THE HARMSWORTH MAGAZINE
Vol. 1--No. 6
TABLE OF CONTENTS
"CHRYSANTHEMUMS CURLED HERE." 579
"OFF TO KLONDYKE." 583
LITTLE ROYALTIES. 590
LONDON'S LATEST LION. 595
THE HOME OF FOUR O'CLOCK TEA. 605
STATISTICS GONE MAD. 609
"A PRINCESS IN GREEN AND TAN." 611
3,000 MILES ON RAILWAY SLEEPERS. 619
THE CURSE OF THE CATSEYE. 623
MICE WORTH THEIR WEIGHT IN GOLD. 631
A CROWDED HOUR 634
STRANGE KINDS OF MONEY. 639
CLEVER MRS. BLADON. 645
AN ENGINE MATCH BETWEEN ENGLAND AND AMERICA. 651
NATURE'S DANGER-SIGNALS. 656
IN PRAISE OF BABY 661
"MAN OVERBOARD!" 662
OUR MONTHLY GALLERY OF BEAUTIFUL AND INTERESTING PICTURES. 665
[Illustration: GREEK GIRLS PLAYING AT BALL.
_From the Painting by the late Lord Leighton, P.R.A._
_By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., Bond Street. IV_]
"CHRYSANTHEMUMS CURLED HERE."
A CHAT WITH A FLORAL BARBER.
BY ALFRED ARKAS.
The chrysanthemum is the spoiled and petted darling of the floral
world. She is as vain as any society beauty, and quite as much time is
spent on her toilet and personal appearance. Though beautiful by
nature, she scorns to show herself to her circle of admirers until the
arts of the hairdresser and masseur have enhanced her loveliness.
Toilet goes a long way in this world, and many a social star owes half
her triumphs to it. Particularly is this true of My Lady Chrysanthemum;
for she well repays for any trouble that may be spent upon her.
You cannot paint the lily with any prospect of success, but the number
of curls and frills and furbelows you may add to the dainty
chrysanthemum bloom, and still leave room for the touch of a titivating
hand, is endless.
There are tricks in every trade, and the same is true of most hobbies.
Chrysanthemum showing and growing form no exception to the rule. You
may have mastered the many little secrets of growing these glorious
flowers to the best advantage, and yet be as far from inclusion in the
coveted show prize list as though you were but a mere tyro.
[Illustration: LADY CHRYSANTHEMUM AT HER TOILET.
1. The flower is cut.
2. A part of the seedy eye is taken out.
3. Deformed and misshapen petals are removed.
4. The petals are then curled.
5. The bloom is finally brushed up.]
As a matter of fact the best bloom that ever grew is one thing on the
stalk and altogether another in the show box. If you saw some of the
magnificent prize-winning and highly commended blossoms which are the
feature of the great annual shows before they had been through the deft
hands of the floral barber you would fail to recognise them. Glorious
they are in their natural state; but, like a beautiful woman, their
beauty is only set off the more by a fitting toilet.
How art may assist nature is admirably shown in the accompanying
photographs illustrating My Lady Chrysanthemum in her natural state,
and the same bloom dressed and cupped for show purposes. It will
probably never have occurred to the majority of people that such
dressing is a most important matter in preparing blossoms for
exhibition, and it will be news to them that the preparation of this
toilet is a matter requiring the greatest skill, and is only to be
undertaken with complete success by the horticulturist who has made a
special study of chrysanthemum growing and showing.
Such a one is Mr. Southard, who is at present growing prize blooms of
all kinds for Mr. Kenyon, of Sutton, Surrey. Mr. Southard is one of the
most successful growers in this country of the Japanese national
flower. He is an exhibitor whose triumphs in the past are represented
by innumerable first, second, and special prizes. And he is generally
recognised as one of the most expert chrysanthemum dressers to be found
in a long day's march.
To him we are indebted for our knowledge of the secrets of floral
barbering.
What a science this is may be more readily realised by a glance at our
photograph of a set of instruments used for the purpose. These are
specially made, and each has a special part to play in dressing the
perfect specimen bloom.
[Illustration: A "RAGGED AND UNKEMPT CHRYSANTHEMUM"--WHICH BECAME NEAT
AND CHARMING UNDER CAREFUL TREATMENT.]
There are twenty-four varieties of chrysanthemums, but two in
particular, the reflex and the incurved, are the subjects of artificial
treatment. The accompanying series of photographs show the making of an
incurved bloom's toilet from first to last. The first picture
illustrates the cutting. To the uninitiated there would not appear to
be anything particular about this; but mark one thing. The bloom is cut
with a long stalk. This is an important matter: the reason will appear
later on. The second photograph of the series illustrates the taking
out of a portion of the seedy eye. This is a particularly telling part
of the toilet, and goes a long way towards making the bloom show its
best.
In the exhibition specimen the petals uniformly cover the flower, but
as it appears on the plant it will probably show a considerable amount
of centre; unless this is removed it causes an untidy hollow in the
middle of the bloom. Portions of the seedy eye are generally removed
while the flower is yet on the plant, and the petals then grow
naturally towards the centre, and cover the cavity. However, in
dressing the bloom it is usual to extract further portions, an
operation performed by means of the special instrument shown in the
photograph.
The next process is the removing of deformed and misshapen petals.
Although not, perhaps, visible to the eye, there are sure to be a few
of these lurking beneath the more perfect specimens. They must come
out. If visible, they are an eyesore; if invisible, they prevent the
others from falling into their natural positions, and so upset the
harmony of the whole.
There is a steel forceps provided for this operation. However, the
skill is not in using the instrument. Anyone can despoil the plumage of
a fine bloom. The art lies in extracting the right petals, so as to
give the exterior the best possible shape when finally dressed.
These various processes have taken a great deal of time, yet the bloom
looks, if anything, less like a show specimen than it did when on the
plant.
However, they are but a means to an end, and their use is soon apparent
now that we come to the principal operation of dressing. In this,
order is evolved out of chaos, and in the hands of an expert the bloom
immediately begins to assume an altogether different appearance.
[Illustration: THREE SPECIMEN BLOOMS.]
[Illustration: THIS "EDWARD MOLYNEUX" WAS NINE INCHES ACROSS.]
[Illustration: THE BLOOM HERE PHOTOGRAPHED--"MUTUAL FRIEND"--WAS TEN
INCHES IN DIAMETER.]
First it undergoes the operation of cupping. The cups are made of zinc,
and vary in design according to the shape of the flower. The upper part
closely resembles the socket of a candlestick. The outside is threaded,
and screws into a cylindrical case containing water.
Now the reason of the long stalk is apparent. It is passed through the
hollow till the lower petals of the bloom are pressed firmly on the
plate, then the outer case is screwed on, and the flower is held as
rigidly as though in a vice. The screw cup performs three functions: It
waters the bloom, keeps it in position, and by pressing the under
petals upwards accentuates its shape and size. The operation of
dressing brings another instrument into use. It seems a simple matter
to take hold of a ragged bloom and pat and stroke it into shape,
curling a petal here, twisting another there. In reality it is a matter
of great delicacy, and some years of experience are required before one
may hope to obtain the best possible results, and even then some three
hours may easily be spent in dressing a bloom.
[Illustration: MY LADY CHRYSANTHEMUM'S TOILET TABLE.]
The imperfect petals underneath having gone, those outside readily
respond to the touch of the instrument and spring into regular
formation, while those at the top of the bloom are carefully curled to
a common centre and effectively conceal all that was left of the seedy
eye.
Under the deft touches of the master hand, the ragged bloom rapidly
develops into a thing of greatest beauty. Each curl marks a great
improvement, and when it is finished one readily realises how much
there is in this as in other things for the amateur to learn.
A final brush up is now all that is necessary. A specially made
camel-hair brush accompanies the set of instruments; with this the
grower gently brushes the leaves till no speck dims their fair
loveliness.
[Illustration: SOME USEFUL ARTICLES ON HER DRESSING-TABLE.]
My lady's toilet is now completed, and she is forthwith placed in the
show box, which is designed to hold six cupped blooms. This box
consists of a slanting platform containing six holes, in which the cups
are placed. The two at the top are partially unscrewed, the middle pair
not quite so much so, while those at the bottom are screwed in tightly.
This is called setting-up, and is an art of itself. It arranges the
flowers in tiers, so that those in front do not hide the blooms behind.
Skilled setting-up is worth several points, as it enables the blooms to
show themselves off to the best possible effect, and at the same time
favourably impresses the judge's eye.
The blooms are shown in specified numbers; generally, thirty-six,
twenty-four, or twelve are required from each exhibitor. Nowadays,
chrysanthemum blooms attain enormous sizes. We show two specimen
blossoms. That known as "Mutual Friend," shown on the previous page, is
ten inches in diameter; the other, "Edward Molyneux," at the left hand
foot of the same page, is nine inches across. This is about the
diameter of an ordinary plate.
Notable sizes are also attained in the plants themselves, and in
preparing these for show there are divers little secrets.
In the illustration below Mr. Southard is standing between two specimen
plants. Notice the difference in the general appearance of the twain.
That on the left is ragged and unkempt, though it is in every way a
show specimen. Compare it with the neat, charming effect of the plant
to the right of the picture. Here is an instance of what a little show
preparation will do for the plant itself. In the latter case, each
bloom and stalk is trained up to a stick, and as a consequence perfect
harmony is gained, and the plant shows at its best. In many cases these
stalks have to be trained round corners, and describe wonderful curves
in order to take up the places assigned to them. The space under the
blooms and foliage is a forest of sticks, all engaged in carrying the
long, pliable stalks to their rightful places.
[Illustration: THE FLORAL BARBER AT HIS WORK. CONTRAST THE TWO PLANTS.]
The untied plant on the left is a wonderful specimen. It measures over
four feet across the top, grows from one stalk, and yet only occupies a
twelve-inch pot.
Blooms from some of the choice plants are worth from three to five
shillings apiece, while even cuttings will fetch the latter figure.
One of the great fascinations of show-chrysanthemum growing is the
possibility of producing new blooms. Out of twelve exhibited flowers
shown me at a recent show, nine were entirely new specimens. Like the
orchid grower, the chrysanthemum lover is ever seeking floral
novelties. In the ordinary way it takes some years to produce and fix a
new flower. Endless patience, experiment, and knowledge are necessary
to success; but here, as in most branches of floriculture, there is a
strong element of luck, and the raw amateur sometimes purchases a
cutting which turns out to be an extraordinarily fine specimen of a new
variety.
This element of uncertainty undoubtedly constitutes one of the great
charms of horticulture.
"OFF TO KLONDYKE."
A STORY TO BE READ TO CHILDREN.
BY GEO. A. BEST.
_Illustrated with novel Photographs from life by Arthur Ullyett,
Ilford._
"Wake up, Lessels!" said Stanley, in a hoarse whisper, shaking his
younger brother as he spoke. "I've got a grand idea!"
[Illustration: "'WAKE UP, LESSELS! I'VE GOT A GRAND IDEA!'"]
[Illustration: "'I'M OFF TO KLONDYKE, AND YOU'VE GOT TO BE MY PARD.'"]
"Gimme a little bit then," answered Lessels, drowsily. "You had some of
my chocolate cweam last night."
"You goose! Don't you know what an idea is?" retorted the elder boy,
disdainfully. "It isn't anything to eat. It's a notion."
"Then you can have it all yourself," remarked Lessels, indifferently.
"Would you like a thousand pounds to spend on caramels and chocolate?"
asked Stanley. "And a golden guinea to put in the bank till you are a
man?"
"I'd like the chocolate," answered Lessels, with some show on interest.
"An' I'd like a boxful of caramels; an' a barley-sugar lion; an' a real
engine which would go by itself an' wun into things. An' I'd like a toy
fire-engine, so that I could set fire to Madge's dolls' house an' put
it out; an' a bucketful of ice cream, an'----"
"Don't speak so loud, you little duffer, or you'll get nothing at all!"
interrupted the elder boy. "Just get out of bed at once, and dress
yourself without dropping anything. We're off to Klondyke!"
"Off to what?"
"Klondyke--a place where you dig money out of the ground like coals.
Big lumps of solid gold, what'll buy a whole shopful of toys, and tons
of best London mixture and marzipan. See?"
"What about washin' our faces an' bweakfast?"
"Miners never wash themselves, silly; and they don't have proper
breakfasts till they've made their pile."
"What's a miner, an' who's a pile?" asked Lessels, chasing himself
across the room backwards to attach his braces to a rear button which
was apparently running away.
"A miner's a man who digs gold up and washes it in a cinder-sifter,"
explained Stanley. "And he shoots everybody who comes near him except
his pard. I'm off to Klondyke to be a miner before dada awakes, and
you've got to be my pard."
"Who'll I shoot?" asked Lessels, with a defiant glare.
"Everybody but me," answered Stanley, condescendingly. "We'll want my
best sixpence-ha'penny gun; several sticks of lead pencil to shoot; two
spades; a cinder-sifter; an umberrellar to sleep under; our
nightshirts; a loaf of bread, and a big knife."
"Shall we take Desmond in the mail cart?" asked the four-year-old
"pard," innocently. "Desmond, an' a packet of sherbet, an' my toy
engine, an' a chair to sit on, an' the kitchen lamp, an' our bed, an'
a few other fings to eat?"
"Babies and toys must be left at home," snapped the miner. "And how do
you think we can carry a bed along? We must hunt for crabs to eat with
our bread, and shoot birds and catch fish. Our Klondyke is really the
beach, for I heard dada say last night that Southend was a regular
Klondyke, as gold had been found on the sands. What a good job we live
close to Southend, isn't it?"
"Hadn't we better tell dad we're going, an' get a penny to spend?"
suggested the long-headed Lessels, ignoring his brother's question.
"A penny to spend!" echoed the elder boy, scornfully. "We'll have fifty
thousand golden sovereigns to spend before this day week; and dad will
forget to whack us when we buy him a new house, and a carriage with two
horses and a footman, and an ounce of tobacco. And mamma shall have
four splendid servants, and a sealskin jacket, and a bottle of scent,
and a bicycle, and a new box of hairpins! I'm quite ready now, are
you?"
Lessels answered with a somewhat doubtful nod, and the children crept
silently downstairs. The kitchen door was successfully unbolted after a
table and chair had been mounted by the intrepid Stanley, and the
necessary materials for the outfit were rapidly collected from the
neighbourhood of the washhouse.
[Illustration: STANLEY AND LESSELS START FOR KLONDYKE.]
"I'll carry the umberellar, gun, and knife," whispered Stanley. "You
can fetch along the cinder-sifter and the other things."
"I don't like to touch the shinder-sifter: it's got nasty worms and
snails on," protested Lessels, whimpering. "An' if I can't carry the
gun I shan't go, so there!"
"I've a great mind to put a lead pencil through you, you great baby!"
hissed the miner, furiously. "You're a nice pard for a man to have, to
be sure! Don't forget that my gun is loaded, and I'm not going to stand
any nonsense, so just do as you're told. If you're afraid of a worm,
what are you going to do when conger eels, sea serpents, and octopussys
attack us?"
"Fight 'em to deaf!" answered the "pard," growing suddenly cheerful at
the prospect of encountering large game. "Is the octopussy like other
cats?"
[Illustration: THEY MARCH THROUGH A DENSE JUNGLE.]
"It isn't a cat at all; it's a fish like a large spring onion with eyes
in, and hundreds of roots which are all alive," explained Stanley, as
the expedition moved slowly across the first field.
After a long and painful march over a plain covered with thistles and
long grass, succeeded by a dense jungle, the heavily laden
"prospectors" reached the beach at a lonely spot some miles to the
westward of Southend pier. Here the umbrella tent was erected, the gun
reloaded, and the mining utensils carefully unpacked. The loaf was
thoughtfully wrapped up in a nightshirt to preserve it from the effect
of sun and salt water.
"We must stake out our claim at once," said Stanley, producing four
clothes pegs from his pocket, and sticking one at each corner of a
four-sided diagram hastily scratched on the sand with a spade. "All
miners have to do this before they've been in Klondyke five minutes.
And we must put up a notice that this claim belongs to us, so as to
keep other gold hunters off. See?"
"Then we shan't have nobody to shoot," protested Lessels, in a
disappointed tone.
"Dig up some sand, pard, and fling it into the cinder-sifter while I
write out the caution in blue pencil," said Stanley. "And when all the
sand has run through call me to pick out the gold."
And after seeing the first spadeful of sand fall into the sieve, the
elder miner rapidly produced a notice worded as follows:--
"This is our clame. Tresspasers will be persecuted and shot. Vissitors
are requested not to tuch the nugets."
"Anybody reading that warning won't dare to come within a mile of us,"
remarked the author, proudly, as he attached the notice to the ferrule
of his "tent." "Any luck, pard?"
"Any what, Stan?"
"Luck--I mean have you found anything?"
"I've got a kwab, an' a cockle shell, an' an old shoe, an' a
ginger-beer bottle," replied Lessels, with a yawn. "The bottle's got
some beer left in, an' I'm very thirsty. Shall we have a dwop?"
"That isn't ginger-beer, it's sea water!" cried Stanley, warningly. "If
you drink ever so little you'll go mad, and smash things and shoot
yourself! Then I shall have to bury you in the sand, and put a wooden
cross over your head, so that I can show dada where I left you."
"My head aches, an' I'm getting thirsty," protested the hard-working
pard.
[Illustration: THEY DIG FOR GOLD, AND FLING THE SAND INTO THE
CINDER-SIFTER.]
[Illustration: A BIG NUGGET IS DISCOVERED.]
"You 'ave got gold fever, that's all!" said Stanley, impatiently. "All
miners suffer from gold fever, but it doesn't often kill 'em. If we
both work hard for a few minutes p'r'aps we'll find a tiny nugget that
we can change for real ginger-beer and buns at the store. We'll have a
splendid evening at the store after our day's work is done. All the
boys will be there, and we'll drink more than is good for us, and fight
and play poker."
"We haven't got any pokers to play with," argued the matter-of-fact
Lessels. "An' there isn't any boys but us about; an' there's no store
where we can spend our nuggets, an' fight in. If you tell stories like
that, Stan, you'll never get to----"
"The worst of you is you're so silly!" interrupted the elder boy,
shaking the cinder-sifter vigorously as he spoke. "You never think
anything's real that you can't see. When people get to know that
there's millions of pounds under these sands there'll be cheap
two-and-sixpenny excursion trains, full of wild miners, arriving here
every few minutes."
"Will there be anything to eat an' dwink?" demanded the hot and thirsty
pard, anxiously.
"Tons of it!" answered the senior digger, enthusiastically. "We shall
use sweets an' sugar sticks for bullets, an' wash ourselves in real
ginger beer. Miners always spend their money like that. They waste what
they can't eat, and wash their faces in drink when they've had more
than is good for them. It's a splendid life, isn't it, Lessels?"
"Which?" asked the pard, doubtfully.
"What's the use of explaining things to a fellow like you?" snapped
Stanley. "Haven't I told you all about it?"
Lessels retired to the shelter of the tent without attempting to reply
to either of these questions, and slowly divested himself of his shoes
and socks.
"_Now_ what are you going to do?" demanded the miner, angrily.
"Paggle," replied Lessels, pointing to the incoming tide, which was
rapidly approaching the camp.
"Paddle!" echoed Stanley. "What sense is there in paddling before we've
found a single ha'porth of gold? Hallo! Come here, quick!" he
continued, excitedly, as something large and hard rolled from side to
side of the sieve. "Oh, Lessels! I've found a monster nugget! Come and
help me lift it out. Hurrah!"
[Illustration: "'KEEP THE GUN LOADED; WE'LL HAVE ROBBERS ALONG
PRESENTLY.'"]
"Wait till I get my sock off," replied Lessels, indifferently. "Is it
weal gold?"
"Of course it is, you little duffer! Never mind your sock!" roared the
excited miner. "It's a large, square nugget--yellow, and broken in two.
I wonder who's stole the other half."
"Looks like a bwick," remarked the pard, suspiciously, after carefully
surveying the find. "An' it isn't clean an' bwight like weal money."
"I tell you it's a nugget," replied the lucky miner, in a tone which
was intended to put an end to all argument on the subject. "Keep the
gun loaded; I guess we'll have some robbers along presently."
"Where can we spend it?" asked Lessels, anxiously.
"There's a stall where they sell ginger-beer and ice-cream, about half
a mile along the beach," replied Stanley; "you can just see it in the
distance. If you like, you can walk over there and bring back half a
dozen of beer, three gipsy cakes, and about twenty sovereigns' worth of
change. But don't let the storekeeper cheat you."
"I'll go!" declared Lessels, delighted by the prospect of obtaining
some very necessary refreshment. "I'll go, Stan, and you can dig out
plenty big nuggets, an' save 'em up till I come back. I'd better take
the gun, so's I can shoot the man if he tries to cheat me."
"Don't forget the change!" cried Stanley, as he watched his little
brother run rapidly away in the direction of the stall.
In ten minutes' time, a flushed and weary-looking little miner, hugging
a piece of wave-worn brick, presented himself to the storekeeper, who
was just in the act of taking down the shutters of his timber-built
shop.
"Well, my little man, what can I do for you?" asked the shopkeeper,
cheerily.
"Half a dozen of ginger-beer, three gipsy cakes, and twenty sovereigns
in change!" demanded the miner, breathlessly.
[Illustration: LESSELS TRIES TO CASH HIS NUGGET.]
"Twenty sovereigns change!" echoed the man. "What do you mean, little
one? Where's your money?"
"Here it is!" replied Lessels, boldly, laying the precious "nugget" on
a plate of puff pastry, and assuming an attitude of defence. "Half a
dozen of ginger cakes, three bottles of gipsy----"
"I can't give you all that for a brick," interrupted the shopkeeper,
shaking his head. "You'd better run away and play."
"It isn't a bwick--it's a weal nugget," said the miner, with a scowl.
"An' if you try to cheat me, Stanley said I must shoot you dead!"
"Here's a bottle of pop and your nugget for nothing," said the
kind-hearted shopkeeper, with a laugh. "But don't bring any more brick
ends or rubbish over here. Where are you going to take it to?"
"The camp."
"Where's the camp?"
"In Klondyke."
"Where's Klondyke?"
"On the beach, wight over there where Stanley is."
"Who's Stanley?"
"Stan's a miner, an' I'm his pard. We're diggin' up nuggets to spend in
sweets, an' carriages, an' other fings for dada and mamma."
* * * * *
The tide had nearly reached the camp when Lessels returned.
"I haven't found any more nuggets, Lessels," said Stanley,
despondingly. "Did you get the change all right?"
"No: I brought the gold back with me, 'cos the man said it was only a
bwick!"
"Only a brick!" echoed Stan, with a dry sob. "I'm so thirsty and tired,
Les."
"You've got gold fever, like I had," said Lessels, sympathetically.
"Lie down an' west a bit while I dwink up the ginger-beer which the man
gave me for nothing."
"All right, greedy!"
"I'm not gweedy, Stan, only thirsty. You can have a little dwop when
I've cut the string an' shot the cork off. Then we'll go home to
bweakfast, won't we?"
"It's nearly dinner time now, Lessels," said Stanley, sadly. "And we
can't go home without a single nugget to buy presents with, or dada'll
be sure to whack us."
[Illustration: "'I DON'T LIKE KLONDYKE.'"]
"I don't like Klondyke! I don't like Klondyke!" sobbed poor Lessels, a
moment afterwards when the ginger-beer cork flew skywards with a loud
report, causing the bold miner to drop the bottle in dismay.
"You're a pretty pard to send on an errand!" cried the disappointed
Stanley, as the greedy sand quickly absorbed the contents of the
bottle. "Frightened of a ginger-beer cork! I wouldn't be such a cowardy
custard! Here I am nearly dying of gold fever, and there's nothing to
drink or eat but sea-water and dry bread."
"Poor old Stan!" said Lessels, with genuine concern. "Don't die an'
leave me to find my way home all by myself. Let's lie down an' go to
sleep a bit. Then we'll forget how hungwy an' thirsty we are, an' how
dada'll whack us when we get home!"
"Dear old pard!" said Stanley, sleepily. "It was my fault bringing you
here, and I ought to have all dada's smacks."
"Not all; nearly all," answered the loyal pard, with sublime
condescension. "You can have all the biggest ones. I'm not gweedy!
S'pose the tide comes up an' drownds us, what'll mamma say?"
"It serves us right," was the drowsy reply.
"An' dada?"
"Dada'll say he'll teach us to get drownded again!"
"An' baby Desmond?"
"Desmond'll say 'cuckoo'--he doesn't know any other words."
"An' the dog?"
The last question remained unanswered.
"Poor old Stanny's asleep," soliloquised Lessels. "I'll just cover him
over with the nightshirts, an' the nugget bag what hasn't any nuggets
in, so's he won't catch a cough an' keep me awake at nights. Then I'll
lie down close to him, as I do in bed, an' have a west. I wish mamma
was here to kiss me, an' I hope dad won't beat me harder than he can
help!"
And in another moment absolute silence reigned in the camp, while the
tide crept noiselessly and stealthily around the higher bank of sand
which formed the children's Klondyke. The summer sun shone lovingly on
a pair of still forms; and the warning to trespassers fluttered gently
in the warm breeze.
[Illustration: THE MINERS' DREAM OF HOME.]
When a wave, bolder than the rest, broke against the bare feet of the
younger miner, he awoke with a cry of alarm.
"Wake up, Stan! We're both drownded!"
"What's the matter?" demanded Stanley, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
"We're in the miggle of the sea!" was the startling answer. "Our camp's
all wet an' miserable, an' we can't shwim home, an' it's no use
shoutin', cos there's nobody on the beach!"
"Lessels, we shall have to leave dada's umberellar, and the gold, and
everything else, and fly for our lives," said Stanley, impressively,
glancing anxiously towards the distant beach as he spoke.
"I can't fly," whimpered Lessels. "Let's call dada."
"He wouldn't hear us!"
"Dad heard me shout when I fell in a bucket of water at home," argued
Lessels.
"This isn't a bucket of water, and we're not home now," replied the
elder boy, irritably. "I believe I could swim all the distance to the
beach--with one foot on the bottom. Then I could walk to the village
and get a boat to bring you off; or run home and get dada and the
clothes line; or fetch one of the life-buoys from the end of Southend
pier."
"I'll come and get a live boy, too!" exclaimed Lessels, clinging
frantically to his brother, as a wave broke over his knees. "Don't
leave me, Stanny; I'se so frightened!"
"I can't swim if you hold me like that!" said Stanley, rolling up his
shirt sleeves with sudden determination. "You'll have to let me tow you
to land by the hair of your head. Drowning people have to stun each
other sometimes to keep one another quiet while they are rescued," he
added, darkly.
[Illustration: THE RESCUE OF THE MINERS.]
At this distressing moment a well-known form appeared on the beach, and
the terrified miners shouted and waved their caps simultaneously.
"It's dada!" shrieked Lessels; "I knew he'd come. Look! he's walking in
the sea, with all his clothes on; an' he's laughing; an' he hasn't got
a shtick after all."
"What is all this about, boys?" asked the welcome visitor, pointing, as
he spoke, to the fast disappearing camp.
"It's Klondyke, dada, that's all!" answered Lessels. "We digged for
gold all day to buy you a lot of horses and tobacco, but we haven't
found anything at all 'cept a bad nugget!"
"You're not the first miner who has done that, Lessels," was the
comforting reply.
"I had a horrid dream about you, dad, when I was tired and fell asleep
on the sand," said Stanley. "Guess what it was."
"Perhaps I was injured by one of the fine horses you were going to
buy?"
"No, dad, it was much worse than that," was the earnest reply. "In my
dream you were looking for us _with a great stick in your hand_."
"Dear old dad!" whispered Stanley, as he was being carried into safety,
upside down, a few minutes later. "Dear old dad! You aren't very cross
because we have lost your umberellar, and haven't got any nuggets, are
you? And you won't turn nasty and spank us after we've made you laugh
so?"
[Illustration: THE LAST OF THE CAMP.]
"Please don't, dada!" added Lessels, brokenly.
And dada only kissed the weary little faces of the supplicants, and
laughed again until the tears ran down his cheeks.
"I believe dad's crying," said Lessels, in a stage whisper--"cryin'
inside, an' laughin' outside!"
"Keep quiet, you little muff!" whispered Stanley, hoarsely. "Father
looked like that when the doctor told him that I wasn't likely to die
of fever after all. It's a laugh that stops crying."
"And one which is worth more than all the ordinary laughs of a
lifetime, my boys," added the listener, quietly.
LITTLE ROYALTIES.
[Illustration: OUR FUTURE KING.]
[Illustration: HIS BROTHER ALBERT.]
_Illustrated with Special Photographs taken by F. & R. Speaight._
Even in the days when the Queen's children formed a charming group of
young people, high-spirited, intelligent, and enjoying, according to
many passages in the late Princess Alice's letters, an ideally happy
childhood, British Royal Nurseries were not better filled than they are
at present, for in the immediate Court circle there are many young
people, not one of whom can be considered in any sense grown up.
[Illustration: PRINCESS VICTORIA OF YORK, HIS SISTER.]
Prince Arthur of Connaught and his two sisters form the eldest group,
being severally fifteen, sixteen, and twelve. The three children of the
Duke of Connaught, though they are half German, for their mother was
the daughter of the Red Prince, have received an entirely English form
of education, Prince Arthur having been the first British Prince sent
to Eton, and the two Princesses, Margaret and Louise, being educated at
home, partly under their parents and partly under the Queen's
supervision, for during the Duke and Duchess' stay in India their
children remained in England, and so their short lives have been
divided between Aldershot, Bagshot Park, and Windsor Castle.
To the same group of the Queen's British grandchildren may be said to
belong the children of the late Duke of Albany and of Princess Henry of
Battenberg. In each case they are much younger than Her Majesty's other
grandchildren.
There is something very pathetic in the position of the Duchess of
Albany: left a widow within two years of her marriage, and obliged, by
the circumstances of her position, to remain in a foreign country,
finding her only solace and interest in her two children, to whom she
has proved a model mother. Till last year, when the Prince entered Mr.
Benson's popular house at Eton, Princess Alice and her young brother
had never been separated for a single day. In this connection it may be
stated that the Royal Princes when at school lead exactly the same
lives as do other Eton boys. They are addressed by their masters and by
their school-fellows as "Connaught" and "Albany," and though, as is
natural, they generally spend any half-holidays at Windsor Castle, the
Queen is most particular never to ask them out of hours, or to treat
them in a way calculated to make them feel themselves favoured above
the other boys.
[Illustration:
PRINCESS MARGARET OF CONNAUGHT. PRINCESS LOUISE OF CONNAUGHT.
PRINCE ARTHUR OF CONNAUGHT. PRINCESS ALICE OF ALBANY.
LADIES ALEXANDRA AND MAUD DUFF. THE DUKE OF ALBANY.]
_The portraits of the Prince and Princesses of Connaught
were specially taken by Mr. R. Speaight for this article,
and most of the others taken by the same photographer are
published by special permission of the Royal parents._
Princess Alice of Albany's great friend is her first cousin, the young
Queen of Holland, and this in spite of the fact that she is three years
younger than the girl-monarch. The Duchess of Albany has remained on
very intimate terms with her sister, the Queen-mother of the
Netherlands, and there has always been a constant interchange of visits
between Claremont and the Dutch Court; indeed, the Duke and Princess
Alice of Albany are the only members of the British Royal Family who
can speak Dutch fluently, that language having been taught them by
their Queen-cousin.
The four children of Princess Henry of Battenberg have had their
childhood sadly shadowed by the death of their father, to whom they
were all devotedly attached. In one matter their position differs very
much from that of the other Royal children: that is, they have been
thrown into peculiarly close relations with their venerable
grandmother, and it is perhaps owing to this fact that the only girl
among them, Princess Victoria Eugénie, is, although only eleven years
old, said to be exceptionally intelligent and grown-up for her age.
Of Princess Beatrice's three sons, the eldest, Prince Alexander Albert,
who is just twelve years old, is at school at Lyndhurst, but next year
he will join the _Britannia_, for, like his uncle Prince Louis of
Battenberg, he is very fond of the sea and wishes to enter the British
Navy. Prince Leopold and Prince Maurice are too young for it to have
been yet decided what career they will follow, but they will each enter
a profession, for their position is a somewhat peculiar one. Unlike the
young Duke of Albany, who was a peer from the moment of his birth, the
children of Princess Beatrice have no legal rank, and their father, the
late Prince Henry, was even desirous that they should not be habitually
given the title of "Prince" or "Princess."
[Illustration: PRINCE GEORGE OF TECK.]
In this matter, however, the Queen overruled his objection, though,
curiously enough, Her Majesty did not seem desirous of doing so in the
case of the children of the Duke and Duchess of Fife, notwithstanding
the fact that when the elder, Lady Alexandra, was born she was
considerably nearer the throne than had been Queen Victoria herself at
the moment of her birth. The question of whether the eldest grandchild
of the Prince and Princess of Wales should or should not be given the
title of "Royal Highness" was actually discussed at some length, but as
both the Duke and Duchess of Fife were very anxious that their child
should only bear the title and have the precedence accorded to a Duke's
daughter, the matter was arranged that way. Subsequent events--that is,
the birth of the Duke and Duchess of York's three children--have proved
how wisely the parents of Lady Alexandra Duff acted in this matter. As
it is, the Ladies Alexandra and Maud Duff are in the happy position of
having all the privileges and none of the responsibility of Royal
birth. They are so far the only younger members of the Royal Family who
have never been out of the United Kingdom, their lives having been
spent between London, Norfolk, and Scotland. They are being brought up
in the very simplest fashion compatible with their rank; indeed, the
only public appearance, since her birth, made by Lady Alexandra was
when she acted as bridesmaid to her aunt Princess Maud of Wales.
Of course, from many points of view, by far the most important group of
Royal children is that composed of the two little sons and of the baby
daughter of the heir-presumptive. Owing to the sad death of the Duke
of Clarence there are only three lives between little Prince Edward of
York and the throne, and far more care has been bestowed upon his
education and general upbringing than is generally the case even with
Royal children of so tender an age, for our King to be will not be five
years old until the 23rd of next June.
[Illustration: THE BATTENBERGS.
PRINCESS VICTORIA.
PRINCE ALEXANDER.
PRINCE LEOPOLD.
PRINCE MAURICE.]
As his names, Edward, Andrew, Patrick, and David, indicate, his
grandparents and parents were anxious that the Prince should, from his
birth, belong rather to the nation than to his family. It was
seriously proposed that he should share the Queen's carriage on
Diamond Jubilee Day, but the idea was given up when it was realised
that the long slow drive through the streets of London would be a
terrible ordeal for a three-year-old baby; thus, although little Prince
Edward's Jubilee clothes were actually prepared, he only wore them at
home, to the disappointment of his young mother, who would have liked
her son to have gone down in history as having taken part in so great
and noteworthy a pageant.
The Duke of York's second son, Prince Albert Frederick Arthur George,
was born on the anniversary of the deaths of the Prince Consort and of
Princess Alice, and so was three years old on the 14th of last
December. Two years younger is Princess Victoria Alexandra Alice Mary,
the youngest but not the least of Her Majesty's British
great-grandchildren.
The child of Prince Adolphus of Teck--whose wife, it will be
remembered, was Lady Margaret Grosvenor, a daughter of the Duke of
Westminster--is Royal in the same sense as are the Ladies Alexandra and
Maud Duff, and it is rather interesting to note that the three children
all stand in the same intimate relationship to the future King of
England, though even Prince Edward of York was not legally entitled to
the name of "Royal Highness" until a special decree was passed in
favour of all the children of the Duke of York.
A word on Royal children from the photographer's point of view.
Mr. Richard Speaight of Regent Street, who took all our photographs
except those of the Duke of Albany and his sister Princess Alice of
Albany, which were taken by Messrs. Gunn and Stuart of Richmond, speaks
enthusiastically of them--and he is now quite a connoisseur of
children.
He says he is always struck by the natural and careful way in which the
children are brought up. The younger ones are always most obedient to
their nurses, and they, on the other hand, are very jealous in guarding
their Royal charges. They do not even allow them to sit to be
photographed without hiding behind to hold them in case they should
fall.
The photographs of the Duke of York's children were taken at
Sandringham. They took great delight in the musical and clockwork toys
which Mr. Speaight took with him; and when the operation was finished,
Prince Edward, shaking hands with his photographer, thanked him for the
trouble he had taken.
THE COVER FOR BINDING OUR FIRST VOLUME.
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Here is a small _facsimile_ of the charming cover which has been
designed for binding the first volume of THE HARMSWORTH MAGAZINE, which
is completed with the issue of this number.
The colour of the cover is a very pretty pale green, and the
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The design is copyright, and any local bookbinder infringing it will be
prosecuted. The initials of Harmsworth Bros., "H. B.," will be found on
the back and side of every genuine cover, and none should be accepted
without them.
[Illustration: THIS IS A SKETCH OF THE PRETTY COVER FOR BINDING OUR
FIRST VOLUME.]
This cover can be obtained from any bookseller or newsman, price 1_s._
3_d._, or it will be sent, post free, on receipt of 1_s._ 6_d._, on
application to the Publisher, Harmsworth Bros., Ltd., 24, Tudor Street,
E.C.
An Index to the volume is also now ready, price threepence.
Everyone should bind the six numbers of THE HARMSWORTH MAGAZINE, for
they make a most delightful, attractive, and interesting volume.
LONDON'S LATEST LION.
AN EMPIRE MAKER'S LOVE STORY.
BY GILBERT DAYLE.
_Illustrated by Fred Pegram._
It was dusk on a summer evening, as a tall broad-shouldered man made
his way down a path that led through the Vicarage garden at Winchmere.
Reaching the roadway, he turned and, with one arm resting on the gate,
gazed at the rambling house with its clustering ivy and old-fashioned
windows.
"To all appearances just the same," he said, musingly, "yet how
different it is--strange faces, strange voices! A short eight years,
and I return to find my old friend dead, almost forgotten, and She
vanished--swallowed up by the world!"
He sighed heavily, then turned and set out down the country road in the
direction of the railway station.
"It's the bitterest disappointment I could have met with!" he went on;
"but--I shall find her. Yes, I shall find her!" And as he spoke the
step of the tall bronzed man quickened into a resolute stride.
* * * * *
Halton Towers, the country residence of Earl Kenwell, was a magnificent
place, situated in the heart of Berkshire. On a certain morning in
July, a governess and her two charges were sitting at a table in the
schoolroom. The governess, a pretty girl of about twenty-four, was
attempting to instil some elementary ideas of geography into the head
of her eldest pupil, a boy some six years old.
Presently the door opened, and a party of people trooped into the room.
Their leader, Lady Dorothy Kenwell, looked smilingly at the governess.
She was young, and considered to be one of the most beautiful women in
the country.
"You don't mind us coming in just for a minute, Miss Grahame?" she
asked. "These absurd people declared that nothing would satisfy them
but seeing the children."
Lord Scaife (to his intimates he was known as "Bobbie") stepped forward
and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, whilst his cousin, Miss Julia
Crofton, put her arm round the little girl's neck and kissed her
impulsively. A few feet away in the background stood the remaining
member of the party, Count Morlot. He was a slimly built man of foreign
appearance. A slight smile hovered round his lips as he watched the
scene.
[Illustration: "'NOTHING WOULD SATISFY THESE ABSURD PEOPLE BUT SEEING
THE CHILDREN,' SAID LADY DOROTHY."]
"Well, Jim, my lad," began Lord Bobbie, cheerfully, "what has Miss
Grahame been driving into your precious young head this morning?"
"Jogruffy," replied Master Jim.
Lord Bobbie bent down over the atlas that was open on the table.
"Africa, eh? Well, it's a great country, particularly the southern part
of it. It's where the millionaires come from."
Lady Dorothy took hold of Jim's hand and guided it to a certain part of
the map.
"Look, Jim, dear, this map is not up to date, and this piece I'm
showing you should be coloured red--British, you know. The country is
now----"
"British Kafangaland!" put in little Jim, eagerly.
"Bravo, youngster! Who told you that?" asked Bobbie.
"Miss Grahame," answered Jim, "and she said that it had nearly all been
done by one man--a very good man."
Lady Dorothy shot a smile at Miss Grahame, then bent over her little
cousin again.
"Yes, Jim, and he is coming here, this very morning. What do you think
of that?"
Jim turned open-mouthed in his chair.
"Shall I see him," he gasped, "the man who has turned this big patch
red?"
"Yes, my boy," laughed Lord Bobbie, "you'll see him, our most modern
Empire-maker, the uncrowned King of British Kafangaland--London's
latest lion----" He paused.
"Anything more, Bobbie?" queried Julia Crofton.
"No, I don't think so. I was wondering what qualities he possessed to
have put him so far ahead of the other pioneers out there."
Count Morlot drew a little nearer to the group.
"In buccaneering circles," he remarked, with a smile, "the man who is
most unscrupulous is the man who wins. Probably this fact accounts for
Mr. Winn's marvellous successes."
Lady Dorothy drew herself up, and, swinging round, faced the Count.
There was a touch of crimson on her cheeks.
"You have evidently never met Alan Winn, Count Morlot," she said, with
flashing eyes. "He is the soul of honesty--and a true man!"
Without waiting for any reply, she moved quickly towards the door, and
swept out of the room. There was a dead silence. All eyes were fixed on
the Count. He gave a barely perceptible shrug of the shoulders, as he
glanced at the door through which Lady Dorothy had made her retreat.
Julia Crofton was the first to speak.
"Come along, Bobbie," she said, "you promised to take me to see the
fruit-garden."
"Certainly," replied Lord Bobbie, with alacrity. He crossed the room
and opened the door.
"See you presently, Count," he said. "Good morning, Miss Grahame;
ta-ta, Jim, don't be too much of a nuisance."
The Count waited a few seconds after the couple had disappeared, then
bowed to the governess and took his departure.
Olive Grahame did not immediately return to the children. She stood
staring absently into the middle of the room. There was still a picture
before her, of a woman supremely beautiful, standing with lifted head,
her glorious eyes flashing indignantly, as she defended the character
of Alan Winn. She sighed softly.
"He cannot help loving her!" she whispered to herself. "It is better
for him not to see me!"
She was roused from her reflections by a touch on the hand. Master Jim
had slipped down from his seat and crossed to her.
"Miss Grahame," he said, pleadingly, "may I get my paint-box and put in
that piece of red on the map. I shouldn't like the man who did it all
to see my atlas, and then find it not there. May I?"
Olive Grahame bent down and kissed the eager young face.
"Yes, dear," she said, softly.
Meanwhile Julia Crofton and Lord Bobbie had found a pleasant seat in
the garden. They were two young people who found enjoyment in
discussing together the affairs of others, and incidentally their own.
They did not love one another, and had not the slightest intention of
doing so. They were simply, as Julia put it, "good pals." Lord Bobbie
described his cousin, who was sportively inclined, not at all pretty,
and addicted to the occasional use of slang, as a "brick"; and Julia
returned the compliment by declaring that Bobbie was an "awfully good
sort, with no nonsense to speak of about him."
Lord Bobbie lighted a cigarette.
"I'm hanged if I like that Frenchman!" he exclaimed. "Who is he, and
how on earth did he get into Kenwell's house?"
"He is a _protégé_ of old Lady Steele, and she had him invited here.
She says that he has such charming manners, and she trots him about
everywhere with her."
"Wouldn't mind betting he's an adventurer," growled Bobbie. "He has got
the cut of a Monte Carlo sharp. Didn't Dolly look fine as she snubbed
him? If ever there was a case of a woman openly showing her admiration
for a man, this is one. She positively adores Winn. Confound him!" he
added, with an air of disgust.
"Poor old Bobbie!" said Julia, sympathetically. "It's a bit rough on
you."
"And I was getting on so well with her," he continued, with a sigh. "I
believe that in another week I should have won her. And then this Winn
must needs turn up. I ought to hate him as a rival; I should like to,
but, 'pon my word, I can't. He's such a good sort.