brown boy in the world. His people are dacoits, and he thinks his
father has been killed. He knows a funny sort of broken English, and he
has devoted himself to me. He was nearly starving when we found him,
and I had to carry him eighteen miles into camp. He never leaves me,
and I have just had to chivy him off to sleep. He hates bed just as
much as Polly and Margey do, but he goes much more obediently. It is
such dull work! I wish these dacoits would come, and give us . . ."
He stopped abruptly, for a brown hand crept inside the curtain, and an
anxious round face peered after it.
Captain Ayres seized his revolver, and started to his feet, but he
dropped it again with an angry laugh.
"Boots, get out of this!"
"Master—dacoits."
"Nonsense!" said Captain Ayres. "Don't you know, boy, that the camp is
guarded, and there are outposts all round? If you don't do as I tell
you at once, I shall make a prisoner of you."
He looked sternly at the eager face, out of which the eyes shone like
stars. He saw a dull look of disappointment fall like a veil over his
features, and then the brown shadow seemed to fade into the darker
shadow of the tent. Boots had gone.
[Illustration: WRITING HOME]
Gone for the night, it seemed; but the look in his face haunted the
Captain. He picked up his revolver and loaded it, and then he drew
his sword nearer, and carefully removed a spot of rust, for when once
the rains come in Burmah it is almost impossible to keep steel in
perfect order. He felt wide awake, and alert. His neat report—reporting
nothing—lay folded on the table; the half-written letter to his
mother lay staring at him reproachfully; the deathly silence outside
was appalling. He pushed his chair back, lit his pipe, and loosened
his sword-belt. He wished some of his comrades had come in, as they
intended. He had an old pack of cards in his knapsack, and they might
have managed to play dummy whist—anything would have been better than
this idle loafing from place to place, with nothing to do.
His watch ticked loudly from the place on the tent pole where it hung.
He leant forward and looked at it. A quarter to two—and at that moment
a clear sharp cry divided the night, and sent the blood thrilling to
his heart—a cry three times repeated, "Master! master! master!"
With his sword on, and his revolver in his hand, he had flung up the
mat that formed the doorway in the hut before the echo died away. A
dark compact body of police were forming into a square, the sentries
and outposts were challenging, a quick rain of shot was pattering
on the leaves, and the little camp was alive with the steady tramp
of armed men. It was a most successful little fight, and Captain
Ayres won the first of his many medals on that night. He took the
head-man prisoner single-handed, and many of the dacoits were killed,
while many more were conducted by the courageous little force into
Mandalay, and were delivered up to justice. But when it was all over,
and the day had broken, showing the gloomy details of the fight,
Captain Ayres, pale and dishevelled, with his broken wrist tied up
in a pocket-handkerchief, wandered over the ground, disconsolate and
wretched, looking always for something he could not find.
It was Boots, of course; but no one could find Boots, not though the
Captain offered fifty pounds out of his own pocket for the discovery.
The small company of English soldiers, with two officers, and a doctor,
arrived in the early morning, but Ayres was intractable; he would not
sit still for a moment, or eat, or smoke, or behave in the least like a
reasonable being.
"I knew Boots' voice," he said huskily, "and I am sure the brutes
murdered him. He tried to warn me—he knew his own tribe, you see—but I
wouldn't believe him, and he saved the camp at the sacrifice of his own
life."
"Perhaps he went off with this tribe," someone suggested.
"I am sure he didn't," said Captain Ayres sharply. "However, we must
strike tents and go. Poor Boots!"
And would you like to know where Boots was all the time? He was hidden
close in the folds of Captain Ayres' own tent, where they found him
lying insensible, with a dark wound on his bare, brown breast. Not a
fatal wound, I hasten to tell you unless you should feel unhappy about
him; for Boots has grown up into a faithful servant, and has often
since then recklessly offered his life in defence of his master. He
wears a coat now, because he is a respectable member of society, and
also because his medal obliges him to do so.
Captain Ayres had plenty to add to that eventful letter to his mother,
but he had not time to do so for nearly a week afterwards. He wrote:—
"Boots has distinguished himself. The dacoits came in the dead of the
night, and sneaked past the sentries, and meant to rush the camp, but
Boots was one too many for them. They tried to silence him, but he
shouted to me, and roused the camp, before they put a spear into him.
He is doing well, and has been recommended for a medal, and so am I;
but the honour and glory are all to Boots!"
Geraldine R. Glasgow.
[Illustration]
The Tale of Prince Tatters
ONCE upon a time, a very long while ago, there was a little boy named
Tatters, or at least, folks called him so. Nobody knew his real name,
for, several years before, he had been left one winter day outside an
old woman's door. The old woman didn't like children. She was very
cross at first, but then she said, "He can work for me, if the worst
comes to the worst."
This old woman was really a witch: and every day she grew still uglier
and crosser, the more black magic she knew. Tatters did all the work,
and got nothing but beatings and blame. Whether he did things wrong or
right, she beat him just the same.
One day she went to gather various herbs and flowers, and she said, as
she locked in Tatters, "I shall be at least two hours. Chop the wood,
draw water, and clean the kitchen floor. And don't you touch the plants
in the pots—I've told you that before."
These plants were in the window; one had a yellowish bloom and the
other a pale pink blossom, with very sweet perfume. And when poor
Tatters had done his work he went and stood by their side. He thought
"they're the only nice things in the house," and when he thought that,
he cried, and his tears fell on the plants in pots, on the yellow one
and the pink and suddenly there was a crack and flash—and oh, what do
you think? There stood two little fairy men, in pink and yellow and
green, smiling very happily where the plants in the pots had been.
They said, "O, Tatters, you've set us free, and we'll help you now, if
we can. Don't be frightened, we're your friends. Our names are Spick
and Span. Do you know who you are, Tatters? You really were born a
Prince, but you were stolen away from home, nearly nine years since."
Just then there came a tap-tap-tap, the sound of the witch's crutch.
She saw the broken flower pots, and screamed "Have you dared to
touch?" but before she could say another word, Span blew on her—puff!
double-quick, and she found she couldn't speak or move. How she glared
at him and Spick! Then they took her crutch, which was really a magic
wand, and waved it, and said "Take us straight away to the Farthest
Back of Beyond!"
And a beautiful Golden coach drove up, that very minute: and Spick
and Span and Tatters immediately got in it. And they rode to Tatters'
palace; you can just suppose with what joy the king and queen, his
father and mother, welcomed their long lost boy! And Spick and Span
went home, to the side of a fairy hill.
But the old witch stayed as they left her: and no doubt she stays there
still.
May Byron.
[Illustration]
Lost on the Fells
IT was a soft Autumn day—and the dying grass looked yellow on the
fells. Beyond, and above them, the mountains rose in great wide sweeps,
with misty caps hiding the summits. Down in the village street a woman
was standing in the doorway of a small house with a little girl.
"Just take her a bit of a run, Harriet," she said to an elder child,
who was standing patiently in the roadway, "but don't tire her, like a
good little lass—nor yourself neither—you know your way over the low
fell, and you'll be back by tea-time. The washing'll be done by then,
and I won't say but what you'll find a cake in the oven."
Harriet took the child's hands, with an air of serious
responsibility—she might have been seventy instead of seven—her odd
little face, with the wide eyes and puckered forehead, belonged to
another race from her mother's round freckled comeliness—her large
mouth was always serious, but was sweet and calm.
"It's all right, Mother," she said; "you go right in and do the
washing, and Sally and me, we'll have a fine time on the fells."
They were half way down the street, when the mother called them back.
"You won't be late, loves—you know I'm a bit of a fidget!"
Harriet nodded vigorously—she was afraid her voice would not carry so
far. And so they turned the corner and were out of sight.
[Illustration]
Sally skipped along up the gradual slope, shouting with glee, and
Harriet sauntered after her, bathed in the Autumn sunlight, pausing
every now and then to eat some blackberries, or to gather a spray of
crimson and yellow leaves, which looked like gold against the other
faded tints. On and on they went, until they were round the hill on
the narrow sheep-walk, with rough stones sticking up out of the grass
on either side—the sun had gone behind a cloud, and Harriet looked
up suddenly and saw that the soft white mist was creeping down the
mountain side, and blotting out every jutting peak and shining slope
as it came. It grew so dense about them presently that it felt like a
fine, soft rain, and a little wind blew it in the children's faces.
Harriet looked up and round her, and shivered. "Come, Sally," she
said, "it's very thick up the mountain—we'll run down the way we've
come—Mother's got a cake in the oven at home."
Sally came reluctantly, with her hands full of treasures—"Mayn't we go
round the other way," she said; "Mother said so."
Again Harriet looked up. The mist was closer now, pursuing them; out
of it patches of grey stone shone like gold, telling that the sun was
still behind the mist, but round their feet everything was white and
shapeless. They started running, but in a few minutes they had to go
more slowly, stumbling over crags and stones—leaving the path and
creeping back to it again by devious ways. Denser and denser grew the
mist, and very dark, but still they hurried on breathlessly.
"We must be nearly home now," said Harriet.
"Nearly home," echoed Sally, "I'se very tired."
Harriet paused abruptly, and knelt down.
"Get on my back, Sally," she said, "your poor little legs are not as
long as mine. We'll be home in no time."
She struggled to her feet again and crept slowly on, with the heavy
child clinging to her neck. Once or twice, a sort of wild fear took
possession of her, and she stopped and called, but her shrill little
voice did not carry far, and the thick fog isolated them. On and on
she struggled wearily, with the white mist on her hair and eyelashes,
panting and distressed, until at last she could go no further. She knew
that it was evening, because the mist was no longer white but heavy
grey, and when Sally rolled on to the ground, she lay where she had
fallen, half asleep, with her cold little legs tucked under her.
[Illustration]
"It's no use," said Harriet, "I've lost the way. It's hours and hours
since we began to walk, and there isn't a sound. We'll just have to
wait a bit till the fog lifts."
She took off her scanty petticoat and slipped it over Sally's legs,
and wrapped her tightly up—then she sat down on the path, with her
back against a stone, and took the whimpering child on to her knee,
holding her close, so that the damp wind should not strike her. By and
bye she sang a sort of crooning song, rocking the child in her tired
frozen arms, until she fell asleep, and lay quite still. Perhaps she
slept too—she was never quite certain, but suddenly it seemed quite
light, and there was a red harvest moon lighting up the heavens, and
myriads of stars sparkling on the mountain top like a crown. She was
sitting right on the path, just where they had been when the mist
came down—here was the blackberry bush—there the jutting rock—they
must have wandered all round the mountain and come back again to the
starting-point.
Harriet stretched her stiff limbs and staggered to her feet, but Sally
would not wake, so presently she gathered her up again, and went slowly
down the hill, sobbing and panting under her heavy burden, pausing
every few minutes to rest and breathe.
When she got down into the village street, it seemed alive with men.
The doors were all wide open, and there were lanterns everywhere. At
her Mother's door there was a silent group, with the minister in the
midst, and as Harriet pushed her way through they fell back and made
a passage to her Mother's side. She was sitting on the step, with her
face hidden, and her hair disordered.
"Mother," said Harriet, in a sobbing voice, "we're back safe."
The woman started to her feet, and took them both into her capacious
arms. She was trembling so much that she could not speak.
"She hasn't got cold, Mother," said Harriet eagerly, "feel her
feet—they are as warm as toast."
[Illustration]
"Oh, my dear, my dear," said her Mother.
"And she hasn't got tired neither," went on Harriet quietly. "I've
carried her all the way."
"And you?" said the Minister. He had come to the front, and was beaming
on her through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
"I? Oh, I?" said Harriet, staring—"I'm a big girl—there doesn't need no
one to mind me—Sally's a baby."
The minister looked from the rosy face cuddled to the woman's
bosom—back to the wide uplifted eyes that stared at him out of a thin,
cold face.
"Your mother is a happy woman, Harriet," he said. "To tell you the
truth, if I hadn't heard it from your own lips, I should hardly have
known which was the baby."
"Oh, sir," said Harriet, with a trembling voice.
"Only judging by the size, my dear," he said hastily. "Judging by the
spirit, and the heroism of it, there can be no doubt at all."
Geraldine R. Glasgow.
[Illustration]
Printed in Bavaria.