CHAPTER I.

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: _Frontispiece_ _Vide_]

Stories Jolly: Stories New:

Stories Strange & Stories True.

A SERIES OF NEW AND ORIGINAL TALES

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS

FROM SIX TO FOURTEEN YEARS OLD.

BY

_H. C. ADAMS._ | _AGNES GIBERNE._

_R. M. BALLANTYNE._ | _MRS. A. M. GOODHART._

_S. BARING-GOULD._ | _G. A. HENTY._

_FANNY BARRY._ | _KATHARINE S. MACQUOID._

_FRANCES CLARE._ | _MRS. MOLESWORTH._

_ALICE CORKRAN._ | _HELEN WILMOT-BUXTON._

_G. MANVILLE FENN._ | _EMMA WOOD._

_CHARLOTTE M.YONGE._

London:

SKEFFINGTON & SON, 163, PICCADILLY, W.

——

1889.

Preface.

————

THE EDITOR desires to place on record his sincere acknowledgments to

the many eminent Authors who have contributed to this Volume, and to

express a hope that the Stories will prove a source of much pleasure to

the Boys and Girls for whom they have been written.

It will be seen that, with two or three exceptions, Fairy Tales have

not been included in the Collection.

CONTENTS.

————

TITLE. AUTHOR'S NAME.

THE FOUNTAIN ANGEL ... ... _Fanny Barry_

A GALLANT RESCUE ... ... _R. M. Ballantyne_

CHAPTER I. AT PLAY.

CHAPTER II. AT WORK.

JACKIE'S NEW DODGE ... ... _Agnes Giberne_

JOAN'S ADVENTURE ... ... _Katharine S. Macquoid_

TRUE TO HER CHARGE ... ... _G. A. Henty_

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH BRUIN ... _Frances Clare_

PEA BLOSSOM ... ... ... _Alice Corkran_

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW THE STARLING CAUGHT COLD _Geo. Manville Fenn_

CHÉRI'S SECOND ESCAPADE ... _Mrs. Molesworth_

NEIGH-BOUR'S FARE ... ... _C. M. Yonge_

THE GIANT FISHERS OF HERTZENBERG

... ... ... _Mrs. A. M. Goodhart_

HUGHIE'S MISTAKE ... ... _H. C. Adams_

THE FOX FAMILY ... ... _Fanny Barry_

THE STORY OF A SILVER PADLOCK _Mrs. A. M. Goodhart_

TWO CHURCH MICE ... ... _Emma Wood_

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

THE NEW MASTER ... ... _S. Baring-Gould_

PETER ... ... ... ... _Fanny Barry_

SANTA KLAUS ... ... ... _Helen Wilmot-Buxton_

WATTIE AND THE WOLVES ... _Frances Clare_

_STORIES JOLLY: STORIES NEW:_

_STORIES STRANGE & STORIES TRUE._

[Illustration]

The Fountain Angel.

_BY FANNY BARRY._

————————

IT was called the Orange Garden, and in the middle stood a beautiful

fountain. The water flowed from a horn held in the hands of a

child-figure carved in marble, and fell down with a soft plash into a

fluted shell beneath.

Out of this it rippled again into a marble basin, round which the grass

grew so green that the flower beds shone like jewels in a brilliant

setting.

Great orange trees, in tubs, stood on each side of the path that led

from the old red-roofed Palace to the fountain, and white benches, with

banks of flowering plants behind them.

In the summer evenings many of the townspeople came and walked in

the garden, enjoying the soft air and listening to the murmur of the

fountain, whilst their children played round the stone basin and, as

they looked up at the marble child, wondered how it felt to be so high

up, and to sit so still, so very still, all day! Was his little hand

never tired of holding the great horn?

And then, when the twilight fell, and the stars peeped out one by one,

the moon shone softly, and the scent of the orange flowers filled the

air—was he not very lonely there; was he not afraid?

He never seemed frightened, for a smile dimpled his baby face; and old,

old people told their grandchildren that he had always been the same.

"He can never change," they said; "he is like one of the little

angels." So the children called him the "Fountain Angel."

Now the Fountain Angel had many friends, and the chief of them all

was Herminé, a poor little lame girl, who lived with her grandfather,

Bernhardt, in the grey stone cottage just outside the Orange Garden:

old Bernhardt was one of the Duke's gardeners, and Herminé had lived

with him ever since she was a baby. She could remember no other

relations, and as she could not run about and play with the other

children, she had made her only friend, playmate, and confidant of the

marble Fountain Angel, and she spent all her spare minutes happily by

his side.

One evening, late in the summer, old Bernhardt lay ill in his cottage,

and the moon was shining brightly over the Orange Garden before Herminé

came through the iron-scrolled gates with the slow tap, tap, of her

little crutch-stick, and seated herself wearily on the grass beside the

fountain.

"I must wait here till I am rested, and then I shall creep in so that

I do not wake poor grandfather," she said to herself; but somehow the

air was so warm, and she had been working so hard all day, that she

fell asleep—a little round ball of blue homespun—with her head against

a cold marble pillow.

It must have been many hours later that the child awoke with a start,

wondering where she was, and why her bed had suddenly become so hard.

It was bright moonlight. She rubbed her eyes, jumped up with the help

of her crutch-stick, and walked slowly round the fountain.

The water splashed in the moonbeams, the shell and the rocks that

supported it shone in the soft light—but the Fountain Angel was gone!

Herminé stood with her eyes growing round with astonishment. Gone! Had

someone stolen him whilst she was asleep? Had the earth opened and

swallowed him up? What, what had become of him?

* * * * * *

"Are you looking for me, little friend?" said a child voice at her

elbow.

She turned quickly, and there in the path stood the missing Fountain

Angel.

He carried a watering-can in his little hand, and his face was so sweet

and child-like that Herminé quite forgot to be frightened, and found

herself sitting down by his side on one of the white benches by the

orange trees before she realized what she was doing.

"You are wondering why I am here, little Herminé," he said, as he

slipped his hand confidingly into hers, and looked up at her with soft

grey eyes. "You do not know that every night as the clock strikes one I

have the gift of life bestowed upon me, and can descend to earth to be

indeed the good angel of the fountain.

"This power was given me as a reward for the faithful labours of my

master, the great sculptor who, many, many, years ago, designed and

wrought me from a block of purest marble, and then presented me as an

offering to the town in which he was born. So faithfully had he loved

and studied Nature, and so truly had he used his powers for noble ends,

that his last prayer was granted him; and he died happily, knowing that

I should be allowed to carry on his good deeds and loving care for

others.

"For the last hundred years I have tried faithfully to fulfil his

wishes. I have carried water to fill the buckets and tubs of all the

good neighbours round the Orange Garden; I have watered the gardens

of all those who were poor or busy; I have brought fresh life to the

plants and flowers."

Herminé had listened to the Fountain Angel with absorbed interest; now

she seized her crutch-stick, and jumped from her seat eagerly.

"Oh, let me help you!" she cried. "I know I can never work as well as

other children, because I am lame; but 'please' teach me to be useful,

and show me what I can do!"

"Yes, you shall help me, little friend," said the marble child. "Poor

old Bernhardt is too old now to water his garden himself, so I do it

every night for him, and you shall help."

He put a watering-can into Herminé's hand exactly like the one he

carried himself, and when she had once filled it at the fountain she

noticed that it always remained full of bubbling water.

So there they worked together, the little girl and the Fountain Angel.

In and out amongst the banks of flowering bushes tapped Herminé's

crutch, and in and out darted the white form of the marble child,

whilst a beautiful scent of fresh, moist earth and orange bloom rose

upon the air.

The stars shone down softly upon the little pair, and Herminé's heart

was filled with joy as she thought how happy she was to be allowed to

share in such a good work!

"And now, little friend, you must go home and sleep," said the Fountain

Angel, "for I have to carry water to the houses of all the sick and

poor in the town. You could not help me there, I have to go and come so

quickly. Before you go bathe your lame foot in the fountain; its water

has a gift of healing. Good-bye! To-morrow we shall meet again."

He waved his hand affectionately towards Herminé, and disappeared

through the iron-scrolled gates.

Left alone, she sat dabbling her foot in the cool waters of the

fountain, and thinking over all that the marble child had told her,

till the clock in the Palace Tower struck three, and she started as she

realized how late it was!

She pulled on her little wooden-soled shoes, and hurried to her

grandfather's cottage, letting herself in as gently as she could, so

that she might not disturb him.

He was still sleeping quietly; and as soon as Herminé's little tired

head touched the pillow she also was in the land of dreams.

Old Bernhardt grew rapidly better, and was pleased and surprised, on

his first visit to the Orange Garden, to find that everything was in

perfect order, and the ground fresh and moist, as though just watered

by a heavy shower.

"How thick the dews have fallen," he said to Herminé, as he seated

himself contentedly on one of the white benches. "It is a happy thing

for me, for it would have tired my old back sorely to begin to water

the orange tubs this morning."

Herminé smiled with delight, and nodded towards the Fountain Angel. She

would have liked to laugh out loud, but reflected that her grandfather

might ask what amused her.

"Really it all looks very well, considering the time of year," mused

the old gardener. "I might just do a little sweeping up, and then leave

it. It is wonderful how heavy the dews are now the autumn comes on."

Herminé left her grandfather with a broom in his hand, and went back

again to the little cottage.

She worked very hard to keep everything clean and neat, and that

day her foot felt lighter and more easily moved than she could ever

remember it.

"Oh, I wonder if the Fountain Angel will really cure me," she said to

herself, as she scrubbed away at the black chest in which she and her

grandfather kept their Sunday clothing. "How beautiful it would be to

be able to run about like other children—how beautiful!"

Again that evening Herminé went into the Orange Garden, and for many

evenings after; helping the Fountain Angel in his work, and bathing her

lame foot in the healing water.

Her grandfather noticed, with astonishment, that she had put aside her

crutch-stick, and before very long she was able to run about as merrily

as any of the children she used to long to play with on the grass by

the marble Fountain.

* * * * * *

It is many, many years ago now, since little Herminé grew well and

strong, and went away to a new country, where children with blue eyes

like her own clustered round her knee in the soft summer twilight, but

the Orange Garden remains unchanged.

The scent of flowers still fills the air; the water drips with the same

soothing splash into the marble basin, and there, with his old sweet

smile, stands the marble figure of the "Fountain Angel."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

A Gallant Rescue.

_BY R. M. BALLANTYNE,_

AUTHOR OF "THE LIFEBOAT, A TALE OF OUR COAST HEROES;"

"FIGHTING THE FLAMES, A TALE OF THE LONDON FIRE BRIGADE;"

"THE LIGHTHOUSE, OR THE STORY OF A GREAT FIGHT

BETWEEN MAN AND THE SEA," &c.

————————

CHAPTER I.

_AT PLAY._

IT was a pleasant day about the beginning of April; a bright, warm,

jovial day, such as one wishes would last all the year round; a day

that tells of winter past, and gives assurance that summer is really

about to come.

The fisher boys and girls of Brindleport romped on the beach with

unquenchable ardour; the men busied themselves about their boats, and

the women about their nets and bait, in a supremely contented frame

of mind. Even the crabs seemed to be filled with the spirit of joyous

activity, for, as Dan Barcombe said, they scuttled about from pool to

pool as if it were a cleaning-up day in their domestic arrangements,

and displayed more than their wonted readiness to raise their claws

in fight—not an unknown condition in those who have much to do with

cleaning-up days!

Daniel Barcombe was the coxswain of the lifeboat. He flung wide the

doors of his boat-house on that day and went to work with a will on

sundry small repairs. Barcombe was proud of his boat. If the boat had

possessed a mind of its own it would have been equally proud of its

coxswain, for he was a stalwart, lion-like man, of herculean frame,

with simple thoughts and tastes, and a modest spirit. Many a time had

his great muscular strength and daring been the means, at critical

moments, of saving his boat from destruction on the Black Rocks outside

the port.

"Are you going out to-day, Dan?" asked a soft, sweet voice of the

coxswain, who was admiring the white and blue boat which, resting on

its carriage, towered high over his head.

"Not to-day, Master Edwin," answered Barcombe, looking down at his

questioner with a kindly smile. "There's never no wrecks goes on of a

fine day like this."

"Of course not," returned the boy, with thoughtful gravity; "but you

might be going out for exercise, you know."

"That's true, lad; but as we go out for exercise only once a quarter,

we always choose the worst weather we can lay hold on. It 'ud be

useless, d'ye see, to launch her an' pull out in fine weather; any

cockleshell could do that safe enough. I like best when the wind's i'

the nor'east, blowin' fit to cut the nose off your face, an' breakers

thunderin' on the shore. I've seed it that rough, sometimes, that when

we was out for exercise a wessel has drove on the Black Rocks, an'

we've had to turn our exercise into action. Your father, when he was

our Local Superintendent, used to take an oar sometimes for amusement

at our quarterly exercises, for he was a splendid seaman, he was, and

it was on one o' them occasions, when we was called unexpected to a

wreck, that he lost his life through the fallin' of a block-tackle on

his head. He laid down his life, as your dear mother says sometimes, to

'rescue the perishin'',—but I've told ye o' that many a time."

"Tell it again, Dan. I like to hear of it; I never tire of it. I do

like to think of saving people's lives. It must be such grand work, as

of course you know, for you have done it so often."

Edwin Boyne looked up admiringly at his herculean friend with glowing

eyes and flushed countenance.

"Well, yes; through God's blessin' I 'have' helped to save a few lives

in my day; an' you'll do the same, too, Master Edwin, if you live, for

you're a reg'lar chip o' the old block."

"What 'is' a chip of the old block?" asked the boy, seriously.

The coxswain laughed as he replied, and tried to explain the expression

in language so exceedingly nautical that Edwin was not much wiser. Then

he proceeded to describe, by no means for the first time, the terrible

storm in which the boy's father had been killed, while out rescuing the

crew of a stranded schooner.

Edwin listened intently—we might almost say with eyes as well as

with ears. He was a noble-looking little fellow, with not a particle

of "brag" about him. His heroic aspirations had nothing to do with

the wish to appear brave or manly. Being both, he never thought of

appearances.

"I should like 'so' much to go off to a wreck with you," he said, when

the coxswain had finished his narrative. "Don't you think I might, if

nurse gave me leave to go. I'm quite sure that mother would if she were

at home, for she always lets me do whatever I want. I could put on

father's old life-belt, you know, and though I'm not yet strong enough

to pull an oar, I could steer, perhaps. At any rate I could sit still

and keep out of your way."

This cool proposal, delivered in an earnest voice and with a very

appealing look, took Daniel Barcombe so much aback that he simply gazed

at Edwin in mute surprise.

"Well now, my boy," he said slowly, "I rather think that your mother

'would' object—"

"Oh no, she wouldn't! I'm quite 'sure' of that," interrupted Edwin,

anxiously.

The amiable coxswain was much perplexed. He was extremely fond of the

boy, and knew that the liking was mutual, so that he shrank from the

blighting of hopes and aspirations that were evidently very strong.

"You know well, my little man," he said, after a pause, "that I would

do anything in reason to please you, but your mother not bein' here,

an' your nurse bein' left in command o' the ship, so to speak, she

might object, dee see?"

"When nurse does not agree with mother, I don't care about her

objecting," said Edwin decisively.

There was no tone of threat or rebellion in this remark. It was quietly

made as a mere statement of the condition of his mind.

"Besides," he continued, "we expect mother back by to-night's steamer,

so I won't need to ask leave of nurse."

"Right you are, lad, for when the cap'en's aboard it's the first

officer's dooty to play second fiddle; but I'm afeard—indeed I'm

sure—that our noo Superintendent wouldn't let you go—not bein' one o'

the reg'lar lifeboat crew, you know; but the day's comin', you may be

sartin sure, when they'll be only too glad to get men like you to pull

an oar in the lifeboat—so don't be cast down."

"Thank you, Barcombe, for saying that; but if my mother gives me leave

to go, your new Superintendent has no right to forbid me; so, as mother

and you are both willing, I will go in spite of him. Now I must leave

you, for it's about lunch time. Good-bye, Barcombe."

Edwin Boyne—known at home as Eddy—held out his tiny hand to the

lifeboat coxswain, who grasped it tenderly in a fist which his comrades

were wont to compare to a shoulder of mutton.

"Good-bye, Master Edwin, an' don't dream about wrecks to-night, for the

weather's settled down for a calm spell. An' don't get impatient. Why,

you'll be a man a'most afore you know where you are, so keep up heart,

my boy."

"I will," replied the urchin, walking gravely away, with the expression

on his fair young face of one whose mind is firmly made up.

"Nurse, hand me down father's old life-belt, please," said Edwin, when

he got home.

The obedient woman did as she was bid, and assisted the child to tie it

on.

"Rather too big for me 'just now!'" he said, looking down at the mass

of cork in which he was encased from the neck nearly to the knees. Then

he looked solemnly up into nurse's face.

"Yes, Master Eddy, it 'is' a little too big; but you'll fill it some

day."

With this comforting assurance the good woman sent him off to the day

nursery, where he turned a table upside down, got into it, and, using

the shovel as an oar, proceeded off to a wreck, where he spent the

remainder of that day rescuing innumerable people from the raging sea,

issuing stern commands to his lifeboat crew, encouraging timid women,

quieting terrified children, and otherwise acting the part of a true

hero.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

_AT WORK._

AS the opinions of doctors are not always correct, so the judgments of

nautical men are not invariably sure.

Daniel Barcombe was wrong when he said that the weather had settled

down for a calm spell. On the contrary, the weather had made up its

mind that very day to go in for one of those short, wild bursts of fury

which arise sometimes, even in the midst of summer, to the discomfiture

of the weather-wise.

It began with a very sultry afternoon, which induced the fisher boys to

cast off their few garments and take to the water as to their native

element. Then the sky became coppery in appearance, a mysterious haze

seemed to settle down on the sleeping sea, and several dark cloud-banks

on the horizon mounted up to the zenith before evening closed. Suddenly

a flash of lightning burst through the increasing darkness; at the same

time a hissing squall tore up the surface of the sea, and a prolonged

peal of thunder shook the windows of the day nursery, where Edwin Boyne

was still engaged in rescue work.

The boy jumped out of his table-lifeboat and ran to the window. The sea

was already like indigo, with snow-white streaks all over it. There was

just light enough for him to see that.

"Where are you, Master Eddy?" shouted the somewhat timid nurse, from

the regions below.

[Illustration]

"All right," shouted Eddy in reply. "I'm just going out to rescue the

perishing from the billows of the raging deep."

Of course the boy was quoting, but he was thoroughly in earnest. Nurse

thought he was referring to his play.

"That's right," she cried, "save as many as you can; be brave, and do

your best."

"Yes, nurse, I will."

Saying this, he descended to the front door, and went out wearing his

cork jacket.

It had grown unusually dark by that time, so that he could not see the

other side of the street, but being familiar with the town, he had no

fear of losing his way even in the dark; besides, the dull roar of the

breakers was of itself a sufficient guide to the beach. Rain was now

falling in torrents, but the houses as yet protected him from the wind.

On turning the corner of the street, however, Edwin was caught by the

blast in its full force and fury. He failed to resist it sufficiently,

and was swept away in the wrong direction like a leaf in autumn.

Fortunately for him a fat old woman chanced to be in the line of his

flight. She was holding on to a paling with one hand, and to the wreck

of an inverted umbrella with the other. Eddy plunged into her like a

shot into a bale of cotton, but she was a strong old woman and stood

the shock bravely.

"Marcy on us," she gasped, "what be that?"

"Oh! I 'beg' your pardon," began Eddy, but before he could utter

another word the wind burst on them with fresh violence; the old woman

lost her hold of the paling—also of the wrecked umbrella—and went off

like a Dutch galliot under full sail. Eddy never saw her more!

"Impossible to rescue 'her,'" he muttered, gravely, as he held tight to

the paling, "besides, she's in no danger from the sea."

With this comforting reflection he turned himself shoreward again, and,

at the next lull, recommenced his struggle, with lips compressed and

head bent low. By slow degrees he worked his way to the shore. Several

people passed him on the way—running as best they could—and one or two

tumbled over him, but, gathering themselves up with exclamations that

were not apologetic, they ran on. It was too dark to see anything more

than two yards in front of the eyes.

By intimate knowledge of the locality—rather than by sight—the boy

reached the lifeboat house. He found, as he had hoped and expected,

that the crew were busy getting the boat out. A number of men, and even

one or two women and boys, were standing outside, looking on and ready

to lend a hand. A few lanterns were carried about by them, which did

little more than render darkness visible.

"What is it?" asked a woman who had just arrived.

"A wessel on the Black Rocks only just begun to signal," roared a

fisherman, for nothing short of a roar could be heard.

Eddy waited for no more. That was enough. He slipped quietly past

the eager men, reached the inner end of the boat-house, which was

dark at the moment, scrambled up the side of the boat and plunged

recklessly into the bottom of it, for he heard the voice of the Local

Superintendent just then urging the men to make haste, though neither

Dan Barcombe nor his men required urging. Eddy's plunge did him no

harm, for his little body was protected by the great cork jacket, and a

piece of tarpaulin chanced to receive his head. Seizing this latter, he

covered himself with it, and thrust himself under the nearest thwart.

"Now then, haul 'er out and jump in, lads!" shouted the coxswain.

The boat on her carriage was run out with a cheer by the crowd, and in

another moment the crew, in sou'westers, oilskins, and cork jackets,

sprang on board, sat down and grasped the oars. Thus they were run down

the steep shore, and thrust as far as possible into the seething water.

Then the launching ropes were hauled, and the boat almost leaped from

her carriage into the sea. Her crew dipped the oars, and strained like

men who know that the first few strokes are critical. Miss a stroke

or steer wrong at first, and the boat might be hurled back or rolled

over and wrecked on the beach. In his energy the man who sat on the

thwart just above Edwin drew back his foot and kicked the poor boy

on the chest with his great heel,—a blow which would have broken his

delicate ribs but for the cork jacket. As it was he received no damage,

but next moment he gasped with cold, for the first wave they met went

clean over the boat, not only drenching but almost choking him. He knew

well, however, that the discharge tubes would empty the boat in a few

seconds, so he held his breath and gripped the legs of the man above

him.

That man was brave. Many a time had he faced the dangers of the

lifeboat service with unflinching courage, but when he felt himself

suddenly gripped round the leg, as he afterwards said, by a sea monster

o' some sort, his heart went slap into his throat, an' all his inn'ards

seemed to run to warm water!

He did not dare to stop rowing however to see what it was, and he could

not shake off the "sea monster," though he tried hard. On getting out

to sea, however, the longer swell in deep water enabled him to miss a

stroke or two, seize the monster, haul it forth, and hurl it from him.

There was just light enough to enable him to see that when it uncoiled

itself and stood up, the monster was a small human being! The coxswain

looked close into its face, and, with a gasp of mingled surprise and

consternation, ejaculated—

"Edwin Boyne! Hallo, Bill, make him fast with a rope! Sit down on the

floor, boy!"

Edwin had often heard Barcombe say that the chief virtue in

lifeboat-men was prompt obedience, resolved to act his part well, he

plumped at once into the sitting posture.

"Here, coil that round your arm and waist, and hold on for life!" cried

Bill, casting the end of a rope to the boy, who again obeyed with

lightning speed.

It was a terrible night, and what the boat had hitherto gone through

was as nothing to what she experienced when the turmoil of water round

the Black Rocks was entered.

A vessel was aground on the seaward edge of these rocks. She was fast

breaking up, and only part of one mast could be seen swaying wildly to

and fro against the sky. It did not take long after that to pull to

windward, cast anchor, and ease off the cable until the lifeboat could

drop down under the lee of the wreck.

Then, as they swung swiftly in and got near enough, they could see by

the light of the blazing remnants of a tar-barrel, that a number of

blanched faces were gazing wildly at them over the bulwarks. Gruff

voices were heard shouting, but no word could be made out because of

the whistling wind, lashing cordage, and roaring, hissing, leaping sea.

It was seen that there were females on the wreck.

"I do believe it's the steamer!" said the coxswain to Bill, as he

skilfully steered the boat alongside.

"Look-out for the women," shouted a deep voice from above.

"Ay, ay," responded eager voices from below. "Send 'em down."

Just then a female form was seen to swing out from the ship high in air

as the boat sank into the trough of the waves. Next moment a sea raised

the boat, "let go!" was sharply shouted, and a woman with a child—from

which they had been unable to separate her—dropped close to Edwin and

almost crushed him.

"Here!" cried our little hero jumping up and unwinding the rope that

held him, "coil that round your arm and waist, and hold on—for life!"

"Sit down!" growled Bill, sternly.

True as steel to duty, Edwin sat down and watched, with intense

feelings and in silence, while two more women were rescued, and several

men lowered themselves into the boat by ropes hanging from spars.

In this attempt some fell into the sea, but were grasped and hauled

inboard. Then another female was seen to swing off from the side while

the boat was dropping away from her. At the same moment a rope from the

wreck caught a projection of the lifeboat close to Bill, and held it so

that in another moment the side of the swaying hull would probably have

come down on it and crushed them all.

"Clear that rope, Bill!" cried Barcombe in a tone that betrayed the

urgency of the case.

But Bill was standing up with outstretched arms ready to receive the

woman.

Seeing this Edwin sprang up, exerted all his strength, and unhooked

the rope from the projection that had caught it. The boat immediately

sheered off, leaving the woman again swinging while it sank away from

her. The poor creature uttered an irrepressible scream on observing

this.

Edwin Boyne's blood seemed to curdle when he heard that scream.

"Mother!" he cried, starting up.

Another intensified scream was the reply, and Mrs. Boyne, absolutely

falling into her son's extended arms, carried him headlong to the

bottom of the boat—fortunately without receiving damage, for Bill,

having slipped his foot in his gallant efforts, had conveniently placed

his burly body there in time to receive them.

"No bones broken I hope, ma'am?" enquired Bill, with a discomfited look.

"No, none, thank God," exclaimed Mrs. Boyne fervently, as she clasped

Eddy in her arms—unutterably amazed but quite content to know that her

boy was safe.—What! "safe," with the wreck crashing alongside, and the

wild winds shrieking, and the foaming billows filling the boat at every

rush? Ay, safe, because "in the lifeboat!"

Oh! it was a grand sight to see—by the light of the moon which

had struggled through the driving clouds as if it were personally

anxious to witness the scene—the eager faces which lined the jetty

at Brindleport that night when the lifeboat came in from the seaward

darkness, as if from out of the shades of Erebus, with a flag at her

masthead in token of success, her crew exhausted yet re-invigorated by

the strength that comes of joy, and with twenty rescued human beings

packed like herrings in a barrel on her floor!

And it was thrilling to listen to the cheer that burst forth when Dan

Barcombe, standing up in the stern and holding the tiller, put his hand

to his mouth and shouted as they flew past "All saved!" with a roar

that put to very shame the howlings of the storm.

But it was more than thrilling, it was almost appalling, to behold the

cadaverous face and expression of poor nurse, when, after a long futile

and exhaustive search for Eddy, she at last sat down in the vacant

nursery and wrung her hands in abject despair. Yet equally striking,

though indescribable, was the expression of that same face when—having

run on in advance of the procession that brought Mrs. Boyne home—Eddy

entered the nursery, looking, in the cork jacket, like a cask with a

head, arms, and legs attached to it, and said in his own grave, quiet

manner:—

"Well, nurse, I've been out with the lifeboat, and I've done my

best—I've helped to rescue mother!"

* * * * * *

Years have passed since then, and the Brindleport lifeboat is still in

active service, but Dan Barcombe and Bill are now on the retired list,

fighting their battles o'er again by the fire-side, and reaping the

advantages of a useful, self-sacrificing life in a hale and hearty old

age. Nurse is similarly situated, though in a totally different line

of life—yet, after all, is there not some sort of analogy between the

gales of nature and the squalls of the nursery?

Little Eddy, however, is gone—gone for ever! He has been long since

supplanted by a big, lion-like man named Edwin Boyne, Esq., Local

Superintendent of the Brindleport Branch of the Royal National Lifeboat

Institution, who is celebrated for having saved the lives of more human

beings than any man in the town, and for retaining that grave, modest,

yet indomitable enthusiasm which urged him, when yet a boy, to go out

in the lifeboat and do his best by helping to rescue mother in the days

gone by.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Jackie's New Dodge.

_BY AGNES GIBERNE,_

AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON, AND STARS," "MISS CON," &c.

————————

"I'M so awfully glad Jackie's coming to-day! Oh, so awfully glad!" sang

out Algie Leigh, in a vigorous monotone, during the process of morning

hair brushing. "So aw—fully—glad! Don't, nurse! I wish you wouldn't

twist that horrid little curl in front! Jackie doesn't wear a curl."

"Now, Master Algie, you'll please stand still and not fidget. Your ma

says—"

"She isn't my ma! Fellows don't say 'Ma!' Jackie doesn't! And I don't

want my hair made curly. Jackie will laugh at me."

"Let them laugh as wins," nurse answered oracularly. "If all the

brushes in all the world was used on Master Jack's hair, it wouldn't

curl—no more than the poker."

"I wish mine wouldn't! I hate curliness for a boy," said Algie. "I'm

nine years old now, and it's time to leave off that sort of rubbish.

I'll ask mother if I can't begin to have my hair straight like

Jackie's. He's only ten—at least, I mean eleven—and he hasn't been

curly, oh, for years and years and years! Not for hundreds of years."

"A likely story!" nurse said.

"Well, you know what I mean. Nurse, I can't stand still any longer. I

'must' wriggle. I want so awfully for twelve o'clock to come! Jackie's

sure to have some awfully nice new dodge; and I do want to know what

it is. It's no use your brushing away like that. My hair will all go

anywhere by the time I'm downstairs. There!"

Algie tore himself from nurse's grasp, and bounced down on the nearest

bed, where he lay kicking; not in a temper, but merely as a vent to

excitement. He was tremendously excited at the thought of seeing

Jackie. Perhaps this was not surprising; for where Jackie might be,

dulness was a thing impossible.

"There!" nurse echoed in a very different tone. "Well, you know what

'that' means! I've just got to do it all over again."

"O Algie, do be good! The bell will ring directly," pleaded May,

the sweetest and most lovable of all his four pretty dainty little

sisters, who stood in their thick white frocks, anxiously regarding

his movements. The one boy in a family of five was an object of much

solicitude. He really was a very nice boy, good-tempered and merry,

almost girlishly pretty, and just a little apt to be girlish in some of

his ways, from being brought up entirely among girls. But when Jackie

appeared on the scene, Algie always developed at once into what he at

least considered to be the full-blown boy.

May was one year older than Algie, and Annie was two years older still;

while Lou and the youngest, still called Baby, were only seven and

five. So Algie occupied a middle position between two pairs of sisters.

"Won't ring for half-an-hour yet," Algie answered, bumping his head

vigorously into the pillow, by way of preliminary practice for Jackie.

"O I say, won't it be jolly fun? Jackie's always got a new dodge every

time. Don't you want awfully bad to know what it'll be? Oh—I say!"

Ring-a-ding-ding-ding-ding-dong! sounded the breakfast-bell, bringing

Algie to his feet with a dismayed spring. The Leighs were a punctual

family.

"Come, Lou! Come, Baby! We mustn't wait," said Annie.

"May! May! Stop a moment," cried Algie distractedly, finding himself

anew in nurse's grasp. "O do hurry, do hurry-scurry; just one

brush—that'll do—never mind the front curl for once. Nurse, let me go!"

And with a flying leap Algie was down the first short flight, leaving

May in his rear. He waited for her below, however, and they raced

across the hall just in time.

The only remark made upon Algie's appearance was by a cousin-visitor,

given to teasing. "Why, Algie, what has become of that natty little

arrangement on your forehead? Nurse must have overslept herself for

once!"

Algie grew very red, and wished people would remember that he was a

"fellow," not a mere girl.

* * * * * *

Twelve o'clock came, and the five children watched anxiously through

their playroom window for Jackie's arrival. Summer holidays were now in

full swing, the governess being away; and if only it had been a fine

morning they would all have been out in the garden. But alas, even

August days are sometimes chilly and wet, and the rain had come down

pitilessly since half-past ten. "No going out" was decreed.

Algie begged in vain for a reversal of the sentence. Jackie never

stayed in for the rain, and why must he? But this is a kind of logic

which grown-up people somehow never will accept. Algie was given to

catching cold, they said, and Jackie was not, which made all the

difference. Algie held that it made no difference at all, because he

was perfectly certain not to catch cold on that particular day; but all

the same he had to submit.

Grievances were forgotten when Jackie appeared. He was welcomed with

a shout of delight, which he received calmly as his right. Jackie was

a particularly calm and cool sort of boy; always fully aware what he

meant to do, and bent on doing it; but not apt to get into excited

states like Algie. He strolled in carelessly, with a hand in either

pocket and a general air of middle-aged indifference to surroundings,

seated himself in the most comfortable chair present, and whistled.

"What's the new dodge, Jackie?" burst out the admiring Algie, who

always watched and, as far as possible, imitated every motion of

Jackie's. Next time he went to see a friend he would stroll leisurely

in, take the best chair, and whistle a subdued tune.

"New dodge!" repeated Jackie, with an absent air.

"Yes, the new dodge! Why, you always have one, every time you come

to see us," cried eager Algie. "Last time it was ropes—don't you

remember?—and the time before it was toffy—and the time before—oh, I

don't know what that was, but of course you've got something to-day.

Because it rains, and we—and the girls can't go out, and we're going to

have fun indoors. Haven't you got another new dodge?"

Jack nodded in a bland and mysterious fashion, whereupon Algie threw

himself about the room in an agony of delight.

"I've taken to doctoring," Jackie announced composedly.

"Doctoring!" gasped Algie, with a recollection of rhubarb and castor

oil.

"Will you doctor our dolls, Jackie?" asked May's soft voice. May was a

particular chum of Jackie's. He liked to patronize, and she was willing

to be patronized.

"Dolls!" Jackie repeated, with ineffable disdain.

"But you don't really and truly mean you've doctored live people,"

objected Algie.

"I pulled out a fellow's tooth the other day," declared Jackie, in

his mildest tone. "Gave him sixpence to let me do it." Jack did not

think it needful to add that there had been a considerable stir in

consequence—the aggrieved father making a formal complaint to the

master of the school, which had resulted in a severe admonition to

Jackie to refrain from further tooth-drawing.

"Was it a loose tooth?" asked May.

"Tight as a drum," said Jack.

"But you won't pull 'our' teeth out," murmured May.

"Of course he won't. Nobody will let him," said Annie.

Then Mrs. Leigh came in with a plateful of cake, and for the moment

attention was diverted from Jackie's dentistry. "Are you all very

hungry?" she asked. "It is raining so hard, I am afraid you must be

content with indoor games this morning. What happy children you are to

have a nice big playroom all to yourselves."

Algie thought that to be allowed to play in the rain and mud would make

a much happier child of him; still the plateful of cake was consoling,

and even Jackie's eyes glistened.

"Luncheon may be rather late to-day," Mrs. Leigh went on. "Your father

and I have a call to pay on an old friend, after taking your cousin to

the station, and that may delay us till half-past one. But you will not

starve, after this!" and she smiled. "Mind you are all good children,

and don't quarrel. There are plenty of toys and pictures for Jackie to

see."

Jackie had no particular affection for picture-books, but cake was

quite in his line; and he came in for the lion's share of the supply.

Ten minutes passed happily; and the brougham was seen to drive away

from the front door. After which nurse appeared, and walked off the

reluctant Baby to her mid-day sleep. Annie obediently brought out a

pile of new picture-books, and Jackie tossed over a few indifferently.

"Stupid things, pictures!" he said. "Can't think why anybody ever makes

them."

"Oh, but pictures are so nice," protested May.

"Nice enough for girls," said Jackie; and Algie at once felt

desperately ashamed of having always liked pictures.

"I thought you'd have had a nice new dodge," he said wistfully to Jack.

"So I have," Jackie answered, brightening up, and pushing the

picture-books aside. "Let's play at doctoring."

"But I don't want to have my tooth drawn," murmured Algie.

"Doctors don't draw teeth. Only dentists do that," said Annie.

"And I don't like pills nor castor oil neither," complained Algie.

Jackie pulled slowly from his pocket a small leathern case.

"That's my medicine chest," he announced. "I have got no pills, nor

castor oil. I've got a lot of millions, because they look like those

sugar globules that uncle John gulps down and calls medicine. We'll all

have sugar globules first."

"And not castor oil after?" asked May, suspicious of so mild a

beginning.

"Not castor oil at all," said Jack.

"Why, of course not. We are all quite well. We don't want medicine,"

observed Annie.

"You're well now, but you mightn't be well to-morrow. I am going to

doctor you beforehand," said Jackie, with the confidence of a genuine

quack. "Besides," he added, as a brilliant idea came up, "if we don't

want to be doctored, we can try experiments. That's the jolliest fun of

all."

"Must there be explosions?" asked May.

"O dear me, no. Not that sort of experiments. Not burning gases, and

making loud pops," said Jack. "I've got an awfully jolly new dodge." He

helped the party round to a fresh supply of "millions," and proceeded

further to extract from the leather case a small stoppered bottle.

"Mind, you are not to tell anybody what I'm going to show you now. It's

the jolliest stuff you ever heard of. It sends a fellow to sleep in the

middle of the day, all in a moment. I vote we go to sleep."

"All of us?" demanded Algie.

"Oh, one at a time. Not all together. That wouldn't be fun," said

Jackie.

"What's the stuff called?" asked prudent Annie.

Jack held up the bottle for inspection. "Got no name you see," he said.

He thought Annie might know the word, and might take fright. "It's

awfully funny going to sleep. Who'll try first?"

"Not me," Algie said promptly.

"Nor me, nor May, nor Lou," said Annie. "Mother doesn't like us to

drink things, if we don't know what they are."

"You haven't got to drink. It's only to sniff up—whiff! —and you're

off—pop—sound asleep. The best fun in all the world," declared Jackie.

The children were getting interested. There was something fascinating

about the idea.

But Annie's conscience was not easy. "I shall go and ask nurse," she

said.

"And wake up Baby!" said Algie.

"No: I'll be quiet."

Jackie looked up, read resolution in Annie's face, and forthwith

marched to the door. In an instant he had turned the key, and slipped

it into his pocket.

"O Jackie, that is too bad. It's our house," Annie said, colouring.

"I'm not going to be interfered with," Jackie answered, in his calm

middle-aged voice, and he walked back to the centre of the room. "Now,

then, who'll take a whiff first?"

"I won't," Annie answered. She was vexed with Jackie, and suspicious of

his mischief: yet in her heart she did feel just a little glad that it

was not in her power to stop the fun.

"Who first?" repeated Jack.

Nobody answered.

"I'll tell you what! 'I'll' be the first," announced Jackie. "I'll go

to sleep, and when I wake up somebody else must try."

No objections were made. Jack unstoppered the bottle, and with a great

deal of fuss poured some of the liquid into a far from white pocket

handkerchief. It did seem to Annie that most of the liquid somehow

found its way to the carpet, but Jackie declared that all was right. He

stoppered the bottle, tucked it away, put the case in his pocket, threw

himself back into the easy-chair, and told Algie to hold the pocket

handkerchief to his nose.

Dancing with delight, Algie obeyed; and before two seconds had

gone by Jack showed every sign of coming sleep. His head dropped,

his mouth opened, his breathing became loud and regular, and faint

snores sounded. Algie took away the handkerchief, and whispered,

giggling—"He's off!"

The four stood watching, open-eyed and intent!

"I wonder how soon he'll wake," whispered one.

"He looks very comfy," murmured another.

Jack's limbs hung loose and limp. The moments passed, and he snored on.

Algie began to wax impatient. Moments seem long when one is waiting,

and they were sure that Jack had been asleep an immense time. He showed

no consciousness of the talk carried on around him. A very close

observer might indeed have noted a suspicious quiver of one eyelid, and

even a little gleam of grey moving under the lashes: but Algie and his

sisters suspected nothing.

They were getting uneasy, and wondering if Jack meant to sleep the

whole day, when he stirred, peeped, yawned, opened and shut his eyes,

stretched himself, and drowsily sat up.

"Heigh-o! Breakfast-bell rung yet?" he asked, with another gape, and a

most un-sleepy twinkle of the said eyes.

"Why, Jackie, it's the middle of the day," cried his innocent listeners.

"Middle—of—the—day! Dear me! I must have been quite sound asleep! Quite

sound," declared the unblushing Jackie.

"You went off so fast, you can't think," said May. "Was it nice?"

"Lovely," declared Jack. "Like floating off among green clouds, you

know." Jackie had heard this description from a lady who had taken

chloroform, and it served his purpose. To be sure the said lady had sat

in a room papered with green, which explained her half-sleeping fancy

about "green clouds;" whereas the playroom had grey-washed walls. But

Jackie never stuck at trifles.

"I 'should' like to float off among green clouds," murmured May, who

was of an adventurous though timid nature.

"All right. You try next," said Jack, jumping up.

"I don't believe nurse would like it," objected Annie.

But Annie had the voice of the conclave against her.

Gentle May had a will of her own, and the green clouds sounded

tempting, and what 'could' be the harm of so placid a sleep and so mild

an awakening? The key was still in Jackie's pocket, and they could not

ask nurse. Perhaps nobody really wished to do so. Trying experiments

was great fun.

May held to her point, and still more Jackie held her to it. The one of

them all most to blame was Jackie, for though only eleven years old, he

did know the name and something of the nature of the liquid he held.

He knew that chloroform was given to people by doctors to make them

unconscious, when something very painful had to be done. He knew that

patients had sometimes even died from taking chloroform. Of course he

meant to be careful, and only to let May sniff just a little, but all

the time he knew perfectly well that he was doing a very very wrong

and foolish thing. His inquisitive mind liked to be always trying some

new "dodge" as he called it, and the present opportunity was a great

temptation. But Jack knew well enough that he had no business to give

way to the temptation.

"Now, May, tuck up your feet, and make ready," he said, refusing to

listen to the voice within, which cried to him to stop. "O there's no

harm," he told himself.

May obeyed; and again Jackie poured some of the liquid on a pocket

handkerchief. This time he did the business thoroughly. The cambric,

and not the floor, was soaked.

"It's a queer smell," Algie remarked, and May said, "I like it!" Jack

alone knew with what edged tools they were foolishly playing.

Still he went on—madly. He held the handkerchief to her face, and May

shut her eyes, breathing up the strong scent.

Yes, she was going off—fast. Not so fast as Jackie had appeared to do,

but somehow she seemed soon more genuinely asleep. There was one little

feeble attempt at resistance, one effort to pull away the handkerchief,

but Jackie held it firm, and May's little hand fell.

Sound asleep, and looking so peaceful. The children were greatly

interested.

"She doesn't snore like Jackie," cried Algie.

"You'll wake her if you kick up such a row," declared Jack; but May did

not stir.

They waited again, moment after moment, till the time seemed very long.

"Hasn't she slept enough?" asked Annie.

"Well, perhaps she has," admitted Jackie. "Suppose you give her a kiss."

Annie followed his advice, but there was no response. Jack pulled her

by the hand, and it dropped as before, limp and helpless. Algie shouted

in her ear, and May did not hear. She lay pale, still, with shut eyes,

never stirring a finger.

"Stupid! She ought to wake up," Jack said, getting uneasy.

"I shall call nurse. Nurse will know what to do," exclaimed Annie. "O

do give me the key."

"Bother nurse! Let's make a noise, and she's sure to wake."

But they stamped and shouted in vain. May still lay as before, white

and senseless.

"Jackie, Jackie, I 'must' call nurse," almost sobbed Annie.

Whether Jack would have yielded is doubtful; but at that moment the

sound of the returning brougham was heard. Mr. and Mrs. Leigh were back

much earlier than they had expected. Happily, the lady upon whom they

went to call was not well enough to see them.

Nor was this all. Almost more happily still, they had met their doctor

in the village, and had asked him to come back with them to see Baby,

who had not been quite well for a day or two. So when the brougham

rolled up, the doctor was sitting inside.

The moment Annie heard the brougham, she rushed to the window, threw it

opened, and shrieked—"Mother! Father! May!!"—in a voice which brought

them all to the playroom, without a moment's delay.

Jack had not been quick enough to keep Annie from the window, and now

he had no choice about opening the door. He dared not disobey his

uncle's voice outside.

Then there was a rush of frightened questions; and the mother was

kneeling with her arms round little sleeping May; and Mr. Leigh

demanded of Jackie what it all meant; and the doctor said shortly, "Ha!

Chloroform!" The children were hurried out of the room—Annie crying

bitterly, Algie dismayed, Jackie still pretending to be cool. And their

last glimpse of May was of the same little pale unconscious face.

The half-hour that followed would not soon be forgotten by those three

elder children. Nobody could attend to them: but through one of the

maids they heard that May's life was in danger. For a while the doctor

feared that she might never wake out of the sleep into which Jack had

recklessly thrown her. But for the doctor's presence there and then on

the spot, so that not a moment was lost in doing everything that could

be done, she probably would "not" have recovered.

Soon the worst was over: and the tiny pulse which had all but stopped

beating grew stronger. May came slowly back to life: and though very

sick and weak she was no longer in danger.

At last Mr. Leigh made his way to the unhappy Annie and Algie and Jack.

He looked paler and more serious than Annie had ever seen him: and he

seemed only able to say—"She is better!"

Then, after a pause, as Annie and Algie clung to him he went on—

"Jack, is this your doing? Do you know that you have nearly killed my

little May?"

Jackie wanted to brave it out still, but I am glad to say he could not

succeed. He burst into a fit of sobbing, in the midst of which broken

words were heard,—"I'll never—never—again!"

It is pretty certain that Jack never "would" again do quite so wild and

foolish a deed. There was no need to talk to him much. May's narrow

escape spoke for itself, and Jack was really impressed. He had learnt

his lesson. Even in later years, when he should have grown to be a man,

he would scarcely be able to think of his experiment that day without a

shudder.

[Illustration]

Joan's Adventure.

_BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID._

————————

EVER since she was old enough to think of such things, Joan Winstone

had always wished to go abroad, and when she was ten years old she

went. Joan was the only young one in a party of six; she was full of

enterprise—her father and mother, their old friend Mrs. Oswald, and the

two maids, Nixon and Howe, seemed to her far too calm and prosaic.

They were going to Eastern Switzerland by way of Calais and Laon, and

Joan's excitement and delight at all the new sights and sounds on the

way made her feel as if she could not be really awake during the early

part of the journey; everything was so new and fresh that it seemed

as if she must be dreaming. She had begun to feel quieter when in

the evening the train made twenty minutes' stop at Tergnier, so that

travellers might dine. Joan's mother and Mrs. Oswald were, however, so

overtired, that Mr. Winstone decided to dine and sleep at Laon, and to

spend part of the next day in seeing the old city.

This arrangement disappointed Joan, she was more hungry than tired,

and when she saw the other travellers enjoying their dinner, she

mentally decided that Laon would turn out a stupid old place, not

worth upsetting their plans for. The country had been dull before they

reached Tergnier, but when they started again for Laon, Joan thought it

looked quite ugly.

All at once she sprang forward with a cry of delight.

"Father, father, look—do you see them—four big towers, square ones; I

never saw such towers; you must look there, high up." Her father looked

out of the window. "That is Laon Cathedral," he said, as the suddenly

caught glimpse of the towers was again hidden. "It is a fine old

church, Joan."

Just then the train stopped at the station; the party of travellers

got into an omnibus, which had to mount the steep ridge on which Laon

stands, so steep that the road climbs up it zigzag fashion.

Joan had read "The Little Duke," so she knew about the ancient grandeur

of Laon; and as the omnibus clattered over the stones she became

enthusiastic about the quaint houses which showed dimly in the fading

light.

When she went to bed she could not at first go to sleep. She kept on

thinking of those lofty towers, and she longed for the morning that she

might see the stone oxen which her father told her stood at the angles

of some of them. At last she fell asleep and dreamed that she was

sitting on the back of a huge brown ox at the top of one of the towers;

she shuddered and trembled as she looked down at the immense plain

below. Joan always shrank from looking down a height unless someone

held her hand; she waked up feeling sick and giddy.

"You have slept sound, Miss," said Nixon, "Your papa sent up to ask if

you would like to go to the Cathedral with him."

Joan was soon dressed, and going down to breakfast she saw how

bright the sunshine was as it streamed through the windows of the

salle-à-manger. She thought she had never tasted such nice coffee and

such delicious rolls, but she hurried over her breakfast, she was

impatient to go out with her father and the others.

Joan had always lived in London, and she had not had much change in

her ten-year-old life, but the adventurous spirit in her had gathered

strength from its very inexperience, and she longed to exercise it; she

felt so very, very happy in this brilliant sunshine, and she babbled

out her delight as she walked beside her father past the grey-green

houses, with gardens gay with flowers; sometimes through an open door

Joan got a glimpse of the green country in the distance.

They reached the Cathedral, and while her father was looking at the

grand west front, Joan had a full view of the huge stone oxen on the

towers; but she was greatly disappointed when she followed her father

into the Church to find the interior of the nave and choir given up to

workmen and to scaffolding, the Cathedral being under repair. However,

the sacristan said they could see down into the nave from the gallery

above, though the scaffolding would prevent them from seeing the choir.

Her father had bought Joan a French guide to Laon, and she sat down to

study this near the spiral staircase by which they had come up, while

her companions went along the triforium gallery.

Joan learned as she read her guide book that there was yet an upper

gallery, and that a fine view was to be had from the platform on the

roof. She shuddered at the idea of looking down from the roof, but it

seemed to her that if she went up the next flight of stairs, till she

reached the upper gallery, which would no doubt be as broad as the one

she now sate in, she should be above the scaffolding and be able to see

into the choir.

Joan never waited to reflect, it was not her way, she hurried to the

dark winding staircase, and began to climb the upper flight.

The staircase became narrower as it mounted, the steps were broken in

several places, and although it was so gloomy that she could scarcely

see, Joan felt sure it was very dirty. When she had climbed some way

the air felt less close and unpleasant, and at last she saw a gleam of

light above her.

This cheered her, for she had begun to feel timid and uneasy in the

dismal place.

"I did not think it looked nearly so far to the upper gallery," she

said to herself, "I suppose everything is so big in this Cathedral that

one cannot guess distances rightly."

It never occurred to her that she might have mounted the wrong

staircase; as she turned the next curve, a rush of air blew her hair

into her eyes and she found herself in daylight—one more flight and the

steps ended.

Joan looked out of the square opening before her, and she trembled all

over. She saw that instead of the upper gallery she had reached the

roof of the Cathedral. On one side was a mere stone platform without a

railing, and on the other there was a smooth wall.

Her first impulse was to turn back, and then she felt ashamed of her

cowardice, it would be so pitiful to confess that she had climbed

all this way and had not seen anything; she seemed, too, to be drawn

forward by some other will than her own.

The spirit of daring, which had so often led Joan into peril, once

more mastered the girl; she thought it would be grand to see what her

companions had not seen, and she stepped out boldly on the platform.

The platform itself was narrower than it had looked from the staircase,

and Joan shivered at finding herself so near the bare edge of the

flagged pavement. She kept her eyes fixed on the stone wall on her

right and went on bravely for a couple of yards, then she stopped and

looked to her left.

Joan had known before what she expected to see, and yet she felt

dizzy. She knew that she had not reached the very highest part of the

Cathedral because of the stone wall that rose up on her right, but it

seemed to her that she must be somewhere near the clouds.

Below her, very far below, were the red roofs of the old houses, so

close together that it seemed as if one could walk on their tops.

Beyond, was the far-stretching plain from which rose the ridge, on the

highest point of which Laon Cathedral stands.

Joan felt desperately giddy, and instinctively her hands went out to

the wall beside her, it reached high above her head, and the stones

were so firmly and smoothly laid that it was quite impossible to cling

to them with any hope of support. The wind was blowing strongly,

it seemed to Joan that it was blowing her towards the edge of the

platform; surely, she thought, an extra strong blast must whirl her off

her feet and send her over the edge.

And if it did, what would come after, she wondered, and she seemed to

see herself falling—falling downwards towards those tiled roofs below.

Were there tiled roofs just below?

A wild longing seized on Joan. From where she stood she could not see

all that must be visible from the edge of the platform; she could not

be sure what there was just beneath it. She felt that she must know,

she must look over the edge, and she took a step towards it, then she

took another step; her dizziness increased, she was being drawn nearer

and nearer to the edge—so much against her will that she longed to cry

out for help, while she trembled so violently from head to foot that

she felt herself sway to and fro. Yet she went on, slowly, step by

step, conscious of her danger, yet powerless to resist the fascination

that drew her on.

The deep-toned clock struck the quarter, and as the sound reached Joan

the spell that held her passive was broken. She turned with a sob,

and stretching out to the stone wall behind her she leaned her cheek

against it and began to cry.

She had awakened to the danger in which she had placed herself, but she

did not know what to do. There was no use in calling out for help; she

thought it was not likely that the platform was visited, or a railing

would have been placed along the dangerous edge. She looked towards

the door by which she had come out, and she knew that she could not

reach it without help; she dared not to venture along the space that

lay between. Joan closed her eyes, and hid her face on the hard wall;

her knees were shaking with agitation, and she was desperately giddy.

It seemed to her, in her terror, that if she ventured to move she

should infallibly be drawn once more to the terrible stone edge of the

platform.

She kept her eyes hidden against the stone wall. The sun was beating so

fiercely down on her that her head ached painfully, but she could not

move towards the cool inviting darkness within the doorway. Everything

was so still. There was not a sound to break the awful quietude.

At last Joan fancied she heard something. It sounded like a gasping

breath. She listened. No, she must have fancied it, she told herself.

And then it came again, louder, and then in plain unmistakeable words,

"Oh, my goodness! what stairs!" Joan looked up, and there framed by the

darkness of the doorway she saw the good-natured face of Mrs. Oswald's

maid, Howe.

"Come, Miss Joan," the woman said, "We've been looking everywhere for

you. This isn't a fit place for you, Miss, come, please."

"I can't," Joan said. "Dear Howe, please come and lead me along while I

shut my eyes; I—I'm afraid, Howe; I dare not move by myself."

Howe shrugged her shoulders, but she came forward and helped Joan out

of her self-made danger.

"Well, I never heard of such a fancy," the maid said to herself. But

Joan was right, and a day or so passed before she recovered from the

shock which her adventurous climb had caused her.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

True to her Charge.

_BY G. A. HENTY,_

AUTHOR OF "FACING DEATH," "THE YOUNG CARTHAGINIAN,"

"THE LION OF S. MARK," &c., &c.

————————

FOUR great waggons had just halted by the banks of what in the rainy

season was a stream, but was now only a succession of pools, with a

mere thread of running water connecting them. As soon as they came to

a standstill, men released the oxen that drew them from the ropes that

served as traces, and left them to find their way down to one of the

water-holes, and then pick what sustenance they could from the short

grass and scanty bushes. Cooking-pots were taken from the waggons; the

children, of whom there were several, started to gather sticks for

fuel, and in a short time smoke was curling up.

The waggons were the property of four families travelling West, to reap

as they hoped a rich harvest of the gold, whose discovery in California

had a short time before caused such excitement. They were strangers to

each other, but had met at Omaha, and had agreed to travel together.

As a rule the caravans across the prairie consisted of much stronger

parties, but it happened that one of these had started upon the very

morning of the day on which they reached Omaha, and rather than wait

perhaps a fortnight until another party were ready to start, the owners

of the waggons determined to push forward alone on the following day,

and to overtake the caravans that had just started.

They had been joined by five or six men at Omaha; two of these were

mounted, the rest were on foot, and all had been waiting some days

there in hopes of such a chance as now offered. The emigrants were

glad to accept their proposal to accompany them, and to carry for them

their kits and scanty stores, agreeing to provide them with flour upon

the journey, in return for which the men were to hunt, and provide

the party with meat, and to aid in the protection of the waggons if

attacked by Indians.

They had not, as they expected, overtaken the caravan; they had started

so hurriedly from Omaha—the last place where it was possible to obtain

stores of any kind—that several articles of absolute necessity had been

forgotten, and one of the emigrants, with two of the men who had joined

them, went back with a light cart belonging to the latter, and bought

the stores required. This caused two days' loss of time, and the time

so thrown away was never regained, for it would not have done to risk

breaking down the cattle by overworking them at the outset, and as the

tales of attacks by Indians were very vague, and by many believed to

be mere inventions of those who had gone on first, put about to scare

others from following them, and sharing the treasures they looked

forward to, there was little uneasiness among the travellers.

At any rate they thought that the caravan in front was sure to make

a halt somewhere, in which case they would overtake it, or they

themselves would be overtaken by the next caravan. The two mounted

men who had joined them at Omaha had been hunters on the prairies for

years. These had at first endeavoured to impress upon the emigrants

that the journey was a really dangerous, as well as toilsome one, but

the four men who owned the waggons were Eastern farmers, full of dogged

perseverance, and not easily scared.

So the journey went on for weeks. As yet the number of emigrants who

had passed was comparatively small, and the plains still abounded with

deer, the hunters therefore had no difficulty in doing their part, and

keeping the caravan well supplied with meat. There was no difficulty

in finding the way, for the wheels of preceding caravans had worn a

track across the prairie; the halting places were marked by empty tins,

and the ashes of the fires. The daily journeys varied considerably in

length, being sometimes but ten or twelve miles, while at others they

were thirty or even thirty-five, as the camping-places were decided by

the presence of water.

Of the occupants of the waggons Winnie Price, a niece of one of the

emigrants, was the favourite with the men who accompanied them. She

was a quiet girl of thirteen years old, who helped her weakly and

complaining aunt, looked after the children, cooked the food, and bore

silently the grumbling and scolding of her surly and ill-tempered uncle.

"I should like nothing better than to give that fellow the best

thrashing he ever had," one of the hunters said to his comrade, as

they sat together round the fire. "He seems to consider, because he

gave house-room to Winnie when her father and mother died, he has a

right to make a slave of her. That girl gets through as much work as

any two women in the outfit. She cooks for the waggon, does all the

washing and mending, looks after the brats, and yet is always cheerful

and good-tempered, and ready in her spare moments to do a good turn

to anyone. Yesterday, when I had split my hunting shirt up, she said

in the evening, 'Josh, if you will give that shirt to me, I will mend

it for you,' and this morning when I turned out as soon as it was

daylight, there she was sitting on the ground outside the waggon at

work at it, having stolen out to get an hour to herself before the

others roused up. That girl's a daisy, she is, and if I had a chance of

doing her a good turn would, you bet. When I hear that uncle of hers

going on at her, it is as much as I can do not to go for him, but I

know it would do her harm if I interfered."

At the stations where the ponies were kept for what were called express

riders, who carried the post across the plains, the party heard tales

of Indian attacks, and they were several times warned that it was

better to wait for a few days until another caravan came along. But

the thirst of gold was too overpowering in the minds of the emigrants

for the advice to be taken. Each day's delay meant to them the loss of

so much gold, and added to the chances of the best places being taken

up by the emigrants proceeding to California by the sea route. They

had fourteen rifles, for there were several young men and big boys

belonging to the families in the waggons, and they flattered themselves

that they could beat off any attack that might be made upon them.

At night the waggons were packed together with two men always on

guard, so the emigrants thought themselves safe from surprise. The two

hunters by no means shared in the feeling of security, but they were

both very well mounted, and although perfectly ready to take their

share in fighting if there was a chance of successful resistance, had

determined that they would not throw away their lives if attacked

by an overwhelming force. The last thing at night, therefore, they

always brought in their horses and picketed them close to the waggons,

sleeping outside in order, as they said, to escape the crying of

children and the hubbub of talk among the emigrant families.

One morning, as soon as the camp was in motion, Winnie Price had gone

down with the youngest of her charges, Bobby, a boy of three, to the

pool, fifty yards from where the waggons were gathered, to give him

his morning's wash. She had just finished, had dressed Bobby, and was

herself washing, when she heard a terrible yell, and saw a band of wild

horsemen sweeping down upon the caravan. She saw at once that she could

not get back in time, and snatching up Bobby, and stooping so as to be

concealed by the bank of the stream, she ran along till she reached a

large clump of bushes, into which she dived.

A tremendous din was going on; rifles were cracking, men shouting,

women screaming, and Indians yelling. It lasted but a few minutes,

and then everything became quiet save the triumphant yells of the

Indians. Winnie felt sure that the attack had succeeded, and that the

whites had been murdered, for had not that been the case the firing

would have continued. Holding the frightened child closely to her, and

silencing him by telling him that if he cried, or made a noise, the

Indians would find him, she sat there for hours. Once she thought she

heard Indians talking at the pool above, but, with that exception, all

was quiet. Bobby passed the greater part of the time in sleep, and

in the afternoon, laying him down, she crawled cautiously until she

neared the edge of the bushes, and then looked out through the leafy

screen towards the waggons. She made out a number of dark figures on

horseback, and as she watched them saw them a few minutes later gather

and ride off in a body, driving before them the bullocks of the waggons.

Half-an-hour later she ventured to stand up and peer out between the

leaves. There was no sign of life or movement about the waggons;

numbers of figures lay stretched about around them, but the Indians

had all left. Some, however, might still be in the neighbourhood,

and returning to Bobby, she waited until the sun set. Bobby was wide

awake now, and clamorous for food; had she been alone, Winnie would

have suffered anything rather than go up to that terrible scene of

slaughter, but she felt that for Bobby's sake it was absolutely

necessary to try to obtain something to eat.

"Now Bobby," she said, "you sit here at the edge of the bushes; I will

go up and try and get you something to eat; but you must be very good

and quiet until I come back, because there are wicked Indians about,

and they might hurt you if you were to go there."

It needed very strong persuasion to induce Bobby to remain alone, but

at last he agreed to do so on her promising to run all the way there

and back.

It was a terrible scene for a young girl; round the waggons the bodies

of men, women, and children lay scattered thickly, all gashed with

tomahawks, and scalped. Several Indians, too, had fallen, though Winnie

did not know it, for their bodies had been buried by their friends.

Shutting her eyes as much as possible to avoid the sight, Winnie

moved straight through up to the waggons. The contents lay about in

confusion; everything of the slightest value to the Indians had been

taken—flour sacks had been opened, and the contents carried off done up

in smaller packets to be carried on the horses behind the Indians.

Articles of wearing apparel lay scattered about, and cases of preserved

meat forced open; but their contents left as worthless. Winnie gave an

exclamation of satisfaction as she saw a tin of biscuits laying among

the wreck. She took this and two empty bottles, and with them hurried

back towards the bushes. She met Bobby coming to meet her.

"All right, Bobby, here are some nice biscuits," she said, and taking

him to the pool they sat down and made a meal. Then she emptied the

contents of the box into her apron and tied it up in front of her so as

to leave her hands free; then she filled the bottles with water, and

tearing a strip off the bottom of her dress, tied one end to each of

their necks and slung-them in front of her.

"Now Bobby," she said, "we must walk."

"Where is dada and mammy," the child said, "me want dem."

"They cannot come now, dear, you must come with me;" but Bobby rebelled

and began to howl. "Bobby," Winnie said, "you don't want the wicked

Indians to catch you, do you? If you make a noise they are sure to

come. We must keep very quiet and walk a long way to get away from

them."

Bobby was again frightened into quiet, and taking Winnie's hand started

off. She had made up her mind to retrace her steps. It had been a

long march on the previous day, but she felt that there was far more

chance of meeting a caravan behind them, than of overtaking that in

front. Winnie walked until it became quite dark. Bobby was cross and

fractious, and in a very short time she had to carry him on her back.

It at last became too dark for her to follow the track further, and she

lay down with the child to wait until the moon rose, which it would do,

she knew, about midnight.

She was unable to sleep, and as soon as the moon was up she got the

sleeping child on to her back, lifted her dress up, and drew it tightly

round him so as to keep him in that position, and then journeyed on

until day began to break, when she took shelter in some low bushes.

From time to time she looked out, and presently saw a party of Indians

riding along a crest, looking down into the cleft along which the track

run. After this she abandoned all idea of making her way forward by

daylight, and passed the time, until it became dark, in telling stories

to Bobby, and in sleeping whenever he did so. When it became dark

she again set out, keeping the track as well as she was able, Bobby

sometimes walking by her side, sometimes sleeping on her back.

After three hours' walking she came to a rise where the wheels had no

longer sunk in the ground, and was obliged to wait until the moon rose

again; but even with this assistance she found it very difficult to

follow the track. As before, she lay hid during the day. She had, she

knew, thirty-five miles in all to travel, and her progress had been

very slow from the necessity of stopping continually to kneel down and

examine the grass. The next night, in spite of her care, she missed the

track. She knew that her safest plan would be to wait until morning,

when she would be able to find it without difficulty, but the supply

of water was already running very low, although she had stinted Bobby

to the utmost, and had contented herself with merely moistening her

own lips. She knew by the stars that she had each night seen before

her the direction she should take, and guiding herself by them pressed

steadily on. Fortunately one of the hunters had one evening pointed out

the North Star to her, and had told her how to find it by following the

line of the pointers wherever they might be, and keeping this steadily

over her left shoulder, she walked on.

Two days later a large caravan arrived at the Express Station. They

found there, in addition to the two men in charge, two hunters—the one

a man of forty, the other a young fellow of two or three and twenty,

who told them that they were the sole survivors of the train that had

preceded them.

"We were a small party," the elder of the two said—"four waggons, with

fifteen guns in all. The men of the teams were obstinate fellows, who

did not believe in Indians, and did not take any precautions. Just

as we were coupling up the bullocks to make our start for the next

station, a party of about a hundred Indians came down on us. There were

two men out on guard, but they gave us no warning. I expect some of the

Indians must have crept up and tomahawked them; the band were not a

hundred yards away when we saw them. Josh and I had our horses handy,

and jumped into our saddles. We saw that it was all over at once, but

we stopped for a minute or two, but it were no use—half the men were

cut down before they had time to get their rifles out of the waggons,

and Josh and I, seeing as we should only throw our lives away without

doing no good, rode for it. It was not in Indian nature to chase two

men, and they well mounted, far, when there were scalps and booty to be

had; so although five or six did set out after us they gave it up as

soon as they found our ponies was as good as theirs. So we rode on here

to wait until you came up."

"And you think they are all killed?" the leader of the caravan asked.

"Sure of it," the hunter said. "They came down so suddenly; there was

no time for anyone to bolt."

As the caravan contained twenty waggons, and could muster sixty rifles,

it considered itself strong enough to beat off any party of Indians

they might meet. Its leader, too, was an experienced scout, and

everything was arranged both on the march and in camp in readiness for

resistance. Five or six mounted men rode a mile out on each flank, and

many of the younger men wished for nothing better than that the Indians

should attack them, and that they should have an opportunity for taking

revenge for the massacre they had heard of.

The next morning the caravan pursued its journey, the two hunters

accompanying it. They took their place with the scouting party to the

left of the line of the march. They had ridden two hours, when Josh,

the younger hunter, reined in his horse suddenly.

"Look there," he said, pointing to a rise in the distance, "what is

that?"

A figure was seen passing along over a crest. The hunters looked at it

with astonishment.

"It's a woman," Josh exclaimed, "she seems to have something on her

back, she is a white sure enough by her dress. Come on, lads!"

They galloped forward; twice, as they approached, they saw the figure

fall, and then rise to her feet again, and stagger forward. She did

not seem to perceive them, but went blindly on. When they were within

a hundred yards of her, Josh exclaimed, "By gosh, Bill, it's Winnie.

Thank Heaven she was not wiped out. Winnie!" he shouted, at the top of

his voice; but she still kept on, apparently without hearing. The men

reined in their horses to a walk. They were old hands on the prairies,

and knew what it meant; the girl had lost her way, and her senses had

gone. The two hunters, who knew her, dismounted and walked up to her.

Her eyes were dull and glazed, her lips black and swollen, she tottered

rather than walked. One hand grasped the skirt of her dress, which was

wrapped round her shoulders, and above which a little head drooped

backwards.

"Winnie," Josh said in a low tone. The girl looked towards them. Her

lips moved, but no sound came from them. Then she reeled, and would

have fallen had not the men caught her. The others now came up. Some

water was poured upon her lips, and a few drops made their way down

her throat. Then similar attention was given to the child. He was also

insensible, but came round before long, for his sufferings had been

less severe than hers, for while for three days she had been altogether

without water, the last drops in the bottle had been used for soaking

his biscuit, and it was only on the previous day that the supply had

altogether given out.

Josh lifted her in his arms, and mounting his horse rode off at full

speed to the caravan, while Bill carried the child before him. For

weeks, while the caravan made its way across the plains, Winnie lay

in one of the waggons between life and death. She was tenderly cared

for by the women, and at last the fever abated; but it was not until

the train began to descend the slopes of the Sierra Nevada that she

was able to walk by the side of the waggons with Bobby, long before

restored to perfect health. When they descended into the plains of

California Winnie and Bobby were adopted by a childless couple, who

were wise enough to settle on a small farm, instead of going to the

diggings.

Five years later she had a home of her own, for the young hunter did

well at the gold mines, and as soon as he had earned enough to purchase

a farm, settled down, and when she became old enough asked her to share

it with him.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Christmas Eve with Bruin.

_BY FRANCES CLARE,_

AUTHOR OF "A CHILD'S PILGRIMAGE," "A STORE OF STORIES," &c.

————————

IT was Christmas Eve, long, long ago, and the good folks of Nancy were

fast asleep in their beds, dreaming doubtless of the coming festival of

the morrow. And very peaceful was the sleep of the citizens of this old

French town, for they knew that the gates of their city were closed,

and that it was securely guarded against the foe.

But outside the fast-shut portals stood one who could not sleep,

although he was very weary, and hungry, and footsore, for he had no

place wherein to rest.

This sleepless one was a little lad, an Italian musician, with a

wistful face, and dark, earnest eyes—eyes which were full of tears,

as well indeed they might be, for Carlo Caffarelli had hoped to reach

Nancy before its gates were shut.

He had hoped to earn a Christmas cake, and a night's lodging, by his

skilful lute-playing and his sweet singing.

But alas, he had arrived too late.

And as he looked wistfully up to the starry sky, he exclaimed, "Oh, I

wish that I could spend to-morrow in Heaven, with father, mother, and

darling Domenica. Oh, how I wish that last Christmas Eve could come

again!"

Ah, no wonder the little wanderer thought sorrowfully of that Christmas

Eve, for then he had come down from the mountains with his father,

Sebastian, the shepherd, and they twain had played sweet, simple

music in the classic streets of Rome; then he had bought for his

little sister, his pretty, dear Domenica, a picture of the Manger of

Bethlehem. Now, father, mother, and little sister slept side by side

in a cypress-shaded graveyard, for the ruthless fever had wrecked his

home, not sparing even one of his loved ones.

Therefore it was that he stood, a wanderer and an exile, houseless and

homeless, in a foreign land, on the blessed Christmas Eve.

All at once he recalled the last words of his dying mother.

"Carlo," she had said, "my own little Carlo, you are poor, and you

will be very lonely; dangers and difficulties will surround you, but

never forget, my beloved, never forget that God is the Helper of the

helpless."

Comforted by the remembrance of these words, Carlo knelt down on the

frosty ground, and prayed that His Heavenly Father would help him, or

take him to those loved ones for whom he grieved.

But there came no immediate response to his petition; all was outwardly

the same after he had prayed as it had been before. The starry heavens

did not open, no burning, fiery chariot appeared as it did to the

Prophet in days of old to bear him upward, and yet the lonely lad's

prayer was both heard and answered.

Before kneeling down to pray, Carlo placed his beloved lute at some

little distance from him on the ground, and when he rose from his

knees, and went to take up his lute again, he perceived the mouth of a

large hole or pit, which was surrounded by a low wooden palisading.

The wind had risen, and poor, thinly-clad Carlo, who was very cold,

thought that it would be warmer down in the pit than it was on the

surface of the earth; so he slung his lute round his neck, climbed over

the railing, and slid gently down into the pit.

The first thing he did on reaching the bottom was to look around him,

in order to see in what kind of lodgings he was going to pass the

remainder of his Christmas Eve; and, by the faint, silvery light of

the moon, he saw a large straw-covered den, or hole, at the far end

of which lay some kind of animal—a big dog, seemingly, for it was

rough-looking, and curled up into the semblance of a huge ball.

"What is that, I wonder?" said Carlo to himself. "It looks like a big

dog. Can I have fallen into a dog kennel? What strange folks these

citizens of Nancy must be! In Italy we do not shut our dogs out, we

keep them inside to guard our homes, but they seem to keep theirs

outside. I suppose they think the dogs will keep strangers away; they

haven't kept me away, though. I wonder if it's safe to stay here. I

hope the creature isn't savage."

But it was warm and sheltered there, in the straw, and poor Carlo's

limbs were so tired, and his eyeballs ached so for want of rest, that

his heavy eyelids drooped over his weary eyes, and he curled himself up

in a corner and slept.

And lo, in his dreams, all his household treasures were restored to

him. He was at home in his mountain village once again. The clear wood

fire was burning on the hearth; his mother was baking cakes, his father

was telling him beautiful tales, his little sister was playing with her

dog—"this" was Carlo's happy Christmastide dream.

And in his sleep the little wanderer smiled.

But the happiest dreams must come to an end, as well as the happiest

days, and after a time Carlo awoke.

And he saw that the big dog was also awake, for it had come from its

corner and was sitting up not far from Carlo.

"Poor old fellow!" said the boy, holding out his hand. But the animal

did not in any way respond, nor did it growl, as a savage dog might

have done. Carlo peered through the dim light, and wondered more and

more what it could be. Presently, it reared itself on its hind legs and

looked at Carlo. And, as it did so, the little musician saw that the

strange animal was "a bear!" Yes, actually a brown bear, with a shaggy

coat and small, deep-set, blinking eyes.

"O dear!" he cried. "What shall I do? Pray, pray, come and help me!"

But nobody came, for nobody heard his cries.

The citizens of Nancy were fast asleep in their warm, soft beds; they

were not thinking of the bear pit, which their town, in common with

many others in the middle ages, kept outside its gates, and Carlo was

left alone with Bruin.

Alone with Bruin! and the Pifferari were playing in the streets of

Rome, as the child and his father once had played in the days which

were no more.

[Illustration]

Alone with Bruin! and in the Eternal City many a lad was singing

Pastorals as Carlo once had sung them, with a clear, unfaltering,

lark-like voice.

Alone with Bruin! and great fear took possession of the poor boy's

mind, for the bear began to approach him—cunningly and stealthily;

surely, though slowly.

In an agony of terror he began to move backward step by step, until he

stood close against the wall of the well-like pit, and there was no

more space in which to stir.

But with a great effort he fastened his gaze steadily on Bruin, who, in

his turn, kept his evil-looking little eyes fixed on Carlo, as if to

say, "You won't run away from me, my lad. I am Ursus, the public bear

of Nancy, and I can hug, as well as climb poles, and one, only one of

'my' hugs means—death."

Great drops of perspiration stood on Carlo's brow, and as he pressed

himself against the grey stone wall he felt with his feet for a piece

of bread, or a bone, or something with which he might mollify his foe,

or, at least, gain some respite from the death which seemed to await

him.

And while he was doing this, Bruin gave a low, deep-chested growl,

which made the little musician start as the thunder of cannon could not

have done.

For to him that growl said "Die," and his trembling arms hung helpless

by his side, and his head drooped forward on his breast.

For although a brave heart beat within that young bosom, the boy could

not endure the sight of the animal coming towards him, its fore-paws

extended in order to draw him into its embrace—that terrible embrace

from which he could never hope to be set free except by death.

But as, in his despair, he closed his eyes, he thought once more of his

mother's words, "God arms the helpless," and as he murmured a prayer

there suddenly flashed across his mind the recollection of having seen

a performing bear dance clumsily to the sound of a rough instrument

played by its master. His lute! It had often purchased him a meal and

a night's lodging—would it help him now? Once mare hope sprang up in

his heart, and taking the lute in his trembling fingers, he played, in

the darkness of that gloomy place, more sweetly than he had ever done

in the fresh air and the bright sunlight, for his whole soul was in his

music.

Bruin's angry growls ceased, and he gazed with astonishment on the

unwelcome intruder who was producing these strange sounds. Presently,

he came forward again, and once more Carlo's heart beat loud and fast,

but at that moment he espied a large piece of cake close to his foot.

He took it up and threw it to the farthest end of the den. The bear

stopped, looked after the cake, then at Carlo, who had begun to play

again; then Bruin ambled to the other side of the den and sniffed at

the cake, but did not eat it, and then, to Carlo's unspeakable delight,

it curled itself round and seemed to go to sleep again. Now, the truth

was that Mr. Bruin had had a very hearty meal that day, and had been,

besides, so plentifully supplied with cakes, and bread, and honey

by the holiday-makers, that, I think, he really felt too lazy to do

any harm to the poor lad who had so unwittingly come to disturb his

slumbers.

Though safe for the moment, Carlo felt that all danger was not yet

over, but that he must watch unceasingly until morning.

Just think for a moment what a weary watch was that of the boy

musician. Think how he watched for the stars to disappear, think how he

welcomed the daylight—he to whom it had always before come too soon.

And now how long it seemed in coming!

But when he looked upwards, and saw that at last it was light, he found

that weakness and terror had made his voice almost inaudible, for

although he cried "Help! help! good people, help!" as loud as he could,

his voice sounded low and feeble even to himself, and no one heard him,

no one came.

So once more he took up his lute and played, hoping that its melody

might reach farther than his voice could do. And as it happened, the

Captain of the Guard, who was strolling round the top of the bear pit,

heard the sound, and stopped in amazement to listen.

"This is strange," he muttered to himself. "I have heard of many

prodigies, but never of a musical bear." And as he spoke, the officer

leant over the low palisading, and bent his head downwards to listen.

And all at once the music ceased, and a plaintive cry for aid arose,

and the Captain leant still farther forward and peered down into the

den.

And lo! at the bottom he saw Bruin, and cowering in a corner was a form

which seemed to be that of a little lad.

Then he hasted away, and summoned some of the guard.

"Hasten, Guilbert and Rauf," he cried. "Hasten, my men; a child, if I

mistake not, is down in yonder bear pit, and we must try to bring him

up alive."

So the good-natured soldiers hurried, and in a very short time Carlo

was drawn by means of ropes up from the pit, and the good people of

Nancy came in crowds to see the boy who had lodged on Christmas Eve

with Ursus, the public bear, and whom Ursus, strange to say, had not

hurt in any way.

And Carlo had a beautiful Christmas Day after all, for the worthy

Messire Desmoulins the Mayor of Nancy, took him into his house, and

made much of him.

And the little exile felt no longer a wanderer and a stranger when

he sat in the Mayor's parlour, by the great stone hearth, on which

an immense "Souche de Nöel," or Yuletide log, blazed cheerily, and

he played sweet melodies on his lute, and ate rich sugared dainties

which Marie Desmoulins, the Mayor's bright-faced little daughter, gave

him. And, later on, when Christmas Day was over, when Carlo rested his

wearied limbs once more on a bed, a soft, white bed, he thought of

his midnight watch with Bruin, and also of the kindness which these

citizens of Nancy had shown him, and felt far happier than he had ever

expected to be.

There is little more to tell of Carlo.

Only this.

When the King heard of Carlo's marvellous escape, he sent for him to

his Court, and the little musician pleased him greatly, and became one

of the royal choristers.

But his good fortune did not stop here. As years passed on he advanced

more and more in life, and when he grew to be a man, and became

Choirmaster, he married pretty Marie, the daughter of the kind Mayor of

Nancy, and he never forgot Him to whom he prayed, and who helped him in

his extremity.

And in time to come he had children of his own—little boys and girls,

who never wearied, on wintry nights or summer afternoons, of hearing

how their father had spent Christmas Eve with Bruin.

[Illustration]

Pea Blossom.

_BY ALICE CORKRAN,_

AUTHOR OF "DOWN THE SNOW STAIRS," "MRS. WISHING TO BE,"

"MARGERY MERTON'S GIRLHOOD," "MEG'S FRIEND," &c.

————————

CHAPTER I.

A PARTY of little boys and girls sat in a box watching the wonderful

fairy play.

It spread before them a blaze of light, and colour, and movement.

It was fairyland come true. Diamonds and rubies and emeralds of

supernatural size shone on the trees; fairies and elves tripped in and

out. They all came out of one enormous blossom, that opened wide its

petals, at the back of the stage.

The children laughed till their sides shook; they leant so far out of

the box that it was a wonder they did not topple down on the heads of

the people in the stalls below.

After a while, one of the boys grew serious. He let the others laugh,

but he remained grave. He was absorbed in watching one of the fairies.

She was so exquisitely beautiful, this tiny creature, with golden hair

all standing out, and a star shining on her forehead; a dress like a

great blue-bell, and wings on her shoulders, that he could not speak or

laugh for wonder at her loveliness.

He watched her dancing down the middle of the stage on tip-toe. She

waved her silver wand above her head; her dress shone as if frosted

with moonbeams.

How sweet and fragile she looked! From whence did she come? Her home

must be some place beautiful beyond all telling. She was called "Pea

Blossom" on the play bill, and she was one of the attendant fairies

of Titania. The King of the fairies, Oberon, was evidently very angry

with the Queen. He was a sturdy fairy, all dressed in gold, with a gold

crown on his head. The other children laughed as he danced up and down

in a rage, but Willy (this was the little boy's name) grew graver and

graver. He did not laugh when Puck appeared with pointed ears and a

grinning muzzle.

He lost all interest in the play when Pea Blossom was not there; but he

remained rapt when again he saw her once more near Titania, lying on a

green bank in the moonlight. Willy thought it was impossible for any

mortal being to be so lovely as Pea Blossom.

He grew graver when there appeared a queer creature with the head of an

ass, and the legs of a man, and Titania, waking from sleep, began to

stroke him, and to say all sorts of pretty things to him in her coaxing

voice.

She caressed his long ears, and vowed they were so pretty. She ordered

Pea Blossom to scratch his head! The little fairy fed him with

thistles. Willy grew angry. How could this delicate fairy fondle this

monster? The ass looked melancholy and sentimental; his ears drooped,

and he said, "Hee—haw!"

The other children roared with laughter when Titania enjoyed the

sweetness of that note, "Hee—haw," and asked for it again!

Then the beautiful dream, which was the play, grew brighter and

brighter as Oberon and Titania made it up. The moon rose in the sky,

and the little Queen held out her two hands to Oberon, and he took

them; and the fairies in the King's suite held out theirs to the

Queen's fairies, and together they all danced in couples up and down

and round and round the greenwood. Among the wild roses, and the tall

moon daisies, the king-cups and the bluebells, they danced to a swift,

sweet melody. The King, with the tunic of gold, the Queen, with the

star on her forehead; Pea Blossom, with her dress like a blue-bell, and

an elf in yellow. On and on, in the moonlight, down the glen, until

they vanished in the mist beyond, and the great curtain dropped, and

all was over.

Then Willy started up. "Oh dear! had it all been a dream?"

In the carriage, as they drove home through the dark streets, the

children discussed the play.

"And what did you care for most, my boy?" said Willy's father. It was

Willy's father who had taken him and his little cousins to the theatre.

"The little fairy called Pea Blossom," answered Willy, softly.

"She is a pretty little thing," said his father.

"And what a lovely dress—all blue and silver—and such sweet wings. Did

you see the peacock's eyes on them?" said Mabel, who was proud of her

keen sight.

"She was more beautiful than anything I ever saw," said Willy with a

sigh of delighted remembrance.

"I liked Bully Bottom best," said George, swinging his legs about in

his excitement, "he looked so awfully ridiculous. It was so jolly when

he said, 'Hee—haw!'"

Then there was a chorus of "Hee—haw! hee—haw!" in which all the

children except Willy joined.

"I liked it all, every bit," began Mabel again. "I should like to go

and see it every night; but the jolliest of all was to see Oberon

dancing in a rage, and ordering Puck about."

"Willy cares for Pea Blossom only," said his father.

"I did not care for anything but Pea Blossom," agreed Willy. "I wonder

where she is gone to now?"

"Oh! ha! ha!" said his father, "perhaps she is flying among beautiful

apple trees all in blossom; or perhaps she has crept under a

toad-stool, and is lying fast asleep there now."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]