CHAPTER IV.

WILLY always walked home from school alone. The school was round the

corner of the square, and he would have felt it below his dignity to be

fetched.

He had been inattentive at lessons all day; he could not get the

thought of that grieving child out of his head.

His father had not returned, as he often did, at lunchtime. Was the

baby better? Was it worse? Had the angel of Death taken it away from

its sister-mother?

He answered his teacher in such an anyhow manner that the kind lady

shook her head and said the fog had got into his brain, and that his

geography and history and Latin grammar had lost their way there, and

were knocking against each other.

When afternoon class was over, instead of returning home straight he

looked about him.

It was a most uncomfortable afternoon. It was misty above and muddy

below, the snow had begun to melt and the sky was murky.

Willy looked up to the yellow sky once, and down on the ground, and

then he set off running. He made a dash to the right, and then he ran

on until he came to a turning on the left. He kept on running until

he came to a shabby street which lay at the back of the handsome

thoroughfares. The street had a depressed yet genteel air; it seemed

an apologetic street, as if it were a humble relation of the very rich

neighbouring streets.

This was the street where Janie lived. He knew the number of the

house—No. 14. It was more slippery here. There was very little light,

except where there was a great stream of brilliant gas, which issued

from a public-house. Groups were standing about—rough groups of men and

women; laughter and loud talk streamed through the door.

Willy hurried on faster, but the ground was so slippery that suddenly

he fell. There was a roar of hoarse laughter. Willy picked himself up;

he did not look to the right or left; he went on once more.

Where was No. 14? It was like trying to find a house in a nightmare;

every number seemed to be there except No. 14. The tall houses with

their dingy windows seemed to be mocking him.

It was growing colder and darker and more slippery. The street seemed

never to come to an end. He thought he would turn back, and yet

something in his heart seemed to urge him to go on to little Janie.

All at once it stood before him, with a gas-light shining inside and

throwing the number out distinctly—No. 14.

He stood on tip-toe and knocked, and the door was opened by a very fat

woman. Willy thought she was the fattest woman he had ever seen. She

had three double chins.

"Dear, dear! I thought you were the doctor," she said, in a melancholy

gurgle.

"I am the doctor's son," replied Willy, with an air that implied it was

the next best thing.

Then a fat man, who was, if possible, fatter than the fat woman, came

out and looked at Willy.

"I want to know how the baby is," said Willy feeling shy.

"Bless him!" said the fat woman, sighing.

"Bless him!" said the fat man.

Willy looked from one to the other. They did not say how the baby was,

but repeated "Bless him!" and sighed.

"I'll take the little gentleman up," said the fat woman dolefully.

"No; I'll take him," said the fat man. "She is too fat to go up

easily," he added, with a twinkle in his small eyes.

He led the way; he seemed to grunt at every step.

Up, up they went. The higher they went the shabbier grew the stairs,

the dingier the walls; and what with the yellow sky outside, and the

dismal look of the house, and the melancholy panting of his guide,

Willy's heart grew heavier and heavier.

At last the fat man stopped before a door and knocked. Willy's heart

felt like lead. What grief was he about to behold?

His first impression was of a brightly-burning fire, of a familiar

little figure stirring something in a saucepan. It looked round as he

entered, dropped the spoon, and ran to meet him, forefinger pressed on

lips. It was Janie. She was pale and heavy-eyed, but the despair was

gone from her face.

"Baby is better; come and see," she whispered, taking Willy's hand and

leading him to the cot's side. The baby looked pale, but was sleeping

peacefully.

"Don't she look fine?" whispered Janie softly, drawing the blanket

closer about the baby.

A thin old man, with long, straight, white hair, was sitting in the

shadow on the other side of the bed. "Yes, yes, she is going to be well

again. The little mother has nursed her back to life. She will soon be

as merry again as a fiddle playing at a pantomime," he said in a gay

whisper.

"That's Uncle Sam, I let him sing baby to sleep," said Janie, flitting

back to her saucepan.

The old man nodded to Willy, "Sit down, sir, sit down; you're kindly

welcome."

"He is the little boy of the doctor who is making baby well," whispered

Janie, who had flitted back to the bedside, and was giving a pat to

baby's pillow.

"Father's so clever! He makes everybody well whom he attends," said

Willy, proudly.

"Begging your pardon, sir, the little mother there had something to

do with it, too. Why, she makes a poultice as soon as look at it, and

gruel that's as pleasant as a tune to take. She nurses us all," said

the old man.

"No; it's the doctor made her well," said Janie.

"Little mother helped, bless her!" said the fat man, in a voice soft,

suetty, and slow.

If a plum pudding could speak, it would have just such a voice.

"Why, when I go to the theatre," he continued, "and see her a-dancing

and pirouetting on tip-toe, I split my sides laughing, thinking that's

the little mother. At night there's a fairy for ye, and in the day

ye see her a-boiling, and cooking, and nursing, and ye say there's a

grannie for ye, and she's Janie all the time—little Janie Sprigs."

"Hush!" said Janie, for the baby had begun to move.

"That's true, every word of it," said the old man, rubbing his hands,

and, forgetting to whisper, speaking in a shrill voice. "It is Janie

and the doctor together!" He gave a thump to the pillow. "They're like

the bow and the fiddle making music together—they're making baby well."

He gave another thump, and the baby, waking, began to cry.

"Go away, Uncle Sam," cried Janie, coming up with outstretched arms.

"Ye've no thought but of your fiddle. You forget baby is not a

senseless thing."

She took up the wailing child in her arms, and began walking up and

down, soothing and hushing its cries.

With its wraps and its shawls, and its large head bobbing against

Janie's shoulder, the baby looked as large as did its tender nurse.

Willy watched the motherly little figure, and noted how worn and white

was Janie's face, and something like a feeling of reverence stole into

his heart for that poorly-clad girl.

"That's the way she has been all night, a-walking up and down, never

resting; never a wink of sleep did she take, and to think she's a-going

to dance at the theatre to-night," said Uncle Sam.

"Dance!" cried Willy, aghast.

"I am a-going to-night," cried Janie, stopping straight in front of

Willy, rocking softly backwards and forwards to keep the baby still.

"Everything must be paid for, and I'm a-going to dance, to pay for

things. If baby had died I'd never have danced no more—never." She gave

a little hug closer to the child in her arms. "But now, as she's going

to live, I'll dance—dance till—" her voice choked.

"Till baby is danced into health, and baby is danced into education and

grows tall and hearty. God bless the little mother!" said the doctor,

who suddenly came into the room.

"Yea, God bless her!" said the thin old man and the fat landlord.

"I could not help coming," said Willy, as he caught his father's

astonished glance. "I wanted to know how the baby was."

"You may hold her!" said Janie; and before he knew where he was the

big-headed baby was in his arms.

"Oh!" said Willy, in a great fright lest he should drop it.

Janie snatched it back in a moment. "Why you are as awkward as Uncle

Sam," she cried with a laugh.

And now the fat landlady came panting into the room, saying it was time

to get ready for the play.

Then all was fuss and bustle. Baby was put into Fatty's arms, and Janie

gave all sorts of directions as she put on her cloak and hat in a hurry.

"You'll come and see me dance?" she said to Willy.

"I would rather come here," he replied.

"He would rather see the little mother than the fairy Pea Blossom,"

said the doctor.

"That is true," exclaimed Willy.

"Good-bye," said Janie, taking Willy's hand—suddenly she stooped and

kissed it—"I like you because you care for the baby," she said, and was

off.

[Illustration]

How the Starling Caught Cold.

A GARDEN LEGEND.

_BY GEO. MANVILLE FENN,_

AUTHOR OF "DICK O' THE FENS," "IN THE KING'S NAME,"

"NAT THE NATURALIST," &c., &c.

————————

"HALLO!"

"Spuzz!"

"Eh?"

"Spitz, spuzz."

It was a marigold with an orange frill about her neck that said

"Hallo!" and it was a queer looking, zigzag, blunt headed creature,

with his perambulators doubled under him making him look like an insect

engine, that emitted the harsh sounds as soon as he had alighted on one

of the leaves of the marigold.

Then there was a pause till the soft breeze stole through the garden,

when the Canterbury bell gave forth a gentle tinkle that nobody could

hear, the sunflower bowed his head and scratched one petal against a

garden nail in the old brick wall, and a bird away in the meadow cried,

"Cuckoo."

"Spuzz, spuzz, spitz, spuzz!" came from the little creature on the

marigold's leaf, as if it had touched a spring and set its works in

motion.

"Well," cried the marigold, "of all the crinketty cranketty creatures

that ever came for a walk on me, you are about the queerest. What are

you! A green wasp walking on stilts?"

"Spuzz, spitz, spuzz!"

"I say, what are you a doing of?" cried the marigold, who was a very

vulgar flower.

"Spuzz, spuzz!"

"Well, don't spuzz again," cried the marigold. "Why I do declare you've

got saws on your legs. What yer doing of? Trying to saw off your wings?"

"Spuzz, spuzz!"

"Here, what's your name?"

"Spitz, spuzz!"

"Then I hope you're proud of it. Is it a Christian name or a surname?"

There was a curiously rapid mechanical motion of the angular legs, and

a repetition of the sound like a tooth-pick being rubbed along the edge

a small comb.

"I don't know what you say," shouted the marigold.

"Spuzz, spuzz, spuzz!"

"He's a foreigner," said the marigold to herself. "Shouldn't wonder if

he's one of the queer things that come over in boxes with the bulbs."

Then aloud, "Are you from foreign abroad?"

"Tchah, tchizz! Nonsense: I am as English as you are!"

"Then why didn't you say so sooner?"

"You didn't say I was a foreigner sooner."

"Then why do you keep on saying, 'spuzz, spuzz,' every time one speaks?"

"I don't know," said the little stranger, "spuzz, spuzz!"

"That's it! why do you keep on saying that?"

"I don't. Spuzz, spuzz!"

"O my! You wicked thing," cried the marigold, "why you said it then."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did; I heard you."

"Stuff! people don't talk with their legs, do they?"

"Well, no," said the marigold. "I don't think they do. But," she added,

triumphantly, "they talk with their hands. I've seen the gardener's

deaf and dumb boy."

"But this isn't talking; I always go like that."

"Why?"

"Because it is my nature to. See here."

As he spoke he set his legs in motion, and made the peculiarly sharp

sound again.

"Oh, I say, don't!" cried the marigold. "It tickles."

"Eh?"

"It makes me feel all creepy. What's the good of doing it?"

"I don't know," said the little fellow, "but I always do."

"Humph!" said the marigold, waving a leaf thoughtfully, "you are a

rum-looking fellow. Why you've got your legs all dibbly-double under

your body. Don't it hurt?"

"Not a bit. They're spring-heeled-jack legs. I can jump like a kangaroo

with them. Didn't you see me jump on to your leaf?"

"No: you flew on."

"That I didn't."

"Of course you didn't," said the marigold thoughtfully. "You haven't

any wings."

"That I have; beauties!"

"Where are they, then?" said the marigold. "At home?"

"No; folded up neatly in their cases. Spuzz, spuzz!"

"I say, don't do that!" cried the marigold angrily. "It isn't nice."

"Isn't it? Spuzz, spuzz!"

"Don't—do—that; it's rude. You don't see me playing scratchy tunes with

my legs."

"You couldn't. You haven't got any legs."

"Well, perhaps not legs," said the marigold, giving her head a gentle

toss. "But I've got a leg, and foot-stalks. How else could I stand?"

"Oh, I don't know," said the queer little fellow. "On your head,

perhaps. Wizz, wizzle, wizz, spitz, spuzz."

"Why can't you leave off when you are asked?" said the marigold,

looking quite annoyed. "How can you be so rude? I wasn't planted here

for you to come and stand upon and saw."

"How do you know? Why shouldn't I stand on you? I always do on the tall

grass in the meadows. Spuzz!"

"Then go and stand on the tall grass now. You jar me all through. Don't

come sharpening your wooden saws on me."

"Get out, you nasty proud yellow-faced thing! It's no such very great

pleasure to stop on your rough leaf."

"Rough, indeed," said the marigold.

"Yes, rough; and what common scent you use. Pah! It's disgusting!"

"Well, I'm sure!" cried the marigold, colouring up, and growing so

excited that she opened a fresh bud. "And of all the nasty—Well now!

look at that! Why he went off like a cold firework!"

For all at once the little fellow gave a double kick, and darted

through the air to alight on the big, soft leaf of a moth mullein.

"Not at home," said the tall plant, as the curious little fellow began

to walk up his high spire like a Steeple Jack, right to the very top,

where he gave another kick, darted through the air, and alighted on the

snapdragon's finest sprig.

"Here! hi!" cried the flower. "Keep off the grass! mean, don't turn me

into a door-mat. I mean, are your feet clean?"

"Of course they are, old dragon's mouth."

"Don't call names," said the flower fiercely. "What do you want?"

"Only a friendly visit. I've just come out of the fields."

"But who are you? Not one of our insect friends?"

"I'm the grasshopper."

"Then why don't you go and hop on your grass?" said the flower shortly.

"Well, the fact is," said the grasshopper, "honey is dreadfully scarce

out there this season, so I've come on my travels. I've come hopping."

"Well, you're not coming hopping here. I don't grow hops."

"You? No!" said the artful little insect. "You are too beautiful. My!

what lovely colours!"

The snapdragon coughed slightly, feeling flattered.

"And what a sweet expression there is about your mouth."

"Oh, really! I don't know," said the snapdragon.

"Oh, but I do."

"Well, I must own that I have been admired," said the foolish flower.

"Admired! I should think so, indeed. What a pity it is though that you

have no honey."

"No honey! Why I've plenty."

"Where? Down in your roots?"

"Nonsense! In my blossoms, shut up close."

"Dear me!" said the grasshopper. "Well, with honey and such lovely

colours you only want a little scent to make you perfect."

"I'm quite as perfect as I wish to be," said the snapdragon.

"And as I wish you to be," replied the grasshopper. "But, I say, isn't

it nearly lunch time?"

"What do you mean?"

"Thought perhaps you might feel disposed to offer me a little honey.

Just a wee taste, you know."

"Oh, I couldn't think of such a thing. I don't even give any to the

bees."

"Really!"

"No; not a bit."

"What do you do with it then?"

"Keep it till it's stolen."

"Better give it away then. Who steals it?"

"Oh, some wretched little insects eat a hole through my flowers close

up to the stalk, and get it all."

"Well, you might give me a taste," said the grasshopper. "There, open

your mouth, and shut your eyes. I won't take much."

"But if I did, you'd creep in, and wouldn't go again when I told you."

"Oh! don't say that! On the honour of a grasshopper. Now just you try

me. Oh! you beauty."

"Well," said the flower, smiling with every mouth, "I think I will try

you, for I don't like to be greedy. But mind, you are not to have much;

and when I cry, 'Stop!' out you must come."

"Spitz, spuzz, spuzz, spuzz, spuzz!"

"Oh, I say, don't!" cried the snapdragon in alarm. "Why if you did that

when you were in one of my blossoms you'd tickle my throat, and make me

cough."

"That was because I was so pleased. It was only my hop legs."

"Then you had better leave your legs outside."

"Well, I couldn't very well do that," said the grasshopper; "but don't

you be alarmed. You may trust me."

As he spoke he could not contain his joy in the anticipation of a feast

that was not even offered to the bees; and he went off with such a

fierce fizz that it sounded as if he had let off a baby cracker all at

once.

"There!" cried the snapdragon, "you see you really are not to be

trusted."

"That was like a clearing up shower," said the grasshopper. "Come

along; open your mouth, and give us a taste."

"I really hardly like to venture," replied the snapdragon.

"You don't trust me, and yet I'm ready to trust you. Suppose I said I

was afraid you might bite me in two."

"But I've got no teeth," cried the flower.

"Well, there then," cried the grasshopper, "fair play's a jewel, I'll

trust you if you'll trust me."

"But couldn't you really leave your legs outside?"

"Impossible! the birds might steal them while I was gone, and where

should I be then?"

"In my blossom."

"Yes, but where would my legs be?"

"Well, I will trust you," said the flower, opening one of its blossoms

slowly. "And you will come out when I call?"

The grasshopper wanted no second permission, but often declaring upon

his honour that he would come out when called, he crept into the open

flower, and without heeding a remonstrance to be careful—consequent

upon his scratching the roof of the snapdragon's mouth with his awkward

top joints—he dashed right to the end, and began feasting merrily upon

the flower's honey pots, eating ten times as much as was good for him

or just to the generous flower.

"Gently, please!" said the snapdragon.

"'Lishus," said the grasshopper thickly.

"I think that will do now," said the snapdragon.

"'Tis good!" replied the grasshopper, smacking his lips, "rather thick

sticky sort of honey, though."

"Yes, you have had enough."

"Can't hear what you say. The door's shut."

The snapdragon opened the door immediately—a regular yawning mouth, all

rose, amber, orange and gold, but the grasshopper gobbled away.

"Door's open now," said the snapdragon. "Come out!"

"Shan't!" said the voracious little monster.

"Don't answer in that rude manner, but come out," cried the snapdragon.

"Had too much trouble to get in," said the grasshopper.

"Now don't be unfair. I trusted you," said the snapdragon, "so come

out."

"Not I! I am going to stop."

"If you do not come out directly," cried the flower angrily, "I'll shut

the door, and you'll be obliged to stay."

"Don't care!"

"'Don't care' came to a bad end."

"But he had no honey pots to feast upon. One can't starve here."

"Now then, I warn you," said the snapdragon. "Come out!"

"Shan't!"

"I warn you again."

"Don't care!"

"I'll shut you up in prison for stealing."

"Shut away!"

"'Snap!'"

That was the noise made by the flower dragon's mouth, and then there

was silence, while the grasshopper kept on eating away till he could

eat no more.

"Phew!" he said; "it's rather hot in here. What nasty sticky honey it

is."

There was a pause.

"Oh, dear me!" he said. "I didn't think this place was so tight. One

can't turn round. Must have another taste, though."

He attacked the honey once more, but left off directly.

"Bah! not good honey—much too sweet. Here, open your mouth; I've had

enough of this stuff."

"Of course," said the snapdragon. "You've broken faith, so you may stop

in now till I choose to let you out."

"Here, open this door," cried the grasshopper. "Be quick, or I'll kick

it down. This honey's stifling, and I've got it all over my front."

"You'll stop there till I please to let you out," said the flower,

angrily.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" cried the grasshopper. "Well, we will soon see

who is master. Do you know I can kick?"

"No; but I know you can hop sometimes. You can't hop now."

"Do you want me to choke you?"

"You may do just what you like," said the snapdragon, sternly. "I've

got you, and I don't mean to let you go."

"How tight and hot this nasty place is!" grumbled the grasshopper, "and

how fearfully sticky. Only wait till I get out. Here, open this door!"

The grasshopper waited a few minutes to see if the flower would set him

at liberty, but he waited in vain, and, growing fierce now, he drew up

his legs.

"Now then," he said, "we shall see!"

There was a moment's pause, and then he began to saw away, rasping the

edges of his wing cases and making such a jarring, hideous noise as was

never heard before in blossom or bell.

"Spuz-z-z-z-z. Fidz-z-z-z-z-z. Budz-z-z-z-z-z.

Dzar-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-z-z-z-z-z-z," and the sound was a hundred times

the more strange from being shut up in the quaint-looking flower.

"Oh, my pods and seeds!" exclaimed the snapdragon, "this is horrible.

It tickles my throat so! I can't bear it. I—Oh, dear me! It is

impossible to bear this. I shall—shall—"

The snapdragon did not say what it would do, but began to cough so

violently that its mouth opened wide, and the grasshopper laughed, and

began to back out with a shuffling motion.

He laughed too soon, for, annoyed by its enemy's mirth, the flower

snapped its mouth to again, and there was the grasshopper, caught

tightly round the middle, and with its long, dibble-double legs kicking

about outside, with nothing to rest on, like a frog swimming in water,

but without being able to move away, for the honey thief was regularly

caught in a trap.

It was a tight trap, too, and one in which he was helpless, for though

he kicked and threw out his legs, and tried to rasp the little combs

upon the edges of his wing cases, so as to make his jarring sounds,

he could not reach them, and as he kicked the flower looked on and

laughed; while, to make matters worse for him, a merry blue larkspur

which grew close by began to tickle him with his spurs, making the

little fellow kick more than ever.

"Serve him right for being rude," said the marigold.

"Put him on a kicking-strap with one of my leaves," said the ribbon

grass.

"No, no; let the greedy little creature be," cried the snapdragon.

"I'll punish him, and—oh! he's gone!"

No wonder: for the snapdragon had opened the wrong mouth when he spoke,

and suffered like the crow with the cheese in the fable. For the

grasshopper dropped down on the ground quite out of breath with his

struggles. He soon recovered though, and vented his spleen upon the

snapdragon by backing up close to the stems, and kicking and rasping

till the poor flower was all of a quiver, and gaped, and looked foolish

with its many mouths.

After a long rest the grasshopper made a fresh start. He began though

by leaping upon the helpless snapdragon, and then jumped to and fro,

whizzing at the flower derisively. From there he hopped on to the

marigold's leaf, serving her the same, before making one grand effort

which sent him flying through the air into the mignonette, which he

insulted by telling the tiny flower it smelt nasty.

A sharp spring carried the mechanical-looking little creature into the

grass, where he crawled up a stout bent, gathered up his strength, and

leaped to the foot of the lily.

"Get away!" cried the elegant lady of the silver chalice and golden

dust, but the grasshopper had no reverence, and crawled right to the

tip-top bud for a few moments, before spinning himself right away on to

the sunflower's high stem.

"Oh! you're here now!" said the giant, shaking his great head.

But the grasshopper was out of temper, and contented himself with

turning the tall flower into a scaffold from which he could leap on to

the velvet-green moss on the top of the red brick wall.

"Here we are!" he cried joyously, as he rubbed his legs and emitted his

harsh, horny sound, and from the point of vantage he looked right and

left, hesitating whether to leap to the right, among the flowers, or to

the left, among the vegetables.

He had no time, though, to choose, for a fat young blackbird in

mottled-brown came hopping along the top of the wall, caught sight of

the insect, and made an inexperienced dab at him with his soft beak.

He was quick, but the grasshopper was quicker, and flew hurriedly away

into the tall, green feathers of the carrot, where there was room to

hide from all the sharp-eyed birds in the garden.

"No business here," said the biggest carrot in the bed. "Do you hear?

No business in my bed."

"Spuzz!" went the grasshopper derisively, as he slowly climbed the

tallest leaf. "I shall stop as long as I—"

"Peck!" went the robin, caught the little fellow by the waist, and

flew away, flitter, flutter, till the grasshopper drew his legs well

up under him, and then gave so loud and jarring a spuzz that the robin

said "murder!" opening his beak in his fright, and down went the little

grasshopper right into the heart of the fattest cabbage in the garden.

"Oh! spuzz, spuzz. I shall be killed if I don't go back to the fields.

I'll creep down here to be safe."

"No lodgings to let," said the fat cabbage, "I'm eaten up as it is.

There are the earwigs and little earwigses in number two; there's a

snail in number four with a small family; fourteen caterpillars in

number six; and every other leaf occupied by slugs, except number a

hundred-and-two, which has been turned into a storehouse for new laid

eggs. And now you've come."

"Spuzz, spuzz. Ditz. And I mean to stop," cried the grasshopper. "Who

are you?"

"I'm a regular riddle," said the cabbage, "so full of holes you must

give me up. Everybody takes advantage of me without so much as saying

by your leaf. But, I say, who are you?"

"The grasshopper."

"Mind that bird," whispered the cabbage, as a sparrow alighted on an

apple tree, and looked down with his head on one side.

"Fizz!" went the grasshopper into the mint, and made the sparrow

stare. Spuzz again, and he was down among the thyme. Away into the

curly-headed parsley, and off to the wise old sage, but after taking a

sniff at sweet marjoram and another at balm, he declared the herbs were

a dowdy lot, and not half so nice as new mown hay.

Off on his travels again he hopped and spun about from vegetable to

tree and bush, and then on to the wall once more, where he stopped for

a rest and looked down at the flowers.

"Now then," he cried, "here goes for the biggest spin of all, and then

I'll have another feast on the snapdragon's honey."

His wings must have been used that time, for the spin seemed many yards

long, but instead of his coming down in the flower bed, he made too big

a leap, and dropped upon the other side right on the lawn, when—

"Peck!"

A sharp-billed starling had him by the middle.

"Fidz-fidz-fidz, wizz-wizz-wizzle," went the grasshopper's combs,

but he began too late. The starling had dropped him, but it was down

inside, and thus they say he lives still in the starling's throat. For

though there are many who think that the speckled, sharp-billed bird

has made himself hoarse by getting up too early in search of grubs, the

genuine truth in Birdland is that his cold was caught by swallowing

the grasshopper, and, for proof of this, you have but to listen to the

starling's note as he sits high up in some elm tree, with the spiky

feathers of his head and throat erect.

Sweet, melodious, and true come his notes—sweeter than those of a

thrush, pure as the soft flute of the blackbird for two or three bars

of his song, and then you hear the grasshopper in his throat, wizzling

and wheezing, all sputter and fidz, like the rasping of the tiny combs

of the insect's legs on the horny cases at his sides.

But someone says, "This can't be true?"

Well, in the chronicles of Birdland nothing is written down. Everything

is handed from parent to child by word of beak, and I must confess that

the only thing in support of the truth of this legend is the starling's

husky, wheezing song.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chéri's Second Escapade.

_BY MRS. MOLESWORTH,_

AUTHOR OF "A CHRISTMAS POSY," "HERR BABY," "CARROTS," &c.

————————

HE told it to Evie himself this time. How he managed it, and how

"she" managed it: he the telling, she the understanding, I'm sure I

can't say. But "I" have it from Evie, for clever as she is at foreign

languages—and of all foreign languages I should think "dog" language

the hardest to learn—she always declares she can't write down even

the simplest story in at all an interesting way. So I said I would do

it for her. It does seem a pity that naughty Chéri's second escapade

should not be told, for a lesson to dogs, and also to too confiding

mistresses of the same.

You remember—each of you, my dear children, who read "Jack Frost's

Little Prisoners," two, no, "three" Christmases ago—dear, dear, how

time flies!—the story of Chéri's first running away from his happy

home. You may perhaps remember how he finished up by hinting that "some

day" he thought he might possibly repeat this piece of disobedience.

But time passed, and Chéri grew older, and, all his friends began

to hope, wiser. Any way there were no signs for a long time of any

rebellion on the part of the small person, and everyone interested in

him began to breathe freely.

[Illustration]

But there came a day, an unfortunate day, in which Chéri went out a

walk with his two mistresses, Evie and Dolly—not that Dolly is really

his mistress, he is Evie's very own dog, but Dolly is very fond of him,

and "very" good to him, and when Evie is away he attaches himself to

Dolly as second-best. They were not going far from home, and they had

come to have perfect confidence in him, so he was without a "lead," as

I believe it is called, free to ramble about a little and make small

excursions on his own account, providing he kept within a reasonable

distance of the girls, or as Evie always impressed upon him, kept them

"well within sight." All went right; Chéri, feeling that as a gentleman

he was bound to behave in an attentive and chivalrous manner, took care

not to stray far, and kept his eye on the young ladies.

They were walking on briskly, when suddenly they stopped short. It was

in front of a house that looked something between a shop and a private

dwelling, for though there was a large square window, there were no

goods in it for sale—only a few embroidered skirts and handkerchiefs,

and such things spread out in a conspicuous, conceited kind of way,

as if they were saying "look at us! how clean we are, and how nicely

ironed and 'got up'!" And from inside the open doorway came a rather

pleasant, clean, hot smell—of freshly washed, drying linen, and irons

scorching hot. It was a laundress's. The two girls stopped in front of

the window as if its contents interested them very much. But that was

not the attraction.

"O Dolly," said Evie, "I never can pass this place without thinking

of our darling Wollops" (I must explain that "Wollops" was Chéri's

"last" new name), "and the night he was lost—Oh, Dolly, 'what' we went

through!—for I feel convinced this is the house he was at all the time,

though, of course, I can't be 'quite' sure. They have a horrid little

common dog, I have seen him several times. 'Very' likely dear Chéri

came here to pay him a visit just out of kind feeling: he has such a

good heart. Oh, see, Doll, there is the dog."

For at that moment "Prince," an ugly, nominally white, but really

grey, woolly dog with a pink nose—looking not unlike a very dirty big

toy-lamb, came out to air himself on the steps.

"'What' an ugly dog!" Dolly exclaimed.

Her voice unluckily attracted Chéri's attention—he had been amusing

himself by snuffing at a piece of orange-peel on the curbstone, which

at first sight, he thought looked like something good, for Chéri's eyes

are not as sharp as they might be, in consequence, perhaps, of the

shaggy hair that always overhangs them. But Dolly's exclamation made

him turn round, and there, on the door-step, he recognized his friend

Prince.

Chéri bristled—this is a figurative expression; nothing could really

make his long shaggy silky coat bristle—with indignation.

"Ugly dog, indeed!" he said to himself. "My good Prince. I hope he

did not catch the word. Impertinent chit, that Dolly is," and full of

anxiety to make amends, up he trotted.

The two dogs had not met for fully two years.

"Upon my word, my dear fellow, this is a pleasure," said Chéri,

throwing all the cordiality he could into his bark. "I have so often

thought of you, and wished to see you again, since the—the pleasant

visit I paid you some time ago."

"H'm," returned Prince, with a slight snarl, "doesn't seem very like

it, I must say. You might have looked me up before now, I should think,

if—"

"Oh, 'oh,' Evie," shrieked Dolly, "they're going to fight. Look at that

nasty, horrid, pink-nosed creature; he 'is' so snarling. Come away,

Chéri; 'come away,' sir, I say!"

Chéri turned, and looked at her with bold contempt.

"'Lord, what fools these mortals be!'" he would probably have

ejaculated had he known the quotation. What he did—bark—was this:

"'Sir,' indeed, Miss Dolly! ordering me about in this way, and

insulting my friend!" Then he turned to Prince, who stood there,

pretending he understood what Dolly said, though he really didn't.

"My young ladies are nervous," he said. "You see, when I am out in

charge of them I make them my first thought. They are, perhaps, a

little jealous of my attentions. So for the moment, my good Prince, I

must leave you; but I will look in one day very soon. I will, I assure

you, seize the very first opportunity. To—to tell the truth—I was not

quite sure of your address."

"All right," said Prince, who was really not an ill-natured dog,

"always pleased to see you. Bring a bone with you if you like, and

we'll have a nice crunch together."

This was a little vulgar, but Chéri was in a contradictory humour, and

determined to stand up for Prince the more Dolly spoke against him.

He followed the girls, feeling very irate.

"We must be very careful, Evie," Dolly went on, "or we shall have Billy

running off again. He 'evidently' knows that horrid pink-nosed dog."

"It's only his good-nature," said Evie. "He would never really make a

friend of a common dirty dog like that. And after all we don't 'know'

that it was there he went that night."

All of which remarks, as Chéri—Billy, Wollops, etc.—afterwards

confessed to his mistress only made him the more determined to carry

out the intention in his head.

No "opportunity," as he had said to Prince, offered itself for some

days. Perhaps the girls, Dolly especially, were rather on the alert;

any how, though he sneaked to the front door every time he heard the

bell ring, which was not very often, as he was generally shut up in

a room upstairs, and once or twice had a try at the area steps when

he was having his dinner in the kitchen, he never managed to get even

as far as the pavement. The young ladies did not take him out walking

except with a lead, and his only running about was in the garden at the

back, whence, not having wings, nor being able to climb like a cat, he

could not escape.

But "Tout vient à qui sait attendre."

One evening, Evie and Dolly were out on their own account, paying a

quiet visit to two young friends of theirs. The carriage came round at

ten o'clock to call for their maid, who was to fetch them.

"Be sure you put Billums to bed before you come for us," had been

Evie's last injunction to Thecla before starting. But Thecla was a

little hurried, Chéri was in a sweet sleep on the work-room rug, she

thought it a pity to disturb him, he would be "ganz recht" till she

and her young ladies came home again. Ah, Thecla! Little did she dream

"who" came softly creeping downstairs behind her, hidden by her skirts,

who watched his moment, keeping in a shady corner of the hall, while

she chattered to the footman about the address he was to tell the

coachman, who sneaked out while the door was open—out, silly little

self-willed dog, into the dark street—trotting off in triumph, away

from his safe, happy home, into the great wide desert of London, where

dog stealers abound, and Evies and Dollies are not to be met with at

every turn.

He was going to call on Prince. He was quite sure he knew the way, even

in the dark. And he was quite sure he could find his own home again,

even though—yes, as he glanced about him a little, it did strike him

that the door-steps all down the street were ridiculously, absurdly

like each other. The feeble light of the gas-lamps had to do with this,

doubtless; by day there were one or two little distinctions—the shape

of the scraper, for instance, that he had learnt to notice. But he

tossed aside all misgivings; how pleased Prince would be to see him!

and he hastened his steps.

Hush! There came in the solitary street the sound of heavy, measured

footsteps. A tall policeman drew near.

"A strayed dog," he said to himself, as he lowered his bull's eye to

have a look at him. "Well, my fine fellow, and where do you hail from?"

he was beginning, but Chéri was too sharp for him. To be captured at

the outset by a policeman, and ignominiously carried home! for Chéri

was conceited enough to think himself well-known in the neighbourhood.

No thank you. There was a side street just where the policeman was

standing. In an instant Chéri had darted round the corner, and was

careering away. The policeman could have caught him had he chosen, but

he thought better of it.

"Seems to know his way about," he said. "No use botherin' if he's not a

real stray;" and he marched on again.

Chéri, hearing his footsteps growing fainter in the distance, stopped

to look about him. Was he on his way to Prince's house? He hesitated.

Then the sight of a better-lighted street some little way ahead, a

street with shops, and, late as it was, cabs and carts, and plenty of

people about still, made him run on again. For it was in a busy street

like this that the laundress lived.

But he passed shop after shop, peeping in at several, but none looked

like, none "smelt" quite like Prince's home. At last a brilliant idea

struck him—he would cross the road. And cross it he did, escaping with

his life more by luck than good management, I can assure you, as a

heavy dray came crashing up on one side, followed by a dashing hansom,

and an omnibus boomed along on the other. Chéri's heart, by the time he

reached the opposite pavement, was beating so that he felt choking.

"I think," he said to himself, "that when I get to Prince's I'll

ask him to put me up for the night, as he did before. It's really

scandalous to allow all these carts and carriages in the street so

late."

He tried to feel important, and trotted along a little way in a brisk,

would-be-easy-minded fashion. But he did not arrive at the laundress's

on this side of the road either, and he began to feel tired, and just a

little frightened.

"I almost think," he said to himself at last, "I almost think I'll

give it up for to-night. Stay; I might enquire," and as that moment he

caught sight of a fox-terrier following his master, he accosted him

politely.

"Excuse me," he said, "do you happen to know if a—a dog of the name of

Prince lives hereabouts? They take in washing at his place, I believe."

The fox-terrier looked at him superciliously.

"I never make chance acquaintances," he said. "Washerwomen indeed!

Where do you get such low tastes? You look a well-bred dog, but I

advise you to make the best of your way home. It's getting late; you'll

find yourself at the police station en route for Battersea, I can tell

you, if you don't take care."

Chéri was terribly frightened. What did the fox-terrier mean? Police

and Battersea?

"Oh dear," he thought at last, "I wish I were safe at home again. Let

me see—I must cross the road—bless me, how nervous I feel."

He managed to get across, however—there were rather fewer vehicles

than before. Then he ran along a little way and turned into a dark

street, which he felt sure must be Winchester Crescent, "his" street.

And—oh, joy!—yes, there were houses with steps, just like his house. He

chose one hap-hazard; he was getting stupid and confused—the scraper

seemed like his own house's scraper—and, tired and weary, he mounted

to the top step and there sat himself down and whined. Whined and then

yelped, till the door opened, and with a bark of delight he prepared

to rush in. But "Off with you, you nasty whining thing," said a rough

voice; not that of James, Chéri's own footman, but a stranger's—a cross

parlour-maid, who was shutting up for the night, and had no pity for a

poor, naughty little runaway. "Off with you!" and off crept Chéri—his

tail very dejected, his ears very limp, his heart very, "very" sore.

He tried one or two other door-steps in vain—either no attention was

paid to his piteous attempts to attract it, or he was scolded and

"shoo'ed" away. Then he decided that after all this was not his street

(though it was, for the cross parlour-maid, whose mistress knew Evie

and Dolly, confessed the next day that had she recognized the dog she

would have taken him in), and off he set again on another voyage of

discovery, a fruitless one, of course. He grew very tired indeed; he

remembered little more of the details of that dreary night, he told

Evie only one idea haunted him—at all costs he must keep out of the

way of policemen and that unknown danger the fox-terrier had told him

of, "Battersea." So as soon as ever he heard the measured tramp coming

down the street, off he set; the police had no need to "move him on,"

poor, terrified little truant, though after all they would have been

his best friends had he only known it. Fortunately, it was a mild

night; he must have slept a good deal, Evie thinks—slept on some dark

door-step probably, or in the shade of a wall, on the cold, hard stone,

uncovered, unsheltered—he, the tenderly cared-for little dog whom Evie

put to bed like a baby under his blanket every night! See what comes of

disobedience, children!

The next morning, as soon as it was light, he set off again to search

for home. He fancied it would be easier in the day-time. But, alas! it

did not prove so. And the unusual amount of exercise he had had was

beginning to make him very hungry, though it was still some hours to

his dinnertime. He found a crust which some "pretence beggar," as the

children say, had contemptuously thrown away, and though it was dirty

and muddy, he eat it thankfully enough. Then he wandered about, the

streets growing more and more crowded and his stupid little brain more

and more confused. Once, about eleven o'clock that morning, he heard

his own name called.

"Chéri! Can that be Evangeline's Chéri?" a little girl said. And he

tried to run up to her, but in an instant she was lost in the crowd. "I

should have been sure to hear if he was lost," she said to her mother

as they walked on. "There are so many little dogs something like him."

Not long after that, Chéri found himself in a less crowded street.

He was so perfectly miserable now that he thought he would like to

die, and he was wondering how he could best manage it when a cheery,

good-natured voice made him look up.

"Are you lost, old fellow?" it said. And Chéri, seeing that the

speaker's face matched his voice—he was a stout, honest-looking man in

working clothes—pulled himself together a little, saying, "Yes, yes;

I am lost indeed," as plainly as wagging tail and pleading eyes and

appealing whine "could" speak.

"If I could but make him understand where I live," he said to himself.

But that, alas, was out of the question.

"You'd best come 'ome with me," said the man, picking him up gently,

as he spoke. "I'll leave 'im with Bella when I'm out. And there'll be

posters about him in a day or two—sure to be."

So Chéri journeyed to the workman's home in the good fellow's arms.

"Home" meant two rooms in a small stuffy little house, and the back

room was really a work-shop, all littered over with shavings. Chéri

could not make it out; he had never seen shavings before, and thought

they were good to eat, and then when he found out his mistake, he was

just as puzzled by the queer sort of wheel in the middle of the room,

that the man was always turning. Afterwards, Evie told him that his

host was a wood-turner, but I don't know that he understands what that

means, even now. The shavings were not so bad, however; a little heap

of them made a pretty decent bed, better than the cold stones any way,

though not to be compared with his own little rug and baskets at home!

But oh, how tired Chéri got of that work-room, and of the little yard

about five feet square at the back, which was his only pleasure ground.

For though the wood-turner and his wife were very kind to him, they

never took him out. They were probably afraid of his running away, and

afraid too, very likely, of being pounced upon by the police as dog

stealers.

It was a good thing Evie had taken such pains to teach Chéri to

understand human talking, otherwise, he would have been still more

wretched than he was. For by listening to the conversation of his hosts

he found there was still some hope for him. The first day or two they

seemed in very good spirits. Stephens, that was the man's name, turned

over his work so as to get out early to have "a look round," as he

called it. And each time he came in, his wife looked up eagerly.

"Seen anything?" she said; but Stephens shook his head.

"Neither seen nor 'eard. Yet 'someone's' a enquirin' for 'im, I'm sure.

He's a pet, and no mistake, wherever 'e comes from."

"That's certing," said Bella. "Just to watch 'ow he creeps up to my

skirts and settles hisself as cozy as may be. It'll come—make your mind

easy, Stephens. There'll be posters up in a day or two."

But a day or two, and more than a day or two passed, and no clue was

found by the wood-turner. Chéri grew thin, though the poor people fed

him well—so well, that they began to wonder how they could afford to

keep him much longer, and Stephens decided one evening that he would go

the next morning to consult a friend of his at the neighbouring mews,

who was known to do a little business now and then privately in the dog

line.

Chéri was lying on his heap of shavings depressed and dejected when

the wood-turner came back from his visit. The dog was losing heart

altogether now—he just turned his head a little and blinked feebly with

his sad eyes. But Stephens' first words made him prick up his ears

(this, also, I beg to say, is a figurative expression in Chéri's case)

and listen eagerly for more.

"I've got on the track at last, if I'm not oncommonly mistook," he said

to Mrs. Bella, as she followed him in from the other room, wiping her

hands on her apron, to hear the news. Stephens was holding a newspaper,

which he flourished about.

"Tom Swires, at the mews, bethought him of this 'ere. It's the great

card for local advertisements, and he 'unted up last week's hissue, and

just you listen, Bella."

Then Mr. Stephens proceeded to read aloud: "Lost, on the evening of

the 20th May, from 58, Winchester Crescent, a small silky, long-haired

Scotch terrier. Whoever brings him to the above address, will receive

£1 reward."

"It's 'im," said Mrs. Stephens. "Off with you. Clean yourself up a bit

first."

Chéri quivered with anxiety. He had not quite understood his hosts'

conversation, for you see Evie had been very particular to accustom

him only to a truly refined and cultivated way of speaking. Still, he

understood a good deal; the words "58, Winchester Crescent," were very

familiar.

"Oh dear, oh 'dear,'" he thought, "if it could be—oh, if I 'could' get

home again!" and he crept forward, wagging his tail and staring up in

Stephens' face with eyes that all but spoke.

"All right, old fellow," said the workman. "You'll give us a good

character, won't you? It's been more comfortabler for you 'ere than at

that there Battersea, any how."

Again that queer word. What could it mean? Evie has told him about it

since. Poor Evie—she had got to know the Battersea home for strayed

dogs only too well in the last few days. That very morning, she and

Dolly, escorted by the faithful Thecla, had set off on their third

pilgrimage thither, only to return home again saddened and hopeless.

There was no Chéri there, no naughty disobedient darling, his feathery

little body in a quiver of delight at the sight of his dear mistresses

at last, among the scores of poor doggies in the barred-in kennels.

"I can't go there again, Dolly," said Evie as they came away. "It's too

heart-breaking. Did you see how the poor dogs looked up in our faces,

'begging' us to take them home with us? No, I can't bear it. It is a

very good thing, I'm sure—they are kindly treated, and have plenty of

water. But I almost think the kindest part of it is that they put them

to death before long."

"And without it hurting them at all," said Dolly, softly. "'Chloroform

is just like going gently to sleep,' mamma says. But oh, Evie, to

'think' of what that keeper told us—that lots and lots of these dogs

are very old ones, turned out by their owners on purpose! after a life

of faithful service. Is it not too horrible?"

Evie shuddered.

"I wish I knew that poor Chéri was dead," she said quietly.

It was a long way home, and sore hearts make more miles. Evie felt

as if she really could not have walked a yard further, when at last

they found themselves on their own door-step. A head was peeping out

from behind the dining-room curtain—it was actually mamma's! What a

funny thing for mamma to do! There was a queer feeling in the air as

James most promptly opened the door—a sort of repressed excitement and

expectancy.

"Mamma," said Evie, in a half-dazed way, "is—has?"

"Yes, yes, darling, it is. He—he's come home," and then not another

word, but a fluffy ball, all quivering and dancing, seemed to leap into

her arms, and, oh yes, it was her own naughty, repentant little doggie

back again at last!

"I'll never, 'never,' NEVER do it again," he said to her—how, I don't

know, but she understood, and that is all that matters.

He had been lost for ten days!

He crept up to me just as I wrote the last words. Fancy his finding out

it was all about him! I'm afraid he is very conceited.

"Please be sure to say I'll 'never' do it again," he says—dear me,

I'm getting nearly as clever as Evangeline about dog language—"I have

really had a good lesson this time."

[Illustration]

Neigh-bour's Fare.

(FOUNDED ON FACT.)

_BY C. M. YONGE._

————————

"HE—HE—HE—HEIGH! What are you doing at my hedge?"

"Heigh—high—hoity-toity! The hedge is as much mine as yours!"

"Yours, you scrubby, hairy, low-born thing, that wouldn't know how to

eat a mouthful of corn if it was set before you? Ha! Ha!"

"I thank my stars that I'm not so fine and dainty as not to be able to

do my work without being pampered upon corn! Heigh! heigh!"

"Work! To creep along with a cart-load of potatoes and cabbages, no

faster than old Timothy can crawl. Do you call that work?"

"A pretty deal more work than trotting along with a baby-boy atop of

you, or drawing a bit of a basket with a lady in it! I wouldn't be such

a useless creature, not I," rushing off with a flourish of heels.

"Stay till you are asked;" and another career, with heels kicked up.

For Pearl and Peggy were ponies! Each was turned out for the night into

a paddock, and between them there was a low hedge, chiefly of snowberry

bushes, but with a strong wire or two running the whole length, to make

all secure.

Pearl belonged to the lady at the pretty house just above, with the

projecting eaves, and the deep oriel windows, all covered with roses.

She had a beautiful cosy stable, only it was so hot in the long days

of summer that it was thought better to turn her out in the pleasant

dewy field for the night, after her work was done—taking little master

out for a ride in the morning, and drawing her mistress in the basket

carriage in the afternoon. She was a slender, shining bay pony, with

black mane and tail, and a very pretty head—indeed it was said that her

great, great, great grandmother was an Arabian, so no wonder she gave

herself airs, and she was washed and curry-combed every day by her own

groom.

Peggy was rough, dark, and sturdy, with a short neck, a hog mane, and

stout legs. Two days in the week she drew the cart to market along the

dusty roads. On two others she took kindlings to the same town. On

another she fetched clothes for the wash, and received another load of

clean ones, and there was always something hard and heavy for her to

do on the sixth day. Nobody groomed her; she had no place to sleep in,

in all weathers but a shed in the corner of the field; she never got a

feed of corn, far less lumps of sugar, and pieces of bread, but she was

turned out when her work was over, to pick up her living in that little

rough field as best she might, only now and then getting a little bran,

or a few carrots.

It was Sunday, so neither had done any work, and they had the more

time to look, and teaze each other with snorts and scornful laughter.

Presently Peggy's master, hobbling up on his way to Church, held out

his hand with a carrot in it, crying, "Coup, coup, old lass," and when

she came up, petted her, and played with her forelock while she munched

the carrot.

"As if I would stand still for such a dirty old man!" snorted Pearl.

"He's not dirty, you impudence," whinnied back Peggy, "he is groomed

for Sunday!"

"Much you know about grooming that rough coat of yours," was the retort

of satin-skinned Pearl, while the old man went on his way to Church.

The bells ceased to sound, and all was quiet. Presently a big

gipsy-looking man in a fur cap, and a boy with a black shock head of

hair looked over the hedge.

"Handsome pony that!" said the man, looking at Pearl.

Pearl liked praise, from whomsoever it came, so she pricked up her ears

and whinnied.

"Wouldn't I like to be upon the back of her," said the boy.

"Too smart and spirited for you, my lad," said the man, "but she would

fetch a pretty penny. That's the serviceable article! Here!" and he

moved to Peggy's untidy old gate, and chirruped, but Peggy was more

wary, and kept her distance.

The days were long just then; the sun rose very early, and even before

he rose, the lark which had its nest in the corner of Peggy's field had

waked, and was singing, singing away, far, far up in the sky.

Just as the first beams were touching the brown breast, a wary whistle,

and "coup, coup" sounded in the corner of Peggy's field. She awoke,

and turned an ear to listen. The sound came again, and there was the

shaking of a sieve. Corn, the greatest delicacy a horse knows, had

been very seldom tasted by Peggy, and, strange as the hour was for a

breakfast, she was so much enticed as to lose all her suspicions, and

trotted up in a moment. Her nose was scarcely among the oats before a

halter was over her head, and she found herself being dragged off!

It was all done so quietly that Pearl had heard nothing but the first

call, which made her prick up her delicate black ears, and bend up one

fore-leg in preparation for rising. No doubt, then she thought, that

hard-worked, beggarly old master of Peggy's wanted to set to work at

this dreadful time in the morning. She would go to sleep again.

The call was sounding again in her own field. The sieve rattled, but

Pearl was too well fed, and corn was too common a thing with her for

her to care much about that. She thought it dangerous, and stood up,

with her nostrils spread, and her eyes full of alarm. The man advanced

upon her; she cantered away to the further end of her field. Then the

boy ran after her, while, thoroughly alarmed, she galloped wildly

about, neighing as loud as she could to call for help. Alas! nobody was

up, nothing answered her but poor Peggy's frightened neighs! and though

she led the man, the boy, and a girl, who now appeared, a pretty dance,

at last she was penned up in a corner, and the great, hard, dirty hand

had got hold of her mane, pulling it hard and spitefully, and abusing

her fiercely for all the trouble she had given.

She tried to kick, but he held her fast, and a whip came down stinging

on her satin sides whenever she struggled. Presently she found herself

and Peggy tied side by side, by their halters, at the back of a very

dirty old gipsy cart, with a tilt over it, ten times worse than the one

that Peggy was used to draw, and filled with straw and ragged little

children, whose shouts of glee were shocking to the ponies. They were,

however, silenced at once by rough words from the father and mother.

A poor lean horse was in the shafts, and the boy, running beside him,

pulled his bridle, and gave him two or three blows, so that he moved

on, dragging behind Pearl and Peggy—past the dear, beautiful stable

where Pearl had her own comfortable stall, near the two fine tall

carriage-horses, past the thatched cottage where old Timothy lived,

past the neat garden where abode Pearl's groom! How they struggled and

neighed, but all in vain—nobody would hear, or look-out, everyone was

fast asleep, and on, on they went. The ponies pulled and dragged at

their halters, and strove with all their might, but in vain—the ropes

would not yield, and they only hurt themselves; while on, on they were

forced to go, at that weary, slow pace, which fretted Pearl the most,

and with nothing to eat.

Once, a mile or more from home, Peggy saw a man whom she knew, because

he had dealings with her master, and she neighed, and strained at her

halter, doing all she could to attract his attention, but he would not,

or did not, take any notice, and on they went. Pearl did not like the

movement, and kicked at Peggy, who returned it, but the man, seeing the

commotion, turned back, and with rude words laid his whip across both

of them.

Very, very weary were the two poor ponies, dragged on through stony

lanes, as the sun became hotter and hotter, but at last the cart

stopped under a hedge, on the border of a wide heath. The hungry and

thirsty creatures tried to get their mouths to the grass, but the ropes

were too short, and in her disappointment Peggy tried to bite at her

companion.

"Oh!" whinnied out Pearl, "we had best be friends in this strange,

terrible place—we who are old neighbours."

"Ha! ha! You aren't so proud now you are brought as low as I am,"

returned Peggy.

It was a rude answer; but Peggy was very tired and miserable, and

though she was more used to rough it than was Pearl, she had less

spirit to stand up against their distress.

However, their new master seemed to remember them. He and the boy led

them down to a muddy pond under the hedge, and though Pearl in general

would have scorned such water, she was glad enough to suck it up. Then

an armful of hay was thrown down before each. It had perhaps been

pulled out of a hay-rick, but that was not the ponies' business, and

they gladly ate it up, and only wished there was more. Then the halters

were drawn up tighter, and the cart set out again, but both were in

better heart, and Peggy was good-humoured, and ready to believe, as

Pearl did, that biting and kicking at one another was not the way to

be less distressed, so they journeyed on in quite a friendly manner,

and tried to flick off each other's flies with their tails. When at

last the long day's journey was over, Pearl sadly missed the groom's

hand washing her, and curry-combing her to make her comfortable, and

Peggy not only forbore to laugh at her for being such a fine lady as to

expect it, but really tried to do what she could for her by biting at a

lump that a horse-fly had made in her neck.

They could both understand what human beings said, and when the

rumbling of the cart was over, they listened anxiously to what the man,

his wife, and eldest son were saying about them.

The woman wanted to take them to a great fair near at hand, and sell

them early in the day. They squeezed closer together, and Pearl put her

neck across Peggy's, as they felt how dreadful it would be to be parted

from all that was left of home.

They were relieved to hear the man say that it could not be done

safely; but then the woman answered that was nonsense—they had only to

cut off the long hair of the rough pony, clip the mane and tail of the

bay, and paint over the white star on her forehead.

Dreadful! the mane and tail that little master was so proud of! Poor

Pearl gave a jerk to her halter, and determined to kick and bite her

hardest before any such thing should be done to her. However, by

the time the kettle was boiled, and the evening meal eaten, the man

declared he must have his beer, and though his wife declared that

without him to hold the horses she could not trim them, he would not

listen, but started off for the public-house in the village, whose

chimneys and their smoke could just be seen far down in the valley

below.

The ponies were tied by ropes and allowed to graze, but the grass was

very short, and there were a great many thistles, more fit for a donkey

than a horse, as Pearl sighed when they pricked her delicate nose, and

there was no water, except that a fine drizzling rain came on. Tinker,

the old horse in the shafts, who was turned loose, did not cheer them.

He told them he led a wretched life, beaten, starved, and tired, and

his only hope was to have Peggy put on to help him with his loads.

Pearl would at home have been safely housed in her own stable, here

she could only creep as near the shelter of the cart as she could, and

shiver. And good-natured Peggy, who was used to such things, and had

much longer hair, came and squeezed up against her to keep her warmer;

but still it was a wretched time, and the poor ponies felt damp, and

limp, and tired when the cart set off again in the morning, and the

halters were too short to allow of their even hanging down their poor

disconsolate heads.

They went down the hill, over a rough chalk road, stumbling along, but

they stopped at the public-house for beer for the people in the cart,

and a little hay and water for the horses.

Just as they were enjoying clean water, a rough-looking man sauntered

up, "I say, mate," said he, "there be notices up everywhere about a

couple of ponies, and I heard tell as the bobbies were on the look-out

for them at the Fair."

Those words did Pearl and Peggy more good than even the water.

There followed a few more words, and then the whole family were bundled

back into the cart, and Tinker was forced to drag them all up the same

steep hill.

There they halted, and the boy was sent on the further road to spy out

what he could. Presently, he came running back as hard as he could.

"Two policemen out in front of their station," he declared.

"There's nothing else for it," said the man.

"All your fault for going off and not helping me with them," said the

woman.

However that might be, the halters were taken off their necks, there

was a hard parting smack, and behold, Pearl and Peggy were free! They

could hardly believe it, but the man and boy stamped and whooped at

them, and off they went, putting down their heads and prancing with

heels in the air for joy, and only wishing for a moment that poor

Tinker was with them.

When they came to the end of the down, they stood still and consulted

how to get home. Peggy snuffed about, but it was beyond where she had

ever been before, or Pearl either, but there was a feeling in them for

the right way, and they cantered along side by side as merrily as could

be.

Presently Pearl said, "I've been in this corner with my mistress! I

remember the white post that made me shy! This way!" How they tossed

their heads and trotted on.

"Soh!" there was a call Pearl knew well.

It was her own kind groom in the trap with the superintendent of police.

What rejoicing there was; Pearl's little master kissed her when she

came home, and old Timothy did almost as much by Peggy.

And whenever the two ponies were turned out in their two fields, they

used to get to the fence between and rub their noses together, and

they whinnied kind greetings to one another whenever they met. Their

adventures had quite cured them of their two kinds of pride.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

The Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg.

_BY MRS. A. M. GOODHART._

————————

IN the good old days in Germany, when wild beasts and giants still

ravaged the country, and the fairies danced by moonlight on the banks

of the shining rivers, and the kindly little earthmen crept into the

farmhouse kitchens and tidied the hearths and re-laid the rushes in

return for the brimming bowls of milk, which the tired peasants,

however weary, never forgot to set out for the tiny people at night,

a pretty village, the village of Hertzenberg, lay nestled under the

shadow of a mighty hill, a hill so mighty and venerable, that time had

wrapped its rugged sides in a mantle of rustling pines, and crowned its

lofty head with a garland of perpetual snow.

Nowhere could you have found a more secluded spot, for it lay between

this great hill and a broad and noble river, which flowed tumultuously

down to the unknown sea.

Now the Hertzenbergers were a happy people, young and old they knew no

cares, and the children, the sweet, rosy, blue-eyed children, played

without check or fear the whole year through, knowing that at the

worst, nothing more terrible would happen to them than to be hauled

before the village elders to receive a few strokes of the rod in

pickle, that celebrated rod which was kept in state (chained to the

village pump) for the punishment of any of the Hertzenberg youngsters,

whose overflowing spirits might lead them into mischief.

The village was a pretty place; in the centre of its tiny green stood

the farrier's shop and smithy, not to mention the aforesaid pump, where

the old folk gathered together morning, noon, and night to discuss the

news of the place, while scattered around in groups of twos and threes,

the cosy red-roofed cottages beyond, looked for all the world like

merry children playing at bo-peep with one another.

One house alone stood by itself, turning its back with an air of

dignified grandeur upon the rest of the cosy little cottages,

and facing the pine-clad hill; this was the abode of the village

school-mistress, a quaint old dame in a high-crowned hat and scarlet

cloak, whom the children of Hertzenberg either loved or feared

according to their own behaviour, for it was not altogether a pleasant

thing to find oneself in the old lady's black books, with the rod in

pickle, so clearly to be seen through the little lattice window! What

they learnt from this old dame I hardly know, I fancy they spent most

of their time in teazing her black cat, Cæsar, or in gazing out of the

open door at the great hill opposite, in the hope of catching a glimpse

of the golden eagles swooping in rapid circles over the stony crags.

Now the hill itself belonged to all the villagers, but no one was

allowed to build upon it, or even to lop one branch off the smallest of

its countless pines; imagine, therefore, the surprise, indignation, and

consternation of everybody when, one fine morning, a gang of strange

workmen, clad in an outrageous fashion, and jabbering an unknown

tongue, were discovered at work on the side of the hill, directly

overlooking the village. How they came there no one knew, but what they

were doing, alas, was only too clear! They were felling as quickly

as possible the beautiful straight-limbed trees, which had been the

pride of the Hertzenbergers for generation after generation; cutting,

hacking, slashing, too, with reckless cruelty, clearing the ground as

if by magic.

The Hertzenbergers at first could not believe their eyes; then, as

another, and another, and another tree fell with a mighty crash that

echoed through the wood, they suddenly rose up as one man to defend

their beloved property. Hastily forming into a procession, headed by

the blacksmith in his leathern apron, they marched towards the hill

with the intention of driving off the impudent workmen, who had dared

to trespass upon their domain. But, alas, this was easier said than

done, for when they got up to them, the workmen turned out to be huge

and powerful monkeys, who upon the first show of fight, rushed so

fiercely upon the villagers that the latter, scared out of their wits,

were glad to retreat as fast as their legs would carry them.

After this discovery, the strange workmen were left alone, and every

day saw them busy at work, dressed in their uncouth garb, with their

tails tucked cleverly out of sight, and their caps drawn down so

carefully over their brown wizen faces that, at a little distance, it

would have been impossible to detect them from ordinary workmen, except

by their size and extreme quickness of movement.

Even when night fell, they never ceased their restless activity, but

lit great watch-fires, by whose lurid flames they toiled unceasingly,

throwing off, under cover of the darkness, the workmen's habiliments,

which had been so effectual a disguise; wild, uncouth creatures they

were, and as they leapt and capered about in the glare and shadow of

the flames, clad only in the hairy skins, and long powerful tails with

which mother Nature had adorned them, their strange ungainly figures

struck fresh terror and astonishment into the hearts of the villagers.

Ere long a deeper thrill of excitement ran through the village as the

leader of the troupe, a fierce and powerful baboon, was seen to advance

towards the stone quarry, closely followed by the whole band of monkeys.

Too soon, alas, the air was ringing with the blows of hammers and

chisels, as stone after stone was cut out from the rock, and dragged

with much gesticulating and quarrelling to the spot where the monkeys

had already dug out the foundations of what was afterwards to be so

widely known and dreaded as the stronghold of the Giant Fishers of

Hertzenberg.

All too rapidly the work progressed under the indignant eyes of the

poor helpless Hertzenbergers, and soon there arose against the clear

blue sky, a grim forbidding tower of solid stone.

This tower, which seemed to frown down upon, and menace the whole

village, was not long left empty, but was soon taken possession of by a

family of giants, for whom, indeed, it had been purposely built.

The poor villagers, once so happy and free of care, now trembled in

their shoes for dread of what might happen next; they knew that their

new neighbours meant them no good, and they could not hide their fears

from their children, who were even more alarmed than they were, for

it was not long before a rumour ran like wild-fire through the place,

a rumour so dreadful, that it curdled the blood of every little boy

and girl who heard it, and was conscious of possessing a plump, tender

body, and a sleek rosy face! Dreadful as it was, the report could be

put into four tiny words:

"BOY AND GIRL PIE!!!"

Yes, that was the long and short of it, "boy and girl pie!" And a

terrible thing it was to the poor little Hertzenbergers, who knew that

they were only too likely to find their way into the giants' gigantic

pie dishes!

For many weeks the villagers were afraid to venture out of doors except

in the dark; the dame's school was shut up, and the poor children

played dismally inside their own houses, being forbidden by their

mothers so much as to put their curly locks or even the tip of their

tiny snub noses out of the windows, for fear that the giants might

catch sight of them. One poor widow, who had only two children left to

comfort her—a sturdy, high-spirited boy, named Kaspar, and a delicate

little daughter called Gretchen, went so far as to bolt and bar the

wooden shutters of all her casements which looked towards the giants'

tower, but after a while, when it was found that the giants never

attempted to come out of their stronghold, the panic grew less, and, as

is often the case, public confidence began to revive at the very moment

when the peril was at its highest, for it was about this time that the

giants hit upon that strange mode of attack which won for them the

nickname of "The Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg!"

Out of the castle windows came first of all showers of gaily-coloured

sweetmeats, just to attract the children's attention; then, when

these had all been picked up and eaten, without any harm happening to

anybody, public opinion veered round, and began to vote the giants

"rather good fellows after all!" But there was more behind, as you

shall hear, for the showers of sweets ceased all too soon, and then the

giants began to amuse themselves by casting down fishing lines into

the village, baited with all the most tempting things that you could

possibly imagine.

The lines were hung so cleverly over the green that the children could

not come out of school, or cross over to the pump for a pail of water

without finding gingerbreads and sweetmeats, and toys of every kind

dangling in the air in front of them, or lying, as if by chance, on the

ground beneath their feet. Of course they were strictly forbidden by

their parents to touch any of these things, and at first fear made them

obedient, but one of the first to grow reckless was Kaspar, the poor

widow's son.

He was a high-spirited lad, full of pluck and self-confidence, and

being tempted, beyond endurance, one day, by a box of tin soldiers,

which pursued him everywhere, he determined at last to throw caution

to the winds, and to make one desperate effort to snatch them off the

line. Alas, poor Kaspar, no sooner did he thus resolve, and seize

hold of the coveted box with his eager hands, than the giant, who was

fishing out of the castle above, by a clever twist of the line, jerked

the cord tightly round and round his wrists, and having thus secured

his prey, began pulling his struggling victim slowly, but surely,

towards the tower.

Kaspar struggled, and kicked, and fought in vain, he grew red with

rage, then white with fear, and screamed so loudly that the whole

village rushed out to see what was the matter; but alas, by this time

the poor fellow was already dangling in mid-air, about half way up the

castle wall! While down below, like one distracted, stood his weeping

mother, wringing her hands, and crying aloud so that all could hear

her, "Oh my poor Kaspar, my brave bonny boy . . . he will be made into

mincemeat, and baked in the oven!"

Having made sure of his fish, however, the giant fisher seemed in no

hurry to pull him right up into the castle, and when twilight fell,

and the sorrowing villagers went sadly back into their cottages and

left him to his fate, Kaspar was still dangling below the giants'

larder window. How long he hung there he never knew! Of course, he

gave himself up for lost, but when it had grown quite dark, and he was

almost dead from fright and cold, he heard a gruff, but not unkindly,

voice above him, bidding him not to be afraid! He could not see who was

speaking to him, but it was no other than the old giant's wife, who had

determined to try and save the boy, whilst her husband and sons were

taking their forty winks after supper.

Presently, Kaspar felt something touch his shoulder; it was an old

clasp knife, and with one hand, which he had managed to free in his

struggles, he set to work to sever the rope, and after a tough struggle

cut it right through, and before he knew where he was, had dropped like

a stone to the ground, and remembered nothing more for some time.

Luckily, however, the ground was soft, and as he was only half stunned,

he no sooner began to recover his senses, than fear lent wings to

his feet, and he set off as fast as his legs could carry him in the

direction of his mother's cottage, where such a welcome-home awaited

him, as no words of mine can describe.

The next morning, a great stir arose in the castle, when Grimbo, the

old giant, discovered that his prisoner had escaped. His wife did not

let out her share in the matter, and when the rope was hauled up and

found to be severed in such an uneven way, both the giant and his

sons jumped to the conclusion, as they examined the jagged and frayed

ends, that they owed the loss of their prisoner to some flaw in the

cord, which had caused it to break of itself. "I'll kill and stew that

cheating rope-maker, I will," cried the father giant in a rage, "as

sure as my name is Grimbo! A nice trick he has been serving us, to sell

us rope that will not stand the weight of a little shrimp like that!

I'll teach him that he can't cheat honest giants for nothing! If he is

too tough to roast or boil, he needn't think to escape for all that,

I'll eat him with pleasure in a stew, if it is only to serve him out

for playing us such a shabby, mean trick!!!"

[Illustration]

All the while Grimbo was uttering these threats, he was working himself

up into a towering passion, an amusement that he was very fond of

indulging in. In one respect, he was a very peculiar giant, for he

was provided with two heads, either of which he screwed on in turn as

the fancy took him. One of these heads had a good-natured face, the

other was dark and scowling, but I am sorry to say that it was this

one he was the most often seen wearing. When things had gone wrong, or

the wind was in the east, he always began the day by screwing on the

ill-natured face, but on this particular morning, he awoke in such good

spirits at the prospect of dining off a plump tender youngster, that he

had screwed on the good-tempered face, and had left the ill-tempered

one grumbling away to itself in the drawer, where it was locked up for

safety when not on duty.

Now, however, he felt so savage that he unscrewed the smiling

unoffending head with a vicious jerk, and threw it to the other end of

the room, while he sent his terrified wife upstairs to fetch the other

one. As soon as that was screwed on, he was stalking across country,

grumbling, growling, and muttering to himself that he would pay the

rope-maker out for his insolence, and the rope-maker's wife seeing him

coming, ran at once to warn her husband and to hide her children, for

she had some very tempting chubby little creatures, just about the size

that the giant liked for patties!!

The rope-maker came out of his house to meet the giant with a sickly

smile and trembling limbs. Too well he knew that he "had" been cheating

old Grimbo lately, and a guilty conscience added to a glance he had

caught of the scowling ogre, made a terrible coward of him now. "Will

my noble lord Grimbo deign to honour my poor yard with his royal

presence?" he enquired in a terror-stricken voice, hardly daring to

raise his eyes from the ground.

The giant answered by a terrific roar, which so terrified the guilty

rope-maker, that he fairly turned tail and fled, whilst gasping out

some trembling excuse about "preparing the yard for his highness's

reception."

The rope-yard was a walled-in space, entered by a massive gateway high

enough to permit even of Grimbo's passing through by slightly lowering

his head. The rope-maker, who was a quick-witted man, as well as a

cheat, had always foreseen that an evil day might come when the giant's

anger would be turned against him, and had taken his precautions

accordingly. Not content to trust to an ordinary rope, he had secretly

woven a long length of hempen cords, intermingled with strands of

the toughest steel wire, and in this manner had produced a rope of

such extraordinary strength, that twenty giants would have found it

hard work to break it. This rope, which was provided with a slip-knot

and a noose, hung always in a secret place behind the stone parapet

overhanging the archway, ready for any emergency.

That emergency was now come, and as the angry giant rushed headlong

through the archway, ducking his head and charging like an infuriated

bull, the rope-maker's eldest boy, who had received instructions from

his father before being stationed in readiness on the parapet overhead,

dropped the noose in front of him, and lassoed him cleverly round the

neck!!

Then ensued a sharp, fierce struggle between the entrapped Grimbo, and

the whole family of the rope-maker, who began tugging away with their

united force at the straining rope, as if all their lives depended upon

it, which, indeed, they did, and ere long Grimbo's struggles became

fainter, and his strength began to fail, then the whole family gathered

themselves together for one mighty effort. Tug—tug—tug, and their

old enemy lay dead at their feet, outwitted and slain by the crafty

rope-maker.

Terrible as was the nature of his death, I am afraid poor Grimbo was

not very much lamented even in his own castle; while the Hertzenbergers

were so delighted to have got rid of their hated old enemy, that they

quite forgot that he had left behind two strong and lusty sons to carry

on his evil ways.

They were not, however, allowed to remain very long in forgetfulness,

for the fishing soon began to be carried on with greater vigour than

ever. The two young giants, Ruffo and Kuffo, were also more artful than

their father, and baited their lines with far more tempting baits than

he had ever done.

Kaspar they tried to inveigle in every possible way, dangling perfect

armouries of swords, guns, and pistols before the distracted boy's

eyes; and, in fact, no one could complain of being forgotten, for they

hung out toys for the little ones, rattles for the babies, brooms and

dust-pans for the mothers, pipes and drinking cups for the fathers, and

even a bag of gold for the old miser in the hollow!

Meanwhile, Kaspar had many a narrow escape of his life as, with

ever-growing boldness and dexterity, he attempted, and often succeeded,

in wrenching off and making away with several of the most coveted

prizes. And before long something exceedingly like quarrelling began

to take place between the two giant brothers, for Kaspar's example

was successfully followed by so many of the other bold spirits in

Hertzenberg that Ruffo and Kuffo angrily accused each other of bad

fishing. The castle larder was often empty—very empty indeed—and the

giants were almost starved (which did not improve their tempers), while

the poor people in the village were in a still worse position, for they

lived in a regular condition of siege, not daring to venture outside

their houses until after nightfall, when the darkness gave them a

certain sense of security.

Truly they were in a pitiable plight, for beside their constant dread

that the giants would hit upon some new method of fishing which would

catch them in spite of themselves, they foresaw only too clearly that

want, cold, and starvation must soon stare them in the face.

It was doubtless a great relief, after being shut up in the house

all day, to slip out in the darkness for a word with a neighbour,

or to fetch a pail of water from the village pump; but it was quite

impossible to gather in the crops or to prepare the ground for the next

year's sowing, or even to get in a fresh supply of wood for charcoal,

which was all that they had to depend upon in the way of fuel.

At length Kaspar, who was always full of bold projects, called

together a secret meeting after dark, in the village schoolroom, to

which all the men and boys were invited. When all were assembled, he

extracted from each in turn a solemn promise of secrecy, after which

he unfolded his plan, which was neither more nor less than to dig out

an underground passage from the school-house to the giants' castle,

beginning under the floor on which they were standing, and working

steadily away underground, like moles, until they were near enough

to spring a mine beneath the tower, and to blow up their relentless

enemies.