AN OSTRICH.
[Illustration]
"I send you a photo. of the contents of a tame ostrich's stomach, which
you will not be surprised to hear was the cause of its death. All these
pieces of metal were picked up by it around the blacksmith's shop of a
farm in South America. The circle of round pieces in the centre is made
up of 3/8 in. punch pellets from a punching machine, and will give an
idea of the size of the rest of the metal. All these pieces were more or
less worn, according to the time they had been swallowed; some had
almost disappeared. The total weight of iron was considerable."--Mr. E.
Windus, Erin Manor, Burgess Hill, Sussex.
* * * * *
PECULIAR MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS
[Illustration] [Illustration]
"The accompanying photos. are of two musical instruments which, with
their inventor, can be found at an obscure little hamlet called Keld,
about twenty miles from Richmond in Yorkshire. No. 1 is an adaptation to
a harmonium, and consists of the branch of a tree fastened to the end of
the harmonium; upon the branch is a double row of bells which come from
all parts of England. When playing, the musician has a long piece of
wood ending in a steel spike, and at the lower end of the wood is a
finger-hole. The striker is slipped upon one of the fingers of the left
hand, and as the treble and bass are being played the finger with the
striker upon it is bent in order to strike one of the bells. No. 2 is
what the inventor calls 'a stone organ.' The old man said that one day
when fishing in the river his foot caught a stone and he noticed that it
gave forth a musical note, so he constructed a sounding-board, secured
stones from the river, and placed them thereon. He found that clipping a
piece off the end of the stone sharpened the note, whilst to clip off
the side flattened it; in this way he made three octaves. The old man
has never had any lessons in music."--Mr. G. Hardwick, The Promenade,
Bridlington.
* * * * *
SAVED BY A CARTRIDGE.
[Illustration]
"Here is the photograph of a cartridge which has been pierced by a
bullet. My brother, of the 6th Dragoon Guards, was carrying this in his
bandolier when he was wounded in the late South African War. The bullet
after piercing the cartridge passed clean through his body, leaving in
the centre of his back after penetrating one of his lungs. Fortunately
it did not touch the spinal cord, owing probably to being deviated by
the cartridge, and he recovered. The cartridge did not explode, and has
still the explosive in it intact."--Mr. F. W. Robins, 14, Wellington
Road, Barnsbury, N.
* * * * *
A DIVING TOWER ON DRY LAND.
[Illustration]
"I send you a photo. of a curious structure which stands not very far
from the Lake of Neuchatel. It would be difficult for anyone
unacquainted with its history to give a name to it, for its appearance
and position furnish absolutely no clue as to its use. It is, as a
matter of fact, a diving tower, built many years ago for the use of
bathers in the Lake of Neuchatel. The peculiar part about it is that
anyone desirous of diving from it nowadays would have to fly
horizontally over a railway, a road, and a good three hundred yards of
dry land before reaching the water, for, the lake having gradually
receded, the tower has been left high and dry, about a quarter of a mile
from the edge of the water. As may be seen from the photo., it is now in
a very tumble-down condition."--Mr. J. O. S. Ziegler, Place Bel Air,
Yverdon, Switzerland.
* * * * *
A POSTAL MARROW.
[Illustration]
"The vegetable marrow shown in the accompanying photograph was grown by
my brother, Mr. David Ager, gardener to Mr. Milton Bode, of West Dean,
near Reading, the well-known gold medallist for chrysanthemum culture.
The name and address were marked on the marrow when it was quite small,
and the writing has become more distinct with increasing age. When about
nine inches in length the marrow was cut, a label with the necessary
postage affixed tied to the small piece of stalk, and it was then handed
in at the post-office. In due course it arrived at its destination, the
marrow being none the worse for its journey."--Mr. J. Ager, c/o Messrs.
Betts, Hartley, and Co., 9 and 10, Great Tower Street, E.C.
* * * * *
WHAT IS THERE BENEATH THE IVY?
[Illustration]
"This curious statue, which appears to be looking out of a tree, is to
be found in the public park at Bath. The ivy has been allowed to cover
the whole statue with the exception of the head; probably no one knows
what the rest of it is like. This is a winter view; in summer the head
has a background of foliage."--Mr. James A. Rooth, 112, Oakwood Court,
Kensington.
* * * * *
"HOW THE CROW FLIES."
[Illustration]
"A remarkable instance of the unexpected happening, especially to
devotees of the camera, occurred to me the other day. I took the
photograph of Canterbury Cathedral which I send you, and whilst the
plate was exposed I noticed a crow rising from the branches of the tree
at the extreme left of the picture. The bird flew slowly upwards and in
zigzag fashion until it reached a height nearly equal to the cathedral
spire. On developing the negative I found that the bird's flight was
most accurately recorded in the shape of a thin black line, which can be
distinctly traced in the photograph. By means of a magnifying glass the
extended wings of the crow could be distinctly seen. I may add that as I
was using a small stop the exposure was rather a long one."--Mr. H. J.
Divers, 13, Burgate Street, Canterbury.
* * * * *
THE MORRIS DANCE.
[Illustration]
"I send you a photograph which may interest some of your readers. The
village of Bidford-on-Avon keeps up the quaint old custom of the Morris
Dance, and on high days and holidays the six dancers, accompanied by the
clown and the hobby-horse, dance through the village to the music of a
violin."--Miss Dryhurst, 11, Downshire Hill, Hampstead.
* * * * *
VERY SIMPLE.
[Illustration]
"The curious effect produced in the photograph which I send was obtained
by the simple means of placing a small piece of specially-cut paper over
the negative."--Mr. R. J. Chenneour, Ishpeming, Mich.
* * * * *
THE FAN TREE.
[Illustration]
"Travellers in South-Eastern Asia sometimes see at a distance what
appears to be a gigantic fan. In fact, it closely resembles the dainty
creations of feathers and ivory which are so popular with ladies. On
approaching closer, however, the fan is seen to be a natural one, being
a species of palm tree which is wonderfully like a fan, not only in the
way in which its branches project from the trunk, but in the leaves in
which the branches terminate. As shown in the picture, the tree spreads
out like an extended fan and the leaves bear a strong resemblance to
feathers. It is called the Traveller's Palm, partly for the reason that
in the forenoon or afternoon, when the sun is not directly above, it
frequently offers welcome shade. Some of the palms grow to a height of
fifty or sixty feet, with 'feathers' ranging from ten to fifteen feet in
length."--Mr. D. A. Willey, Baltimore.
* * * * *
PETRIFIED WIRE.
[Illustration]
"Here is the photo. of a piece of wire rope taken from a coal-mine in
Wales. The mine referred to had not been worked for some ten years, and
when the water was pumped out the rope was discovered as shown, encased
in a formation of hard stone. I may add that when the stone was broken
the wire was found to be in a perfect state of preservation."--Mr. B. H.
Wadsworth, Oriel College, Helensburgh, N.B.
* * * * *
NOT WHAT IT SEEMS.
[Illustration]
"This is not a snap-shot of Satan, nor of Pluto, or any demon of the
heathen mythology. Neither is it the picture of a water-logged member
of the 'tramp' profession after a shower of rain. It is simply the
photograph of the curious form which a splash of lead took when it
dropped from a crucible on the floor."--Mr. Joseph W. Hammond, 12,
Stafford Street, Dublin.
* * * * *
A WOODEN SOLDIER.
[Illustration]
"I took this snap-shot in Spain, at La Zubia, a small town about two
miles from Granada. The 'soldier' is a most surprising object to come
upon suddenly. He is cut out of a single tree, and is therefore all in
one piece. Branches have been neatly adapted to make his fingers, which,
it will be observed, have a somewhat knotted and gouty appearance. A
flower-pot forms the head, while a plant of aloes makes a very fine
plumed head-dress. His uniform is painted in the most realistic way, so
that altogether he has a most ferocious appearance and his expression
does not invite confidence, as may be seen from the photograph. The
garden in which he lives is rather an historic one, for it was here that
the great Queen Isabella the Catholic was saved from falling into the
hands of the Moors by hiding in a laurel bush. A monument marks the
spot."--Miss A. Milne Home, Caldra, Duns, N.B.
* * * * *
IN THE MIDST OF THE ENEMY.
[Illustration]
"A gamekeeper in this neighbourhood had shot a fine carrion crow, and
hung up his prize, as usual, on a nail near his cottage. A wren finding
it built her nest between the wings, and in the body of her greatest
enemy actually reared her family. By the kindness of the owner of the
nest I have been able to photograph it."--Miss Mary Sharp, Riding Mill,
Northumberland.
* * * * *
A PECULIAR HARVEST.
[Illustration]
"The Rev. W. H. Jenoure, rector of Barwick, Yeovil, describes a novel
sight which may be seen in his parish. A farmer had been feeding his
sheep on oats, and some of the grain fell on the back of one of the
animals. It has taken root in the wool and sprouted, and the young
shoots may be seen growing on the animal's back."--Mr. S. G. Witcomb,
Middle Street, Yeovil, Somerset.
Transcriber Notes:
Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.
Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=.
Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.
Throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe".
Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the
speakers. Those words were retained as-is.
The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.
Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.
On page 525, "menu was formed the shape" was replaced with "menu was
formed in the shape".
On page 548, "slouches of" was replaced with "slouches off".
On page 563, "A D 1901. make a grave" was replaced with "A D 1901 make a
grave".
On page 563, the single quotation mark after "FUST" was replaced with a
double quotation mark.
On page 563, a period was placed after "is a mournful corpse".
On page 563, "ex amination" was replaced with "examination".
On page 563, "honoable" was replaced with "honorable".
On page 573, "onn" was replaced with "on".
On page 584, "plain of campaign" was replaced with "plan of campaign".