CHAPTER V.

GOLDEN CLOUD.

Away beyond the sound of tears the mortal and his companion wandered.

In the distance shone the glinting crest of a winding river, and as

they drew near it the King’s daughter clapped her hands together in

rapture. “Look, look!” she said. “This is Golden Cloud. It is my home.”

“Golden Cloud! Where?” The wondering gaze of the Australian youth

turned east, west, south, and north. According to the landmarks in many

places, this was certainly the river over which he had chased the

dwarf; but lo! how changed. Could yonder towering edifice, bristling

with lofty towers and domes, be that gloomy rock where he had left his

companion, Grapple, asleep?

Peaks and turrets glittered under the soft light, sending untold rays

aslant terrace and fountain, and upon the bright forms of dame and

cavalier promenading to and fro.

Could this far-stretching vista be that bare plain over which he had

passed? This with its gleaming cascades whose ripplings rivalled the

lullaby of the bulbul? This with its leafy arches, and long, winding

avenues, looped with clustering vines, whose stems were bent ’neath

fruited gems? What bowers of green, bedecked with diamond drops and

pearls of May dew!

Down where the stream flowed, the firmament, with its clustering hosts

of stars, was mirrored on the liquid floor; while o’er the intervening

space there floated sounds that might have ravished the senses even of

a German Jew.

Cadence of bird and insect never fell before so soft and dulcet upon

heaven-tuned ears. From its hundred windows the palace of King Golden

Cloud beamed forth with light and beauty to welcome back its lost

daughter. Welcome from bud and blossom, ringed with fire-flies, and

whose ever-changing shimmer flashes a rainbow-hued light to guide their

steps.

Glorious Golden Cloud! Many of us poor, fading weeds of sorrow would

fain climb thy hill-top, if but to rest our weary souls for one brief

moment in thy quiet groves. Oh! what sordid slaves are we who worship

at those iron gates, whose recompense are wrinkled brows and silvered

hair. Great Fetish of the world, the flesh, and the devil, I bow the

knee to thee no more. Day by day I hear the cry of groaning thousands,

that struggle for a bare existence around thy temple, calling to thee

in vain. In vain they call, and vain thy power to help them. Oh thou

cold and doubly-cursed humbug of the teeming world.

Standing there amidst the circle of things pure and beautiful, the

Knight of the Ram’s Horn beheld the approach of a pretty ring-dove

towards them, with a grand barge of state following across the river.

The boat drew up almost at their feet, and Silverhaze cried out, “See,

this is the King’s Chamberlain, Sir Bumble Bee Popgun.”

As the damsel spoke, an aged figure ascended from the boat, and doffing

his jewelled hat, bent low before her. “The King of Golden Cloud hath

mourned for his Pearl—his child,” he said in mellifluous accents.

Princess Silverhaze smiled, and stooping, whispered something in his

ear, then entered the barge on the arm of her doughty knight.

Over the stream they went and up the hill at the farther side, which

presented overhead a leafy arcade, where myriads of glow-worms infused

a coloured sheen athwart the brilliant uniforms of the King’s Guards

who walled the way up to the very gates of the palace. A great

concourse of nobles thronged the entrance to the royal residence and

cheered the Princess as she passed round on the arm of our hero. Sir

Bumble Bee led the way through throngs of bowing lackeys to the King’s

chamber—a large hall of state—where, seated on a magnificent dais, our

hero beheld the King and Queen of Golden Cloud waiting to embrace their

daughter. The chamber was thronged with ladies and gentlemen. The

former wore purple robes, with blue and white mantles, which floated

about with the faintest breath. Many who stood in the presence of the

Queen had robes like silver, and each had a brilliant star fixed in her

hair. The Nugget noticed these were most beautiful women, their

complexions seeming to take the brilliancy from the light by which they

were surrounded. The young Knight of the Ram’s Horn saw all this at a

glance, for he had an eye for the beautiful, but his vision could not

take in half the things that were around him.

For some considerable time he appeared to have been forgotten, so great

was the excitement on the return of the Princess. But when the stir had

somewhat subsided, the King’s daughter briefly detailed the exploits of

our hero; how he had not only rescued her from the hands of the wicked

dwarf Dusk, but that he by his courage had restored the kingdom of

Golden Cloud.

More than we have space to detail, Silverhaze said in our hero’s

favour, and he was led forward to the throne, where the Queen embraced

him and seated him on her footstool. The King, not to be outdone on

this occasion, made a speech in praise of courage generally, and of the

courage displayed by the Nugget in particular. This oration lasted some

six hours and a quarter, and occupied about twenty-seven columns in the

Shadow Land Observer.

The return of Silverhaze and the restoration of Golden Cloud caused

universal rejoicing throughout the land. His Majesty was so well

pleased with Nugget that he conferred upon him the Order of the Moon

and the rank of Prince, and to crown all, said he should marry Princess

Silverhaze. And they were married.

Ah, me! Wonderful, amazingly wonderful, the rank and splendour of that

wedding-day! But it was over at last, and the lovers were left alone to

enjoy their billing and cooing together.

“Come, Samson, wake up, man. Are you going to sleep all Christmas Day?”

cried a gruff voice. And the Nugget, sitting up and rubbing his eyes,

saw that he was still in the drive of the gold mine, with his relieving

mate standing over him.

The poor fellow—HAD ONLY DREAMED.

TWILIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

BARON THIMBLE.

A winter night, with a thick fog rising above the Sandridge marshes,

and spreading itself over the city of Melbourne. People released from

toil were hurrying home to tea and a pleasant fireside. Others, who

neither toil nor spin, and had no home or fireside, glided slowly and

noiselessly through the mist like ghosts, or stood shivering before the

damp window-panes or lit-up shops and dining-rooms, feasting their

hungry eyes on the good things within.

Business in the city was very dull, and money very scarce. Money is

scarce at all times with a great many mortals, I am aware, but the

present depression was felt everywhere throughout the colony.

Tom Brock, the barber, standing in his little shop at the corner of

Gertrude Street Fitzroy, felt the hardness of the times as keenly as

any member of the community, inasmuch as Tom had a large family of

growing children to provide for, and customers had been anything but

numerous of late. Indeed, the poor shaver was beginning to think that

the primeval fashion of suffering the hair and beard to grow in wild

luxuriance on the heads and faces of his race had become the order of

the day, and from henceforth he could exclaim with Shakespeare’s

gallant Moor—“Othello’s occupation’s gone.”

On this winter night the barber was alone in his shop, busy stropping

his razors for want of more lucrative employment. Like most of his

craft, Tom Brock was a great talker. It was part and parcel of his

stock-in-trade; and, by the way, it is wonderful to note upon what a

variety of subjects barbers can talk. Our hero was no exception to the

rule in this respect. Having no one in the place to engage in

conversation, he ceased stropping, and gazing into the large mirror

opposite, addressed himself to what he saw there with charming irony in

his tone.

“You’re a handsome fellow, Tom Brock, a very pretty fellow indeed. Only

I’m afraid looks won’t go for much in this case. Here you are from

eight o’clock this morning, and you’ve almost earned one and sixpence,

according to the multiplication table. Just fancy this grand sum of

eighteen pence per diem, sir, for the maintenance of eleven

persons—father, mother, and nine young Brocks, whose appetites this

cold weather are something to astonish Soyer the Frenchman. Don’t smile

at me, sir; I’m in no humour for jesting. Humph! how foolish to try and

quarrel with one’s shadow! Yet I’ve known men do that, before

to-night.”

He settled himself down with a sigh in the easy chair, and crossed his

legs one over the other. “I wonder if the portrait and the

superscription of Her Majesty the Queen is still upon the coinage of

this realm?” continued the barber, speaking at the image in the mirror.

“It’s such a time since I handled a golden coin that, upon my life, I

almost forget what they are like; perhaps that is the reason why I feel

such an uncontrollable desire to look upon one at this moment. Nay, not

one, but several—in short, several hundreds. Pooh, what rubbish you’re

talking, Tom Brock, you penniless rascal!”

The poor barber smiled at the idea of the thing, and the fellow in the

mirror smiled in company. “Ready cash is a very handy thing to have at

one’s command, especially when it is urgently needed, as in my case,”

said Tom, looking sternly at his reflection. “I’ve often heard fellows

sneer at money, and call it strange names; yet I’ve noted that these

same revilers were always mighty eager to gather it in when they have

had an opportunity. Moreover, I——”

Brock the barber paused suddenly in his soliloquy; for he beheld within

the radius of the looking-glass another form besides the reflection of

himself. A little man, with a peculiar cast of face and features, stood

behind the chair, with his arms akimbo, and his old-looking head on one

side, listening greedily to the barber’s utterances.

“Good-evening, sir,” said Tom, starting to his feet. “Cold night?”

The little man only grinned like a monkey in reply.

“Shave, or hair cut, sir?” asked the barber, rubbing his lean hands

with professional expectancy.

“Shave?” echoed the customer in a voice like a croaking raven. “Do I

look as if I wanted shaving? No man shall take me by the nose, and I

know you can’t shave without doing that.”

“No offence, sir. Shall I cut your hair?”

“Yes, Tom Brock. Cut it short, very short.” And the wee fellow chuckled

heartily as he divested himself of a cloak, in which he had been

wrapped from head to heel, and seated himself in the chair before the

mirror. The new-comer, although very small for his age, was quite cool

and self-possessed. He gave all manner of directions respecting the

mode in which he required his hair trimmed, made faces at the glass,

and laughed at the grimaces reflected there.

Tom Brock had had many queer customers during the twelve years he had

been in business, but he had never seen such a quaint, small mite of a

man as this one before him. In fixing the wrapper about his shoulders

Tom could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise at the colour and

texture of his companion’s apparel. Of what material were they

composed—cloth, tweed, silk, cotton? No; mortal warp or weft never

manufactured such fabrics. Some other agency—subtle and mysterious as

many unexplained things we see around us—had perchance woven these

articles. For in this lower world there are cloaks much less

substantial than a fairy’s jerkin—cloaks for which Dr. Johnson and his

followers have been unable to find a name, but which are indispensable

to many of us in our daily lives.

Had the barber been less engaged in taking stock of the manner and

appearance of his strange customer, he might have discovered at once

that to shorten this fellow’s hair was an utter impossibility, for as

fast as the keen scissors severed the long, yellow locks the particles

became instantly attached again. The barber’s eyes were too intent

watching the grimaces in the mirror to observe the startling fact.

“Been long in the colony, sir?” insinuated he, by way of opening a

conversation.

The wee man chuckled mightily, and narrowly escaped having a portion of

his ear severed by the barber’s sharp scissors.

“I know the colony, Tom Brock,” he replied. “No one better. Ha, ha!”

The hairdresser was staggered, but he came again to the charge.

“Beautiful hair, yours, sir, fine and soft as silk. It doesn’t seem to

be much shorter, after all I’ve cut off.”

“Cut it short, Tom. Ho, ho, ho!”

“Very dull times, sir,” said Tom, not relishing his customer’s

disagreeable laugh.

“It’s very dull indeed for you, Tom Brock,” answered the wee man, with

a knowing leer.

“Why for me, sir?”

“Because the lease of your shop expires next Monday, Tom, and you

haven’t a penny saved to renew it. That’s why,” responded the customer

quietly.

Some people when they are astonished can be tumbled over with a

feather, but it would have taken a blow from a large stick to have

knocked our hero down. He appeared rooted to the boards, and his eyes

and mouth opened considerably.

“Very good, sir. You’re a wizard. Perhaps you have no objection to tell

me what I had for dinner to-day!” ejaculated Tom, when he found the use

of his tongue.

“Not in the least. You hadn’t anything, my friend. Your mind was not

upon eating to-day, but rather the consideration of where boots for the

children are to come from—a bonnet for Mrs. B. likewise, the cash for

your business, eh? Care has taken away your appetite, Tom. Ha, ha! I

know. No one knows better than Thimble. That’s me.”

The comb and scissors fell from the barber’s hand to the floor.

“Want to know anything else, Tom Brock?” asked the visitor.

“Nothing more, thank ye,” replied the barber in a bewildered tone.

“Listen to me, then.” And the little fellow faced about in the chair.

“I am Baron Thimble, of Faydell Twilight. Ours is a vast kingdom in the

centre of Australia, of which very little is known by man. The

Anglo-Saxon has penetrated into every corner of the known globe, and

thrust his inquisitive nose into the socket of the North Pole, but he

has never set foot in the land of Twilight. Now I need your services,

Tom Brock, and if you will promise to go with me, I will reward you

handsomely.”

“Twilight,” repeated Brock thoughtfully. “I never heard mention of such

a country before.”

“I trow not,” replied Baron Thimble, smiling. “Nevertheless, it is a

great realm, whose people have often visited these cities, reared on

the sea border. Thou art poor, and in need, and faith, I repeat, I have

need of thee.”

“How long will you require me?”

“For just one moon. No more.”

“And the reward?” inquired Tom eagerly.

“Two hundred golden coins.”

“Thank you, I am at your service. Stop! Is Twilight far away, Baron

Thimble?”

“Yes, but our conveyance will be swift and safe. Thou wilt go?”

“With the greatest pleasure, sir.”

“Enough! Here are one hundred sovereigns in part payment of my

promise.” And the Twilight nobleman drew forth a heavy purse and

counted the money into the barber’s palm. “Go home at once and bank the

money with thy wife; then meet me afterwards on the right bank of the

river Yarra, beyond the Lunatic Asylum. You understand?”

And the Baron, chuckling to himself, folded his poncho about his

person, and strode out at the doorway.

Tom Brock could hardly believe but that the whole affair had been a

joke. There lay the money, though. That was real enough. And he felt it

was no joke to have it in his possession. So he packed up his shaving

appliances in a bag, closed his shop, and went home to his better half.

CHAPTER II.

PRINCE PICNIC.

The inhabitants of Twilight have a more facile means of transition than

the sons of men. While we have our steamboats, railways, telegraphs,

and all other nurslings of science as our slaves, the races of the dim

region can command the services of the powerful Air King Fancy. Swifter

is he than the Wind, and stronger than the fabled Griffin of the

Ancients. He can accommodate any number and all manner of travellers at

a moment’s notice.

Baron Thimble, standing by the Yarra bank, invoked the rapid harbinger

to his aid, and when Tom Brock the barber joined him there, they were

fully prepared to start on their voyage.

“Humbug-loo-boo! Tictoleroo! Pish-bosh! Fudge!” cried the son of

Twilight, and they were off. The electrical current, girdling the

storm-tossed waters, where ships are broken and engulfed, could not

outpace the conveyance of the fairy and the barber. The most elegant

saloon could not afford more comfort than those trance-stuffed cushions

upon which they reclined and gazed out upon the newly brightened

landscape.

Then the fairy man spoke and unfolded his mission.

“I am the Baron Thimble. Know, O mortal, that the wise Prince Picnic is

Ruler and Governor of Twilight. The Prince hath a beautiful daughter

named Bi-ba-be-bi, which in the language of the country implies the

Lady Lollypop. Twelve months ago, while the Prince was hunting in the

Leap Frog Mountains, he was made prisoner by a huge, powerful chief of

the Baboon country, named Gorilla, who demanded the Prince’s daughter

in marriage, as ransom. My master consented to the terms, but begged

that Gorilla would not press his suit for the space of one year and a

day, so that Bi-ba-be-bi might be prepared for the ceremony. The

monster agreed. And now, the time specified having elapsed, the horrid

creature has crossed the mountains to demand his bride.”

The voice of Baron Thimble trembled with emotion as he continued:

“Prince Picnic is full of sorrow, for he cannot think of suffering his

lovely daughter to mate with such a monster as Gorilla. Bribes have

been offered, gold and silver and gems, besides a large tract of

territory known as Shadowsflit, bordering on our country, but the

monster will have nothing in lieu of the lady.”

“Why don’t you call out the volunteers, and drive the beast back into

the mountains?” inquired the barber.

“Ah, there lies the difficulty,” answered Thimble. “The Governor of

Twilight has never broken his word to man or monster, and he will not

go from it in this instance. The nobles and churchmen have tried to

persuade him that, under the circumstances, he is not bound to redeem

his word with Gorilla; but he will not listen to our advice, and I’m

afraid the lovely girl, Lady Lollypop, will be sacrificed.”

“What is the Baboon chief like?” asked the barber.

“Tall as a giant, and as strong as a dozen giants combined,” replied

his companion. “The Prince quartered him in the summer palace, and the

rogue has almost torn it down piecemeal. He has eaten up the shrubs and

flowers, and destroyed every animal within his reach.”

“Has Lady Lollypop seen her affianced husband?”

“No; poor Bi-ba-be-bi remains as yet in blissful ignorance of the fact,

yet to-morrow the whole matter must be made known to her, except——” and

the Baron paused, and looked fixedly at Tom Brock.

“Except what?” said the barber.

“Except you aid us,” rejoined the fairy. “We held a Council

yesterday—Gaboon, the Prince’s jester, being President. The Chairman,

who understands the manners, customs, and language of Gorilla-land,

stated that this monster was not in his opinion a real native Gorilla,

inasmuch as the beings of the Baboon regions had only four toes,

whereas the visitor had five; further, in conversing with the intended

husband of the fair Bi-ba-be-bi, he had discovered that the creature

spoke the language of the country with a strong foreign accent—these,

together with other matters he did not wish at that meeting to

particularise, induced him (the Chairman) to conclude that the monster

was other than what he appeared, and that the only way to test the

truth or otherwise of his suggestion, with reference to the unwelcome

guest, would be to engage a smart barber to shave the Gorilla from head

to heel. I need scarcely add that the proposition of the President was

unanimously agreed to. And here you are!”

Wee Baron Thimble chuckled and rubbed his hands together until the

joints cracked again.

“Why, you surely didn’t engage me to shave a Gorilla?” cried the poor

barber in astonishment.

“I certainly did, Tom Brock.”

“What! All over—body and all?” inquired he, with starting eyeballs.

“Body, head and feet, Tom. Wherever there is a hair you must cut it

off,” replied Thimble.

“Well, I’ve often heard of a pig being shaved, but never a Gorilla.

What do you want to shave the beast for, eh?”

The Baron remained thoughtful for a moment ere he replied. “It will be

a sure test to prove whether this monster is really the chief of the

Baboon realm or not,” he said. “If he is not, so much the better for

Lollypop, and if he is the real Simon Pure, his enormous strength will

depart with his heavy coat. He will become docile, and we can then

dress him as becomes the bridegroom of a Princess. That is the opinion

of Gaboon.”

“Bother Gaboon!” cried the barber. “I only wish the President of the

Council had to shave the creature, that’s all.”

“There are no barbers in Twilight,” answered Thimble; “else I had not

come to thee; besides, thou hast received thy reward.”

“This monster may kill me,” replied Tom.

“True. Then again he may not. Come, man, whatever thou may’st value

thyself at shall be paid to thee when thy task is ended. Great results

hang upon thy skill and on the keen edge of thy tools. Although shaving

is unknown here, there is a potent influence about it amongst thy race,

whether it may be upon their faces or upon their consciences. Here we

are at the mansion of Prince Picnic.”

A charming edifice rises to view, nestling its gables and turrets

’midst clouds of richest foliage, upon whose glistening tops rest every

shade of green, with brown and russet and yet a colour of amber

between, encircling the wave like hills in the distance. Kingdom of

Twilight! how I love thee! Not as a stranger do I enter thy gates. I

have been here before, long, long ago, when the years were young and

full of promise for me; when she was by my side who was too frail, too

good for earth. Here we have lingered silently, side by side, while the

nightingale warbled forth its soft notes in love for the rose, and the

roses gave forth their fragrance until the air became an essence of

perfume. Oh, sweet bird of Twilight, thy song yet fills the air, but

silent and cold the fond heart that beat in unison with thy sweet

music. Will she listen for thy singing when the twilight gathers its

shadows o’er her lowly grave on the hillside? Oh, nightingale! oh,

twilight memories! Ye preach to my yearning soul more eloquently than

words of man. Patience, love, hope, are borne to me upon your voice,

and fall gently as the breath of mercy and forgiveness upon the

quickened sense, that sees revealed for one brief moment a glimpse of

Paradise and its forms of unperishable glory.

The approach of the two travellers was observed by the captain of the

guard at the palace gates, who immediately sent a message to the

Prince; whereupon, as soon as they arrived they were ushered into the

presence of the Ruler of Twilight, who received the Baron and the

barber very graciously. Refreshments were ordered to be set before

them, and when Tom had satisfied the cravings of hunger, Prince Picnic

asked him many questions respecting his journey, and desired to inspect

the articles in the bag. While Prince Picnic was engaged with the

razors and lather box, our hero had time to have a good look at him. He

appeared much smaller than the Baron, and a trifle older looking, yet

the Prince was still what many ladies would term a handsome fellow. His

white pointed beard was very long and strongly scented, yet his eyes

were as keen as a hawk, and his step as supple and light as a boy of

fifteen. If Tom Brock had wondered at the richness and texture of Baron

Thimble’s clothing, he wondered still more at the magnificence of

Prince Picnic’s dressing-gown, and also at the lavish display of pure

gold in everything he saw about the room. In fact, the barber had yet

to learn that the country was one vast gold mine, which in the absence

of other metals was employed for everything in common use.

It was time to retire to rest when the Prince broke up the audience.

The Baron conducted Tom to an elegant sleeping apartment. “The Gorilla

has found his way here,” he said at parting. “The beast has selected

the sward of the lawn in preference to a bed. Remember, your task must

be finished before the assembling of the Court to-morrow. Sleep well.

Good-night.”

CHAPTER III.

LADY LOLLYPOP.

The barber was honoured with a perfumed bath ere he retired to rest,

which caused him to sleep soundly until daylight began to peep through

the windows of his chamber. His slumbers would have been prolonged had

it not been for a feeling of sudden pain across the bridge of his nose.

He awoke hastily, and beheld the form of a very ancient dame standing

by his bedside. That puppet, known as the spouse of Mr. Punch, was the

only creature that our hero could liken her to, as she bent her thin

profile over him and held up her skinny hand in token of silence and

attention. Fixing her keen eyes upon Tom, she chanted, rather than

spoke, the following incantation:—

“Draw a circle round the beast

When he sleeps in peaceful rest;

If strong thy arm and keen thy blade

So thy task is easy made.

Shave the monster, head and toe,

Round him fold this robe of snow;

Then lead him forth towards the Throne.

Fe-fi-fum, my charm is done.”

Ere the last words were well out of her mouth the old dame vanished

like a puff of smoke—when or how Tom Brock had no idea whatever. He

rubbed his eyes, and was under the impression that the whole thing was

an illusion, until his glance rested upon a square white wrapper lying

at the foot of the bed. He sprang up immediately, and found a soft

cloak large enough to robe a giant. There was no fancy about that, at

any rate. He dressed himself hastily, at the same time attempting to

repeat the utterances of his strange visitor:—

“‘Draw a circle round the beast

When he sleeps in peaceful rest.’

Very good,” he muttered quickly; “there may be a charm in these words

that I cannot conceive. I have a very dangerous task before me, and

I’ll try it. Luckily this is just the time of day to catch Mr. Gorilla

asleep. What’s the next line?—

“‘If strong thy arm and keen thy blade

So thy task is easy made.’

Humph! I can answer for the razors. They’re sharp enough to cut the

throat of my ugly customer, if he tries any of his tricks. Then:—

“‘Shave the monster, head and toe,

Round him fold this robe of snow.’

“All right so far. After which I’m to lead him into the reception-hall

before Prince Picnic. Just so. Now to set about it.”

The barber prepared his razors and lather, and taking the white robe on

his arm he went out along the broad corridor towards the garden. Within

a small grass plot encircled by tall trees Tom discovered the Gorilla

fast asleep. With noiseless footsteps our hero formed a wide ring round

the sleeping monster with his fingers, and then stepped within the

charmed circle and approached his subject. Strange to relate, the

Gorilla never stirred—not even when Tom, with the taste of a genuine

artist, began operations upon his capacious chin. Nature seemed hushed

while the barber performed his business. Above, below, and around a

deep stillness reigned, save for the scraping, grating sound of Tom

Brock’s blade.

Meanwhile Prince Picnic held a grand council of state in the

magnificent reception-hall of his palace. Previously an edict had gone

forth which summoned the rank, beauty, and fashion of the land to

witness the marriage of Lady Lollypop and Gorilla. And here they were

assembled for the imposing event, which should unite the Beauty and the

Beast.

Ah, me! Who shall attempt to describe the splendour of that gathering?

The Ruler of Twilight was seated on a throne of pure gold, which had

been oxidized to every shade of colour, and wrought in the most

beautiful mosaic imaginable. At her father’s side reclined the

Bi-ba-be-bi, receiving the homage of the young nobles and the

long-bearded functionaries of state. The walls and ceiling of the

throne chamber were entirely covered with wide sheets of burnished gold

to reflect as mirrors. On each side of the dais there extended rank

upon rank of high-born dames and courtiers robed in stuffs of silk and

gold, embroidered with flowers so as to present the most perfect

imitations of nature.

Soothingly soft, sweetly, lovingly soft, were the dulcet tones of the

choir of fairy musicians, hidden from view—now ebbing, now flowing in

tender gushes of melody. Down the sides of the lofty pillared hall a

bright band of dancing fays, each as lovely as a child’s dream,

advanced and retired, crossed and interlaced in a whirling maze of

shifting light, which defeated the eye in following their quick and

graceful evolutions. Amongst that fair galaxy of beauty, Bi-ba-be-bi

stood out peerless in her loveliness. Round the soft cushions on which

she reclined were gathered her four handmaids, See-Saw, Hide and Seek,

Marjory Daw, and Down-Dilly.

Behind the throne stood Ride-a-cock-horse, the prime minister, Gaboon,

the jester, and the high officials of the kingdom. At a sign from Baron

Thimble the music ceased and the dancers dispersed. Then Prince Picnic

rose, and said briefly,—

“People of Twilight, I have called you together to witness the marriage

of our daughter, the Lady Lollypop. I am aware that this Court had

decided that our dear and lamented nephew Prince Pippin should have

been her husband; but the gallant youth perished three years ago on

those self-same Leap Frog Mountains where I and my retinue were

captured by Gorilla. The chief of Gorilla-land is now here to claim the

bond I gave him for our release.”

A deep hush had fallen o’er the vast crowd as the Prince paused.

“Prince Pippin was a handsome youth and a gallant gentleman,” whispered

See-Saw.

“True, and our lady loved him well,” replied Down-Dilly.

The daughter of Prince Picnic heard the whispering, and sighed audibly.

“Ay, but the young Prince is dead. Hush!”

“Dames and nobles,” continued His Highness mournfully, “we have given

our sacred word that this monster shall marry Bi-ba-be-bi. Therefore we

cannot depart from that pledge in the smallest particular. What, ho

there! Let the bridegroom come forth and claim his bride.”

As the Ruler of Twilight uttered the words, every eye was directed

towards the great folding doors at the farther end of the audience

chamber, which were instantly drawn apart, and Tom Brock entered,

leading the tall figure of his patient, muffled from head to feet in

the white cloak.

Poor Lady Lollypop uttered a stifled shriek of fear as her gaze fell

upon the muffled form of her intended lord and master.

The barber advanced with his companion to the foot of the throne, and

there halted for a moment, then retired behind the throng of courtiers,

leaving the closely covered monster standing alone.

“Art thou still resolved to have the Pearl of Twilight for thy wife?”

asked Ride-a-cock-horse in a loud voice.

The mantled figure trembled visibly, but held his peace.

“Let the chief of Gorilla-land show himself, if he is not afraid,”

cried Gaboon, advancing from out of the ring of nobles by which he was

surrounded. Swifter than the electrical fire athwart a thunder-cloud

the folding mantle vanished from that form, and revealed—not the

hateful beast, but a tall, handsome young man, robed in a superb

hunting costume of the country. The gaze of Bi-ba-be-bi had no sooner

rested upon him than she sprang from the midst of her ladies with a

glad cry of recognition, and cast herself upon his bosom. “Prince

Pippin! Cousin! My own dear love, you are not dead!”

Dead, not at all. Twilight is a region of enchantment, dear readers.

Dame Trot, the witch of the Leap Frog Ranges, had fallen across the

young Prince while hunting in the mountains, and had changed him into a

Gorilla. Such he had remained and had taken his uncle prisoner. When

the news, however, of the marriage between Lady Lollypop and the

supposed monster reached the old magician she relented of her

wickedness by appearing at the bedside of the barber and speaking the

words which annulled the charm.

There was great rejoicing at the court of Prince Picnic over the event;

but the gladness and the display were increased a hundredfold when the

cousins were married.

Tom Brock, loaded with substantial presents, returned home to his wife

and family, and brought a piece of the wedding-cake for the former,

which quite dissipated any lurking jealousy there might have been in

her mind respecting his absence.

The little corner shop knows our friend the barber no more. His

residence is now in the aristocratic suburb of Toorak—a magnificent

mansion known as “Faydell,” and for which he may thank Bi-ba-be-bi and

her royal husband Prince Pippin.

TIM.

The sinking sun cast a soft amber-tinted radiance over the little

township of Wentworth, New South Wales, as a little boy, weary and

footsore with travel, knocked at a farmer’s door about two miles beyond

the settlement.

A kind, motherly woman who answered the knock stared with astonishment

at the juvenile tramp, who blurted out in a faint voice, “If you

please, ma’am, will you give me a drink of water? I’m so hungry, I

really don’t know where I shall sleep to-night.”

The good lady laughed heartily at the little fellow’s quaint request.

She took him into the house, and led him into a back room, where a

great fat man was seated at tea.

“Who is this, wife?” said he in a surly tone, looking at our hero.

“Only a poor boy begging some food, Mark; that’s all,” answered his

wife meekly.

“I didn’t beg, ma’am, please,” said the boy quickly.

“Oh, you didn’t beg?” rejoined the farmer in the same gruff voice. “Git

down on that stool now.”

“I came a very long way, sir, and I——” began the boy.

“Silence! Wife, take his bundle; pull off his old shoes; let him be

washed; then give him his tea.” The voice lost nothing of its coarse

disagreeable ring as it gave the curt order, but the man’s eyes looked

kindly at the little wanderer. “What is your name?” still gruffly.

“Tim, sir, please.”

“Tim what? Hav’n’t you another name?”

“No, sir. Nuggety Joe never called me anything else than Tim.”

“And who is Nuggety Joe?” asked the farmer.

The boy played nervously with the edge of his tattered jacket for a

moment, and then replied in a voice broken and unsteady with emotion,

“Please, sir, father and Joe were mates on the diggings at Forbes. When

the great dam broke and flooded the creek, and drowned father, mother,

and little sister Jessie, Joe took care of me, and was a father to

me—he was—until he took the fever, and died, and then I——” The child’s

quavering voice gave way to a fit of bitter wailing.

“Stop that!” cried the farmer, putting his handkerchief to his nose,

and making that organ sound like a French horn—“stop it at once. I’ll

have no snivelling here.”

But poor Tim sobbed on; and notwithstanding all the womanly sympathy of

the farmer’s wife, she could not stay the torrent. Not yet in his

“teens,” the brave lad walked over two hundred miles, suffering hunger

and pain with the courage of a Spartan; but he had no courage to put

back the tears that swelled upwards at the remembrance of that rude,

unlettered, dead digger, who had loved him, and had taken him to his

bosom for Christ’s sake, and who had now gone to receive his reward.

All things have an end, so the fountain of Tim’s eyes became dry again

ere the tea was over. Before the lad was sent to bed, the farmer said,

“Look here, boy, I think I can give you something to do on my farm.

Mind, I’ll set you a task the first thing in the morning; if you

perform it to my satisfaction, and you likewise prove yourself an

honest, trustworthy youngster, why, you shall never want a home or a

friend while Mark Wilson lives. Now, wife, put him to bed.”

The good dame led Tim to a small attic bedroom, which contained,

amongst other things, a beautiful parrot in a stout wire cage.

“Cockie” had evidently been enjoying a nap, for he shook himself at

sight of the intruders, and sent forth from his bill a volley of

strange sounds, in true imitation of a person just aroused from

slumber. Mrs. Wilson kissed our hero and retired, but she had hardly

closed the door before the bird began to flap his wings and crow like a

rooster.

“A funny parrot,” muttered Tim. “I wonder if it can talk?”

“Of course it can,” answered Cockie, eyeing him through the bars of the

cage. The lad rubbed his eyes, and stared at the bird in the cage for

fully three minutes without speaking a word, so great was his

consternation. “Don’t stare, Tim; it’s very rude to stare,” continued

the bird gravely. “People in this colony have a bad habit of staring

you out of countenance, I am sorry to say.”

“Why, you can talk like a man,” cried the boy in his astonishment.

“Certainly; much better than some men, I trust. Pray come here and

scratch me, Tim,” cried the parrot coaxingly.

Little Tim obeyed very cautiously, and in fear and trembling.

“That is delightful,” said Cockie.

“It’s wonderful,” muttered poor Tim.

“What is wonderful, sir? Can’t parrots talk?”

“Some of them can, but not like you.”

“Oh! but I’m not a parrot, I’m a fairy.”

“A fairy?” cried the boy, agape with wonder. “Are you really?”

“Truly I am. One of the Lake George fairies. Xanthine, our Queen,

turned me into a parrot, five years ago, through her foolish jealousy,

and here I’ve been caged up ever since with this great beak upon my

face, which quite disfigures me.”

“What a shame! Can’t you get back again to your friend at Lake George?”

cried the boy.

“Yes, for Queen Xanthine is dead, and I can now return in safety, if

you will help me,” replied the bird.

“Me! how can I help you?” answered little Tim.

“I will tell you” rejoined the elfin. “You must know, boy, that every

one of us could help each other if we would. The rich can help the

poor, and the poor the wealthy; yea, even the smallest can render

assistance to the strong and powerful, as was the case with the lion

and the mouse. Now, I can prove how I can render you a service. Judge.

Didn’t the master say he would set you a task in the morning?”

“He did,” replied Tim in wonder.

“Very well. The task is to milk a bad-tempered, touchy old cow called

‘Peggy.’ The beast, who is a splendid milker, is the torment and plague

of the farmer’s life. She has kicked him until he is afraid to approach

her, and every one, man, woman, and boy, who attempts to milk Peggy is

sure to be upset. It has proved useless to tie her by the leg and the

tail—the wicked rogue would find a way of defeating her enemies before

the milking was ended.”

“Are you sure that I shall have to try to milk Peggy in the morning?”

inquired Tim.

“Quite certain,” replied the elfin.

“Then I—I think I had better go away now, at once, before the morning,

don’t you?” said the lad ruefully.

“No, I don’t, because I can tell you how to overcome the antics of this

refractory cow.”

“How?”

“I will tell you upon one condition,” replied the fairy parrot, rubbing

its beak reflectively.

“What condition?” asked Tim.

“That you set me free as soon as you have completed your task

to-morrow.”

“It’s a bargain,” replied little Tim readily. “I can easily get the

farmer another parrot—a real bird, you know—and then there will be no

harm done.”

“Very good. Now listen. On the gable of this house there grows a

creeper with a pale blue flower. In the morning, when they call you, go

and gather a small wreath of this plant, and when the wicked cow is

bailed up ready for milking, place the vine around her horns, and you

may take the word of an Australian fairy that Peggy will stand as quiet

as a mouse until you have drained her teats as dry as a corn cob.”

“Lor! how simple!” replied Tim.

“All knowledge is simple, boy, when you once acquire it. You’ll not

forget my instructions?”

“No, I thank you. I shall remember.”

“Kiss Cockie, then, say your prayers like a good boy, and go to bed.

Good-night.”

Tim wished to ask the fairy bird a hundred questions, but after it had

said good-night it would not utter another word, so the boy went to bed

and fell asleep.

The sun was up before him in the morning. Yet Tim managed to get down

into the garden and cut a slender tendril from the creeper, which he

formed into a small hoop, just as the farmer’s voice was heard calling

him.

Twenty cows had to be milked every morning at the farm, and Tim heard a

great deal of shouting and bellowing, and clanking of milk-cans, which

proceeded from a yard at hand, enclosed with a high fence and into

which the cattle had been driven.

The farmer led our hero into the enclosure, and pointing to where the

ill-tempered short-horn stood, with her head in the bail, said briefly,

“Sit down and milk that cow.”

The boy went up to Peggy, who gave a loud bellow at sight of him. He

placed the vine around her horns, then sat down to his task. Mark

Wilson stood ready to pick the boy up in case the cow knocked him over;

but the beast never moved until the boy had drawn every drop of milk

from her teats. The good farmer was filled with amazement, and cried

out, “Twenty-five boys and ten men have all tried to milk Peggy, and

not one of them has succeeded but you. Therefore, from this moment, I

will adopt you as my son, Tim, and you shall marry my little girl Amy,

by-and-by, and I will leave you the farm as a wedding present.” And the

farmer kept his word.

When Tim went upstairs to set the parrot free, he found the bird

transformed into a beautiful wee lady, whom he politely lifted out of

the cage. She thanked him, and made him a graceful curtsey as she

vanished out of the window.

THREE SPARROWS.

Toby Grumbleton worked with his uncle down in one of the deepest mines

in Ballarat. If you had searched the whole district in that gold

hunting region, you couldn’t have found a more selfish, lazy, and

disobedient boy than Toby. In consequence of his surly and complaining

disposition his companions had bestowed upon him the nickname of “Toby

the Growler,” and he well deserved the title; for a greater snivelling,

discontented youth never existed.

One day, while at work in the mine, Toby was ordered to gather together

all the blunt tools and send them up to the surface to be sharpened. As

usual, Toby began to grumble, whereupon his uncle gave him a good

thrashing, and the “Growler” ran off into one of the usual drives or

passages of the mine to indulge in a sulking fit. Of the many dark and

wide caverns underground, none in the whole pit was so large and so

gloomy and dismal as the one in which “Toby the Growler” had taken

refuge, yet the boy had not been there long before he became aware of a

strange yellow-coloured glow lighting up the drive. Looking up, he

beheld a little old dwarf, with a lamp in his hand, standing over him.

Such a plain, ugly-looking creature Toby had never seen before, though

there are any number of queer-looking fellows at Ballarat. The intruder

was small, not nearly so tall as Toby, but his head was a rasper, and

appeared as if it had belonged to several ancient individuals in

succession, the eyes very red, and omitting a fiery glow. He was

attired in a suit of brown russet, with a long sugar-loaf hat, and a

crutch staff.

“Get up, Toby the Growler, and follow me,” cried the dwarf in a brief

tone, and looking at him with those horrid eyes. Toby felt inclined to

disobey, but his heart sank within him at sight of the creature, and he

therefore followed, grumbling as he went, and wondering where the ugly

little humpback would lead him. Of one thing the boy was certain—that

the end of the subterranean passage would effectually bar the progress

of the unwelcome visitor; but the dim cave seemed to extend and open

out before them as they proceeded, until it took the shape of a long

railway tunnel, from which they at length emerged into the bright open

sunlight, beaming down upon a landscape fairer than a child’s dream.

The sudden transit from what appeared to be the bowels of a great high

mountain to the noonday light almost blinded our friend Toby; but the

dwarf touched him with his staff, and lo! the boy beheld a charming

country teeming with life and beauty. Here were soft grassy spots,

shaded by trees bending with ripe and golden-hued fruit; yonder a range

of hills clothed with richest verdure, and at the feet of which a broad

lake gleamed like a burnished shield. There were swans on the lake, and

birds of bright plumage on the trees and in the air, and birds

everywhere around.

“What place is this, sir?” cried Toby in amazement.

“This is the land of the three sparrows,” answered the dwarf with a

smile. “Look there; that little white building is the home of ‘Test,’

the eldest of the three; yonder by the water is the palace of ‘Try,’

while on the hills over there you can see the castle of ‘Cure,’ the

youngest.”

“Are they real sparrows, sir?” asked Toby.

“No, boy, only in form. They are Australian elves. Every twenty years

the great body of elfins in this country transform three of their

number into the shape of sparrows, to govern this land, and also for

other purposes, of which you may judge for yourself.” Saying which, the

dwarf caught the Growler in his arms, and in an instant they were

standing by the white palace on the lake. All the windows and doors

were wide open, so the dwarf entered with his companion and conducted

him to a large room where Test sat perched on the back of an armchair.

He seemed a well-feathered, plump old bird and wore spectacles.

“Ah, Grip, my trusty messenger,” he cried, “I see you have returned

with the Growler; take him hence and test him in the usual way.”

“Very well, your Excellency,” and the dwarf bent low in obeisance and

retired. He led Toby away into a large empty hall, and standing him up

beside the door, said, “Toby, Toby, shut your eyes and see what Fate

will send you.” The Growler closed his eyes, when the voice of the

dwarf was again heard. “Toby, Toby, open your eyes and see what Fate

has sent you.”

The boy opened his eyes and beheld the most magnificent apartment it is

possible to conceive. Tables with marble tops, inlaid with gold, were

loaded with choice fruits and lollies, and by some enchantment the

boy’s ragged clothes were changed to a gorgeous suit of crimson velvet,

bordered with pearls, and several servants stood at hand ready to do

his bidding.

“Ah, this is as it should be!” cried the delighted Toby. “I shall never

grumble again if I am to live like this. Here are guns to shoot with;

dogs to hunt with; horses to ride, and plenty of fishing in the lake.

Ah! I shall be thoroughly satisfied now.” And the Growler set about

enjoying himself.

But alas! for human resolves. The fruit made Toby ill; one of the

horses threw him and hurt his leg; he nearly shot himself with his gun;

and was all but drowned in the lake while fishing; and so he began to

complain worse than before. But the moment he did so, the splendid

scene vanished from before him in the twinkling of an eye, and he

discovered himself in the bare and empty room again, with only his

dirty rags, and the dwarf standing grinning beside him.

“Come along with me, Toby the Growler,” cried the old fellow in a

mocking tone; and before the boy could refuse he was borne away to the

palace of Try. This old and venerable sparrow was deep in the pages of

the Observer when Grip entered with Toby.

“Whom have we here?” he inquired, addressing the dwarf.

“Please, your Worship, this is a mortal who has been tested by your

Worship’s brother, and has failed,” answered Grip.

“What is his special defect?”

“Grumbling, your Worship.”

“Humph! a common quality among mortals, more especially with farmers

and boys. Try him without delay.”

With the quickness of a shifting scene in a magic-lantern Toby was

transferred to a cottage in a lonely valley, occupied by an old lady

and gentleman, who welcomed him as if he had been their own son, and

procured for him all that he could desire. The whole day was one round

of pleasure and enjoyment, and the boy expressed himself grateful and

satisfied with his position. One simple act he had to perform in return

for all this kindness, and that was to draw seven buckets of water from

a well every morning, for the use of the cottage. Yet Toby the Growler,

unmindful of past experience, began to grumble again, and once more he

found himself by the lake with the dwarf at his elbow.

“For the last time, come with me, Toby the Growler,” he cried in a

terrible voice, while his red flaming eyes shot out flashes like fire.

The boy felt utterly powerless to resist, and swift as a streak of

lightning he was carried to the gloomy abode of Cure, the youngest of

the three sparrows. The castle was as dark as a dungeon, but the guide

found his way within to the reception-hall, where Cure, in regal

feathers, sat surrounded by a guard of crows bearing torches.

“Who is this?” inquired the youngest sparrow sternly.

“A grumbling boy, your Highness.”

“Let him be cured. Take him away.”

The words were scarcely spoken ere poor Toby found himself instantly

transformed into a donkey with long ears. He was on a hard, hilly road,

dragging a heavy dray after him loaded with firewood. At first the lad

felt somewhat doubtful respecting the sudden transformation, but a

smart thump across his buttock soon convinced him he was no longer an

idle boy, but a beast of burden, with a cruel youth for his master, who

beat and bruised him unmercifully with a thick stick. Oh! the long and

weary hours he had to toil, while the miserable food he had to eat made

him weep, and wet the winkers with his tears. He thought of his uncle

and his home, and all the many kindnesses he had received, and had

repaid with complaints and grumblings, and he vowed earnestly, and with

true penitence, that if ever he got back again to the mine and to his

kind relative, he would avoid complaining for the rest of his life.

With this firm resolve came another sudden shifting in the magic scene.

So sudden was it that Toby rubbed his eyes, and found himself in that

self-same narrow drive in the mine at Ballarat, with his uncle shaking

him by the collar, and telling him that it was time to go to the

surface.

Toby is a man now, and is married and has several children; and if one

of these begins to grumble, he does not forget to remind them of the

Three Sparrows.

KING DUNCE.

Only a careless, stupid boy perched on a high stool within the

schoolroom, trying to learn his lesson, long after his companions had

been dismissed to their several homes. Only the biggest dunce at

Slate-em’s Academy, who wouldn’t try, like other boys, to master his

tasks—not because he hadn’t the ability to do so, but because he wanted

to be a King. Yes, dear readers, Noel Biffin, son of Jack Biffin, the

tin-smith, wanted to be a King. Nothing less would satisfy him. No, not

even the rank of Duke or Prince; so, instead of minding his lessons,

young Biffin drew Kings on his slate and in his copy-book, and was

therefore compelled to ride the wooden horse after school hours.

It was a very beautiful evening, with a grand sunset glow flooding

Slate-em’s Academy, and wrapping the Dunce round and round as with an

amber-coloured mantle, orange tinted. The old usher, nodding in his

chair, was quite unconscious of the halo which played round and about

his bald, venerable head, and made him appear for one brief moment like

one of the Apostles. The good, patient old man was tired with the heat,

and weary with the incessant chatter of the boys, and so he dozed in

comfort, and saw not the wee, shapely creature who entered at the

window and approached the boy as he stood upon the stool and bent the

knee before him. Although small, the stranger was very handsome, and

decked from head to heel in bright, glittering armour, with a crimson

plume adorning his helmet.

“May it please your gracious Majesty,” he said, doffing his helmet, “my

name is Popgun—Sir Guy Fawkes Popgun, Knight—one of your Majesty’s

subjects from the realm of Shadowland.” The Dunce nearly fell from the

stool in amazement at the strange words. He looked towards the still

sleeping master, and from him to the armour-clad Knight at his feet,

and replied in a low tone, “Hush! Don’t speak so loud. I haven’t learnt

my lesson yet; if he wakens he’ll thrash me. Now, what do you want?”

“Pardon, your liege,” rejoined the Knight respectfully, “I am sent as

ambassador from the good people of Shadowland to inform your Majesty

that you have been unanimously elected monarch of our wide and spacious

dominions, and I beg that it may please you to allow me to conduct you

thither without delay.”

“A King! Am I really a King after all?” cried Biffin, jumping from the

stool.

“Every inch a King, your Majesty,” replied Sir Guy Fawkes Popgun,

replacing his headpiece. “Will your liege follow me?”

“Stop, where is Shadowland?” inquired the boy.

“On the borders of Fancy, where dwell my kindred, the Australian elves.

Fairyland will have none but a mortal to reign over her. Come, your

Majesty.” And with a dignified bearing the Elfin Knight strode past the

slumbering usher, and led the newly-elected Majesty of Elfland out at

the door, which opened at their approach. Beyond the school, out on the

open play-ground, stood two fine-looking emus, splendidly caparisoned,

and ready for a journey; and before young Biffin knew what he was about

he and his companion were mounted thereon, and were speeding away

across the country as swift as the wind. Small townships, hills and

valleys, tracts of gloomy forests, and broad lakes appeared before

them, and disappeared behind them again, before the boy could say “Jack

Robinson.” Indeed, poor Biffin hadn’t breath to say anything, they

proceeded so swiftly. At length they came to a large sandy desert on

the confines of which rose a chain of lofty mountains. After crossing

the desert these mountains looked so steep and high that further

progress appeared at an end, but the Knight went to a cave close by and

brought forth a pair of flying horses, which flew upward with them in a

moment and landed them far away on the other side in safety—and this

was Shadowland of the Elfins. What poet’s brain, teeming with strange

wild fancies, could give expression to such a scene of loveliness as

Noel the Dunce saw here? What travel-stained worshipper of Nature,

traversing the girdle of the globe, ever feasted his eyes on a more

glorious prospect? Not at Rome, filled as it is with monuments of man;

nor at Athens, where Paul found the tablet inscribed, “To the Unknown

God”; or on that Ionian Isle, where the inspired John wrote “The

Revelation.” Beautiful and sacred are all three to view, but I have

feasted my soul on scenes equally grand and sublime in this new land

where the Universal Spirit of “Our Father” seemed to rest, and attract

the uplifted eyes and the inmost thoughts of the Soul to the Invisible

Presence.

The flying steeds alighted in a ravine shut in by walls of fantastic

rocks, peaked and turreted like the gable of some old feudal castle.

Here a mounted escort, composed of the potent and mighty of the empire,

awaited their coming, and led the King upwards to a grassy platform,

shaded by a patch of hoary trees, where a throne built of wild-flowers

had been erected for his reception. The site commanded a fine view of

the surrounding country, and the elected monarch beheld with

satisfaction thousands and thousands of his subjects assembled on the

plains below to do him homage, and whose cheers and shouts rang far and

wide when he ascended the throne to read the proclamation.

From time to time, for generations past, the Elfin Kings had to read

their own proclamations, but when young Biffin received the paper from

the hands of the Prime Minister his heart sank within him. His progress

at school had been so slow that he was unable to read print fluently.

How, then, was he to master the contents of the closely-written

parchment in his hand? At that moment he would have given all his toys

at home, even to his crop-eared pony, to have been able to read

writing; but he couldn’t read or spell, nor make anything better than a

pot-hook.

“May it please your Majesty to read the proclamation to the people?”

whispered Sir Guy Fawkes Popgun in the King’s ear.

“I—I cannot read,” replied his Majesty, trembling with shame and

vexation.

“Cannot read!” repeated the courtiers, looking at each other. “Surely

your Majesty is jesting.”

“Indeed, gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m a dunce,” replied Biffin sheepishly.

“A dunce, who cannot read, and yet has the silly presumption to be a

King!” shouted the fairy populace in a mocking tone. “Hurrah for King

Dunce! Long live King Dunce!”

And such is the uncertainty of popular favour in Elfland, that the vast

assembly, who but a moment before had exhibited such hearty tokens of

good-will, began to hoot and clamour in derision. They pulled the

monarch from his throne, stripped him of his robes of state, and

carried him to a rocky peak, where they doffed his crown and replaced

it with a wreath of straw; while their shouts—“Long live King Dunce!

Hurrah for King Dunce!”—once more rent the air.

In all his troubles at home, and his canings and disappointments with

his lessons at school, our hero never felt so humbled and crestfallen

in his life before. He would have given anything to be enabled to read

and write well. And this wish would have been easily gratified, had he

but paid a little attention to his books while at the Academy; but he

hadn’t done so, and the result was his downfall from the proud position

he had so long coveted.

What availed his regrets now, when he was led away a prisoner, and

placed in a dark cave, guarded by seven monsters, whose bodies were

covered with long feathers, and who had heads like monkeys? It availed

nothing that they set him hard lessons day and night, beat him with

rods, until he was bruised all over, and suffered such pain that he

made his escape from the cave. But the monsters were after him across

the country, over hill and dale, until he came to the top of the high

mountain which overlooked the desert, and the monsters being close

behind, there was nothing left for him in his last extremity but to

leap for his life and liberty.

And Noel Biffin did leap; but instead of being dashed to pieces, the

Dunce came down from his perch on the stool to the floor of the

schoolroom, the noise of which roused the usher from his nap, who gave

the stupid boy a dose of cane pie and sent him home.

“I DON’T KNOW.”

Our little hero lived in a very pretty cottage on the hills. He was

fond of reading, and his parents, who could well afford it, indulged

the boy to his heart’s content with interesting books.

By his schoolmates this lad was known by the nickname of “Careless

Harry,” because he was so untidy and negligent in his habits. Out of

all the expensive books that had been purchased for him there wasn’t

one that had a decent cover. Indeed, some of them had their backs

completely broken with ill-usage, while others hadn’t a back at all.

Besides being careless and forgetful the boy had still another fault.

If his mother asked him a question, the answer was sure to be, “I don’t

know.”

“Where’s your hat, Harry?”

“I don’t know.”

“What have you done with your ball?”

“I don’t know.”

“Child, however did you tear your clothing in that frightful manner?”

“I am sure I don’t know.”

His room was littered with his books, toys, and playthings. There stood

the rocking-horse with his tail pulled out. Here, flat on its back, lay

his sister’s big doll, its poor face dreadfully disfigured by Harry’s

mischievous fingers. His mother was very much displeased with him, and

had sent him to bed, promising to take severe measures with him if she

ever heard “I don’t know” from his lips again.

Harry was very frightened. He did not wish to vex his mother, or to act

unkindly towards his sister, and so, resolving to be more careful in

the future, he covered his head over with the bedclothes and fell fast

asleep.

But Harry’s carelessness had raised the ire of others besides his

mother and sister, and they were determined to punish him.

It is all very well to treat books, dolls, drums, rocking-horses, and

other playthings as if they had no life in them, but careless boys may

do that once too often. So it appeared in this case. Harry was no

sooner asleep than these ill-fated creatures held a great discussion

with reference to his cruelty.

“I’ll not stand this any longer,” cried Robinson Crusoe, stepping from

the boy’s bookshelf. “I’m getting an old man, and I won’t be insulted

by having my only covering torn from my back by this young rogue. There

he is covered up quite snug, while I am standing here shivering in my

shirt.”

“And I,” responded little Red Riding Hood, “would gladly see him

punished. He has thrown so much soapy water over me I feel as if I’d

been shipwrecked in the washing-tub.”

“And I,” echoed the Drum, “owe him a grudge, not so much for the hard

thumps he has bestowed on my person, as for his disgraceful treatment

of yonder fair lady, whose dear nose he has completely put out of

joint. That lady doll is my relation. We were born in the same place,

were sent out in the same ship to Australia, and have occupied the same

shop, until purchased and brought here to be cuffed and ill-treated by

this boy. Gentlemen, I mean to avenge the lady.”

Now the ice was broken, accusations came so fast and thick against the

unlucky culprit that it was quite impossible to make them all out.

Fishing rods, minus line or hook, bats without handles, balls and tops,

which danced like mad around the bed—the hubbub became so great the

wonder is the whole house was not roused by his accusers.

The noise, however, woke Harry, who sat bolt upright in bed, and gazed

with a bewildered stare at the queer crowd surrounding him. He was too

much alarmed to speak, but one glance showed him Robinson Crusoe, clad

in nothing but his fly-leaves, standing at his bedside, with many

others, who in the dim light he could not recognise.

“Place him on my back, friends, and I’ll gallop away to—‘I don’t

know,’” cried out the tailless Rocking-horse in a terrible voice; and

the words were no sooner uttered than poor Harry was quickly

blindfolded, dragged from his bed, and placed astride the horse, who

instantly galloped out into the cold night with him.

The pace at which the steed travelled was a caution. Harry had once

accompanied his father to Gawler by rail, but the speed of the train

was like travelling on a bullock dray in comparison to the flying pace

of that beast without a tail. How he held on to its back is a positive

wonder. All he saw was the clear starlit sky above his head, rocking

and rolling about like the waves at the Semaphore on a windy day. His

poor feet ached with the cold, for his only covering was his

night-gown, and his legs felt as though they didn’t belong to him. At

length, just as he was beginning to feel faint and giddy from

exhaustion, the Rocking-horse stopped, and the bandage was removed from

his eyes. Ah! what a sight he beheld. There was the Drum he had broken

strutting about on legs like a human being, who came up to Harry with a

haughty swagger, and said, “Boy, why did you break my head?”

And then a Hoop came, and demanded, “why he was thrown aside in the

lumber-room?” and a black Jack-in-the-box, whose scanty locks had been

wantonly torn from his scalp, came and reviled him; and, lastly, his

late victim, the poor doll, made its appearance in a winding sheet, and

began to reproach him for his cruelty.

The unfortunate boy seated himself on the ground and burst into tears,

but the more he wept the more his tormentors jeered at him; and really

the Drum and Robinson Crusoe seemed to incite the others to insult him;

therefore was our poor Harry very miserable indeed. Growing tired of

playing with him, or afraid of the cold wind, perhaps, his strange

companions at last took their departure, and Harry was left alone.

Such companionship had been bad enough, but solitude was worse. He

started up, and shouted with all his might, “Is there anybody about?”

“I don’t know,” sighed the wind. “Which is the way home?” shouted

Harry. “I don’t know,” chuckled the laughing jackass. “Where’s my

mother?” screamed the boy. “I don’t know,” exclaimed a ’possum and a

kangaroo together. Too frightened to speak any more, Harry groped his

way along in the darkness. As day dawned he came to a very high hill,

and here he saw his tormentors having some rare fun. The Doll had

mounted the Rocking-horse, which was galloping round and round as they

do in a circus. While the Drum beat time, old Robinson Crusoe was

waltzing with the Lady of the Lake; and Jack the Giant-killer played

leap-frog with Mother Hubbard, Red Riding Hood and Little Jack Horner.

Their merriment grew more fast and furious every moment, but the

instant they espied our hero it ceased, and a deep silence fell upon

them all.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried a Pop-gun, breaking the silence, “you are

aware we have refrained from doing injury to this cruel boy, through

the mediation of the ‘Old Woman who lived in a Shoe.’ We left him in

peace to make his way home, and instead of doing so he has wantonly

broken in upon our secret revelry, and so has forfeited all claim to

our clemency. What shall we do with him?”

“Pitch him headlong from the cliff,” replied the Drum in a deep voice.

“It shall be done,” responded a chorus of voices.

Poor Harry, who had not spoken hitherto, now found his voice. “No, no!

Spare me, good gentlemen; spare me!” he cried.

They only mocked him for his pains. “Hearken to him pleading for mercy!

Careless Harry! cruel Harry!” and amidst much noise and confusion the

young mortal was carried to the apex of the steep, tall cliff, and

pushed over into the yawning gulf below.

Poor Harry, half mad with terror, uttered a series of piercing shrieks

as he felt himself falling—falling through the air—and called aloud for

his mother to help him. Conceive his joy when he found himself in her

arms, and heard her well-known voice reassuring him.

“You are safe, my boy, quite safe. What has frightened you?”

“Oh, mother! I have been taken away in the night.”

“Taken away! Where?”

“To—to—‘I don’t know.’”

The mother smiled to herself as she left the room, and “Careless Harry”

went out to see if the rocking-horse and the others had returned home.

THE BANK CAT.

Because “Tent-Peg” on the Bogan isn’t on the map of Australia, it must

not be inferred that the little township does not exist. Indeed, any

old colonist who knows his way about will tell you that the place is in

the sister colony, and consists of one public-house, a blacksmith’s

shop, a store, a church (about the shape and size of a haystack), and a

small branch bank.

The latter building presented nothing of the polish and artistic

finish, or the magnificence of many of our metropolitan banks, but it

was one of the most snug and cosy institutions in the whole country,

within its walls. No doubt Toney Buck, the messenger, was of the same

opinion, as he sat dozing before a warm coal fire, this severe winter

night, with no other company than a large black cat, of the male

gender, for his companion.

Toney Buck was an orphan, aged twelve years, or thereabouts, and acted

in the dual rôle of servant to the manager and messenger to the bank.

The boy slept on the premises, and the manager having gone to visit a

neighbouring squatter, his servant had been ordered to sit up until he

returned. There Toney sat in the manager’s armchair, bowing and nodding

to the fire, as if it had been some great fetish to whom he was paying

homage. Toney was a very practical lad. Nothing fanciful or dreamy ever

bothered Toney. Had the boy been otherwise, I’m afraid he wouldn’t have

had anything to do with the bank, because his employers were anything

but poets or visionaries, as some of my borrowing friends can testify.

However, be this as it may, every time our hero opened his heavy

eyelids after each jerk forward, he encountered the round, black,

winking orbs of Tabby fixed full upon his face, with a strange

expression stamped thereon. Indeed, more than once Toney felt certain

that the cat actually laughed at him, and when discovered in the act,

instantly attempted to compose its features and wink at the fire in a

knowing way. It is not a very easy task for a sleepy boy, who feels as

if his eyelids were freighted with four-pound weights, to rouse himself

and his waking faculties all in a moment, but Toney managed to sit bolt

upright after a time and to stare at his companion. Toney fancied he

could stare. So he could without a doubt; but the cat could and did

stare harder than Toney. Its eyes never moved, in their fixed look,

from his face, yet he could see their colour change from black to pale

sea-green, and from green to grey, and then turn flaming red as the

fire. Toney feeling uncomfortable, removed his chair farther back,

muttering, “Oh, bother the cat!”

“Whirr. You’re another,” replied a voice instantly.

The messenger was in the act of sitting down again, but he gave a jump

as if a snake had bitten him. He looked first at Tabby, and then at the

fire bewildered, and said, “Who spoke?”

“I did,” replied the cat.

“Good gracious! Are you sure now?” inquired Toney, with the scales—or

the weights, rather—fallen from his eyeballs.

“I did say ‘You’re another’; and so you are. If you bother me I’ll

bother you!” replied Tabby, whisking his long tail.

“Oh, my! I never knew cats could talk, although I’ve heard their voices

sometimes, of a night, to some tune.”

“None of your sneers, Toney,” interrupted Tabby quickly. “There are

more wonderful things in Australia than a talking cat, and some noises

to which our midnight concerts are as sweet music in comparison. Listen

to me. The bank will be robbed this very night. There!”

“Talking cat—the bank robbed. I—I hope I’m awake,” cried Toney, tugging

at his unkempt hair in astonishment.

“I hope you are, for there are those coming who will soon arouse you,”

replied the cat, jumping on the back of a chair, and erecting his back

in the form of a rainbow. “Hark! that noise is worse than our

caterwauling. Hear them forcing in the door of the front office.”

As the cat spoke there came upon their ears first a low grating noise,

then followed a sound as if the heavy door of the bank had been

wrenched off its hinges. “Lord help us! It’s the bushrangers, and

master’s away. Oh! what shall I do?” and the poor boy began to cry

bitterly.

“Stop crying. Wait and see!” Tabby hadn’t time to say more, ere three

men, with masks upon their faces, and armed with revolvers, rushed into

the room.

“Hallo! only a boy here. Where’s the manager?” inquired one of the

robbers, grasping Toney.

“He isn’t here, sir.”

“Come, none o’ that,” cried the man gruffly. “Tell us where he is, or

I’ll shove you a-top of that fire.”

Toney looked at the fire, and then at the bushranger, and began to cry

afresh.

“Where’s the manager?”

“Gone to Mr. Hilton’s, the station on the river.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, as certain as that you will be hanged.”

The man let go his hold of Toney instantly, and stared first at the cat

and then at the messenger, as if he was puzzled as to which had

answered him. He appeared to decide in favour of the boy, for he said

hoarsely, “No cheek, my fine kiddie, or I’ll roast you like a chicken.

Bring the keys of the safe, quick.”

“Master has them in his pocket, sir.”

The robber swore a frightful oath, then held converse with his

companions in an undertone. After which they produced a cord, and

having tied the lad hand and foot, left him in the room with the cat,

locked the door on the outside, and proceeded to ransack the bank.

Poor Toney! What could he do against three armed men? The manager, his

master, had been very good to him. He was father and mother and brother

and sister all in one. What would he say when he returned and found the

place robbed—the money gone? Hadn’t he entrusted all the gold, and

notes, and papers—worth thousands and thousands of pounds—into his

(Toney’s) custody, and here were villains breaking open these sacred

coffers with hammer and crowbar in ruthless plunder! In his trouble, he

almost wished the bushrangers would come in and roast him as they had

promised to do. Even that would be preferable to facing his kind

master.

“Toney. Hi, Toney!” The boy jumped. He had forgotten all about the cat.

“You were always kind to me, Toney, and I’m going to help you now.”

“How can a cat help anybody?” replied poor Toney.

“Ah! but I wasn’t always a cat, Toney.”

“Oh, bother; I suppose you mean when you were a little kitten,”

muttered the boy.

“No, I don’t, Toney Buck. I never was a kitten. I mean when I was a

happy fairy in Elfland, before I was changed into a cat for being cruel

and selfish.”

“Snooks!” answered Toney sceptically.

“Who?”

“Snooks! It won’t do, you know. There ain’t no fairies, nor moonland,

and such nonsense.”

“Supposing my shape were to change again, here under your very nose;

would you believe what you saw?”

“Rather! but you can’t do it, puss.”

“Can’t I? You shall see,” replied Tabby. “Say: ‘Sevle naila rtsua’ very

slowly. Now!”

“‘Sevle naila rtsua,’” cried the boy in a brisk tone; but he had no

sooner uttered the words than the black cat vanished into thin air, and

in its place he beheld a wee, thin, elderly gentleman dressed in

hunting costume, seated astride the back of the chair, who bowed very

politely and lifted his hat to the astonished messenger.

“Well I never!” cried Toney. “Who are you, pray?”

“‘Sevle naila rtsua!’” replied the little man, laughing.

“What is ‘Sevle naila rtsua’?” demanded the boy.

“Read the letters backwards and join the first two syllables together.”

“Ah! A-u-s-t-r-a-l-i-a-n—E-l-v-e-s—Australian Elves, eh?”

“That’s it, Toney; I’m proud to be one of them, my boy. Now I’ll show

you how a cat can help you out of this scrape,” answered the wee man,

with a smile only to be seen on the face of a fairy. “I’m going out at

that broken pane in the window there, straight to Dick Holmes’ stable,

take out the steeplechaser ‘Nightwind,’ ride as fast as he can go to

the junction, return with half-a-dozen troopers by a short cut, and

secure these ruffians red-handed with their booty.

“Hurrah!” cried Toney in his enthusiasm.

“Hush, boy. Not so loud,” said the elfin; “they may hear you. I must

away on my errand quickly; yet mind, Toney, if you don’t see the bank

cat here again, I’m always to be found on the banks of the Bogan. Keep

good heart. Good-bye.”

With a hop, skip, and a jump the wee man was through the broken pane

and astride the horse “Nightwind” before the boy could realise that he

was alone.

Meanwhile the strong-room of the bank resounded with the heavy blows

dealt by the robbers upon the solid doors of the iron safe, which for a

long time withstood their utmost attempts to break it open. Poor Toney

sat in fear and trembling, and counted the minutes as they fled by,

listening to the noises without, and wondering if the little elfin man

would really do what he promised. It seemed hardly possible that he

could sit a horse at all, much less guide the crack steeplechaser

“Nightwind” across country on a dark night. Nevertheless, the confident

tone of the fairy before he jumped out at the window reassured him, and

hope began to gather in Toney the messenger.

Alas! that hope was dispelled the next moment by a loud shout from the

bushrangers, which proclaimed that the safe had yielded. Had the

robbers been less intent upon the bags of gold and silver which met

their gaze, it is probable they would have seen the half-dozen

police-troopers who entered, carbine in hand, and surrounded them. When

the ruffians did see them, however, it was too late to resist, and they

were taken away out into the darkened night, some of them never to see

the light of the sun again as free men.

At the trial of the bushrangers the police couldn’t swear who gave the

information about the bank, and I believe it remains a mystery to this

day.

GUMTREE HOLLOW.

Like “Ben Bolt’s” mill, Allan’s farm, situated by the River Torrens,

had gone to decay and ruin. It was a flourishing place before the death

of Peter Allan, but the farmer had been taken away, and his widow and

her three children had to fight out the battle of life unaided. The

property had been heavily mortgaged three years previously, and, what

with unfavourable seasons and other misfortunes, the widow Allan had

not been able to repay principal or interest of the money borrowed, and

the creditors therefore gave the farmer’s wife notice to quit.

Fortunately, Mrs. Allan had a brother who had gone to some diggings in

New South Wales, and had left in charge of his sister an old hut and a

patch of land known as Gumtree Hollow. In the emergency the widow

determined to occupy the place until she could find a more suitable

home. The Hollow consisted of about two acres of crags and stones,

without sufficient soil to grow a potato in, and was distant from the

farm about five miles.

On a warm afternoon, three days after the widow had received notice to

leave the homestead, little Charlie Allan, the eldest boy, aged twelve,

started to the hut at Gumtree Hollow with his mother’s goods and

chattels in the spring-cart. It had been arranged that after delivering

his load the lad should return for his parent and his brother and

sister. Charlie was intelligent and very kind-hearted. He had noticed

his mother crying bitterly, and he had followed her into a back room

where his father had died, and there putting his little arms about her

neck he had tried to soothe her with many assurances that when he

became a man he would work for her and buy the place back again.

Old Bob, the pony, didn’t like the road to the hut, but repeatedly

turned to retrace his steps every half-mile or so of the journey.

Nevertheless, Charlie managed to get him there at last.

In a ravine between a natural cutting of jagged crags stood the old

building, overshadowed by a gigantic tree whose wide-open trunk, hollow

as a bell, had often afforded shelter to straggling picnic parties. It

was a grand, old, hoary gum, knobbed and gnarled with age, and whose

spreading branches formed a canopy over the dilapidated hut. One long,

fork-like branch projected farther over than the rest, on the extreme

end of which something perched, swaying the bough to and fro with an

easy motion. Charlie, thinking it was a parrot, took up a stone for a

shot; but he dropped the stone again instantly, as a voice from the

tree uttered a shrill peal of laughter.

The poor lad’s first thought was to take to his heels and run for it;

but the voice called out in a kindly tone, “Hallo! Charlie ’avic, how

are ye, Charlie Allan?”

The boy gazed upward in amazement, and beheld a wee, teeny, queer

fellow, hardly six inches high, sitting astride the branch, and gazing

down with a knowing look at him. The creature’s dress was green; from

his shapely shoes to his brimless hat, swallow-tailed coat, breeches,

stockings, all were the verdant green colour.

“Who are you?” questioned Charlie, recovering from his surprise.

“Shure I’m an Irishman,” cried the little fellow, at the same time

springing to the ground. “A rale paddy, an’ I may tell you that there

isn’t a fay or a gnome in South Australia that I can’t leap or swim

wid; do’s thee hear that, ’avic?”

He was such a dwarfed miniature of a man, and appeared such an impudent

swaggerer—with his chimney-pot hat on one side of his head, and his

saucy turned-up nose—that Charlie felt inclined to pick him up and cuff

him soundly.

“What is your name?” asked the boy, making a sudden dive at the

creature.

“McKombo,” answered the sprite, dodging under Charlie’s legs. “My name

is McKombo; but be aisy wid ye now, an’ don’t be after trying to take a

mane advantage of me.”

“I’d scorn to do it,” said Charlie, unconsciously clenching his fists.

“Who are you; what are you; and what do you want?”

“Be aisy, Charlie. Arrah’, don’t be botherin’ me wid too many

questions,” said McKombo. “I’ve tould ye I’m an Irishman. Captain

Brophy imported me to the colony in a hat-box twenty years ago.”

“Why, you’re a fairy,” suggested the lad, eyeing his strange companion

askance.

“Of course I am,” replied McKombo, “and I may tell you I’ve been

waiting all this blessed day to see you.”

“To see me?”

“Thrue for ye, Charlie. I am very well acquainted wid all the bother

an’ trouble that’s going on at the farm, an’ I mane to help your mother

clane out of it.”

Poor Charlie felt as if he could have hugged McKombo, but the sprite

kept his distance and said quietly, “You haven’t such a thing as a

spade and a pick among the things in the cart?”

Charlie had, though. Both the pick and the spade he had used many a

time at the farm, and he produced them at once; but he looked

doubtfully at McKombo as to what he was to do with them or how they

could be the means of assisting his mother in her difficulties. It

seemed very business-like, however, the way the sprite led Charlie to

the hollow trunk of the great gum-tree, and commanded him to dig within

a certain circle he at once marked out. The goblin’s promises of

certain and speedy benefit gave the boy faith and energy to dig and

delve away with might and main until there gaped a large hole within

the trunk, which revealed some of the thick roots beneath, also the top

of a square tin box, such as lawyers keep their deeds in. The moment

McKombo caught sight of the box he began to caper about the sward in

antic glee.

“Hurrah!” he cried, tossing up his hat. “There it is, me boy, safe an’

sound, as on the night I saw them murthering scoundrels place it there

twenty years ago.”

Poor Charlie stared at the fairy, and wiped the perspiration from his

heated face, but he could not comprehend what his companion meant.

Acting under McKombo’s directions, young Allan made a lever and got the

box out of its bed. It did not appear large, but it was very heavy—so

heavy that the boy could hardly lift it; the thick coating of paint on

it had preserved it from rusting and decay, and it was fastened with an

iron padlock. With one blow of his spade Charlie broke open the lid,

when—lo! he saw a heap of dark yellow sovereigns and several parcels of

bank-notes within. The sight made him faint and giddy with surprise and

delight, so that he could not utter a word.

“Look there, now. See that,” ejaculated the sprite, pointing to the

treasure. “One evening, twenty years ago, three men brought that box

here and hid it beneath the trunk of this old gum-tree; they went away,

but never returned for it. In time a poor woodcutter built his hut

beneath the great tree, and I watched him come and go to his daily

toil, until he could toil no more and they carried him forth and buried

him on the river-bank. Then came your Uncle George, my boy, who

purchased the place for ten pounds; but had he known of the riches

under his very nose, I’ll go bail he wouldn’t have gone away to dig for

gold.”

“Why didn’t you tell Uncle George about this money?” asked Charlie.

“Bekase he would have spent it recklessly, honey, that’s why. Money

ill-spent or misapplied is a great evil. Put the box on the cart wid

the things, and return to your mother. Off wid ye, boy, at onst.”

“Won’t you come with me?” pleaded Charlie.

“I can’t, ’avic, I’m going to a christening at McFadden’s in the Glen.

Away ye go. Good-bye.” Saying which, McKombo vanished from his sight.

Widow Allan was very much astonished when Charlie returned and told his

story, but her surprise was still greater when she saw the box of hard

cash. She counted the money, which amounted to over three thousand

pounds sterling; after which she fastened the box again, and wrote a

letter to the manager of a certain bank in Sydney, and to which most of

the notes belonged.

In due course the bank sent a representative to Allan’s farm, who

informed the widow that the bank had been robbed of over three thousand

pounds one night in June twenty years ago, and which had never been

recovered. The bank agent departed with the money, but he left the poor

but honest widow a cheque for £500—a sum which not only paid off the

liability upon her farm, but enabled her to put something by for a

rainy day and for Charlie when he came of age.

WHISKERKISS.

CHAPTER I.

THE MYSTERIOUS JOURNEY.

In the heart of the far Australian wild—away from traces of

civilisation, and beyond the hope of help, a brave youth, faint with

travel and with hunger, reclines completely exhausted by the bank of a

broad river. He is the last of a band of nine who have attempted to

explore the central portion of our vast continent, where on the Atlas

we read, written right across the great blank, Unexplored. All his

companions have perished of want and thirst, and Roland Trent, although

he has reached water, and has quenched his burning thirst, feels that

he also must follow his comrades ere long. He is very weak and so

fatigued that he cannot stand; but he can see the flowing stream and

the sunlit landscape, which anon becomes o’erclouded in his vicinity by

the shadow of some moving object between him and the river. What could

it be?

The explorer looked up in wonder, and beheld a small and very ugly old

man standing and grinning at him. The creature was most outrageously

grotesque in form—having, by some freak of nature, the body of a child

with the head of a giant. No one, not even Mr. Punch, could boast a

finer hump than protruded from between the shoulders of the intruder.

From out a circular hole in his jerkin the hump rose bare, behind the

big round skull, like a sugar loaf. He had small eyes, but they were

infinitely more terrible than all his other deformity put together; at

one moment they glowed with a phosphorescent sheen, which changed again

to a vivid purple light, and from that to diamond flashes, without the

closing of an eyelid.

“Ho! Ho! Who is more powerful than fire, stronger then the wind, and

deeper than the streams? Whiskerkiss—I am he.”

The voice of the old fellow was dreadful, and echoed with a sullen roar

like the growl of a lion, “I am Whiskerkiss, King of the Mountain

Barrier, and Lord of Birds and Beasts. Who art thou?”

The lips of the fainting youth answered, “An unfortunate explorer.”

“Ha! Ha!” laughed the grim sprite in mimicry. “Thou puny mortal! Thou

an explorer! Why, thy poor breath is nearly spent, ere thou hast

reached the threshold of the great Unknown. Ho! Ho!”

Roland Trent shuddered.

“Wouldst thou see the wonders of this vast division of the globe? Come

with Whiskerkiss, and he will show thee fertile lands, great lakes, and

powerful nations in this unexplored interior. Come! here is my boat,

and Starmoon, my slave, lashes the stream impatiently.”

As the dwarf spoke, he lifted Roland in his arms and placed him in a

skiff upon the river, which immediately shot along the watery way with

the speed of an express train. It was some time before Roland Trent

recovered from the half unconscious state in which he had been conveyed

to the boat; by-and-by, however, his vision became more clear, and he

saw a sight he had never seen before. The skiff was nothing but a frail

canoe, at the stern of which stood Whiskerkiss steering; but in front,

a great, strange fish was harnessed to the bow, and plunging through

the stream with immense velocity.

No pearl diver ever encountered such a quaint-looking denizen of the

deep, as Starmoon the goblin fish of Whiskerkiss. It was in shape like

an alligator, only its legs were as those of a grasshopper, which it

used in place of fins while swimming. Fully twenty feet in length, it

had a body as thick as a bullock, and a long spike projecting out of

the top of its head. The face of the monster was hideous to behold—the

rolling eyes, dreadful mouth, filled with a row of sharp, glistening

teeth, and above all, it appeared to jibber, and make faces at our

hero, as he looked at it in its swift course.

And now the river widened into a deep black gulf, and the shore receded

from their gaze; not a ripple broke over the sullen surface, for the

waters were like thick oil. Dark objects, in rapid motion, darted along

like dolphins, and played leap-frog over the skiff. Roland Trent put

his hand over the side; to his astonishment the water felt quite hot.

He dipped a little up in the hollow of his palm, and tasted it. Pah! It

was not salt, nor fresh, but worse than either, as it instantly

produced a horrible nauseous feeling in him akin to stupor.

Onward went Starmoon at increased speed, urged by his master

Whiskerkiss, until Roland beheld a great mountain range in the

distance, which they rapidly approached. Abrupt and perpendicular, the

summit of these high hills was lost in the clouds. The canoe sped

onwards, and it seemed as if the frail barque would be dashed to atoms

against their rugged sides. Daylight faded away as they drew near, and

a distant roaring noise shook the sluggish waters. Were they hurrying

to some fatal mäelstrom, or going headlong into some tremendous cavity

in the bowels of the mountains? Roland’s spirit quailed within him at

the thought. In the dim twilight, he saw the boat had entered an

enormous cavern, where a dense wall of black rock, or rather boulders,

were piled in wild disorder one above the other, and terminating in a

flat roof of the same description.

“Ho, ho! I am Whiskerkiss, King of Woods and Stream,” and the voice of

the steersman awoke the slumbering echoes of the dreary place with ten

thousand vibrations.

“Who sails through rocks and hills, and guides the torrent in its

course? I, Whiskerkiss. Ho! Starmoon. Ho! my slave, delve, delve!”

Gradually the darkness became more opaque around them. Roland cast

himself down at the bottom of the canoe, and awaited his fate. He

closed his eyes in horror at the vision of that dread abyss.

The time passed on, and still the same ghastly darkness prevailed. Our

hero knew not whether it was night or day, or how many hours had passed

since they had entered that dreadful passage under the mountain. From a

sort of torpor into which he had fallen Roland was at length aroused by

a touch on his cheek. It was not the touch which animated him so

quickly, but the intensely pleasing sensation which it caused. Like

that warm, thrilling emotion caused by the infusion of laughing gas,

Roland felt a vigorous glow pervade his whole frame in an instant. He

opened his eyes, but the bright rush of the noon-day light which burst

unexpectedly upon his sight completely blinded him.

He shaded his eyes at first, until he should become accustomed to the

glare. When at length he looked up, lo! where were Starmoon and

Whiskerkiss, and the black unclean waters of the murky cavern below the

mountains? Gone! With his hearing more acute, his sight much keener,

and with every other faculty braced and quickened, the explorer found

himself the occupant of a beautiful boat canopied with gold and silver

network of rare design and workmanship. The sides and bottom of the

skiff were inlaid with mother-of-pearl, while a large outspread fan, at

the stern, of the same material, gave the resemblance of a gorgeous

peacock floating on a silver stream. A dozen creatures, dazzlingly

fair, and dressed superbly, propelled the boat with ivory paddles;

while one who appeared robed in roseate splendour stood at his side,

and pointed out to him a glorious country.

Yonder shone an immense valley, shut in by Alpine hills, of a deep,

rich green, spangled with flowers. Birds of every hue and shade flitted

from tree to tree, and filled the air with melody. At the foot of the

hills a clear lake sparkled in the sunlight, and beyond the lake rose

the towers, peaks, and domes of a beautiful city of white marble, which

flashed back the sun’s rays in a million shafts of different coloured

lights. The magnificence of this scene grew each moment yet more

glowing and brilliant as Roland Trent gazed. Soon there smote upon his

ear most ravishing sounds—sounds that seemed as the tinkle of silver

bells, mingled with the soft murmurs of the Æolian harp. To his

astonishment Roland discovered the melody proceeded from his

companions, who were conversing with each other, and in his own

language. Next to the gratification of finding himself in such an

enchanting region, the explorer was delighted to find these people

could understand and converse with him.

“Gentlemen,” said he, bowing politely, “will you have the goodness to

tell me what country this is I now gaze upon for the first time?”

The rowers ceased rowing at the sound of his voice, and the nearest to

him answered,—

“O! adored mortal, we are thy slaves. This is the kingdom of Bo-Peep,

and is called Dreamland. No feet of soul-lit mortal hath ever trodden

our soil before. Hail to thee! immortal one!”

“Are you the King of this fair land?” inquired our hero.

“Nay, I am but his Majesty’s messenger—my name is Pop-Corn. What shall

we call thee?”

“Roland, the Explorer.”

“Welcome, then, to our shores. Thou shalt see Bo-Peep and his daughter

Princess Golden Hair.”

The rowers resumed their paddles, and the fairy boat shot down the

shining stream into the lovely sheen of the lake by the marble city.

Moments in Dreamland are as days with us. Therefore it will take a week

of our time to prepare the charming Princess Golden Hair to receive our

hero. Next Saturday the bold explorer shall be ushered into her

presence at the Court of Bo-Peep.

CHAPTER II.

PRINCESS GOLDEN HAIR.

The metropolis of Dreamland presented a most glorious spectacle of

magnificence and beauty to the wondering eyes of Roland Trent, as the

fairy boat glided into the lake near the city. Beneath a fine marble

colonnade, supported by pillars of jasper, he beheld a crowd of people,

composed chiefly of Ministers of State and the nobles of the King,

standing ready to give him welcome, while beyond these dignitaries a

great square was filled with his Majesty’s Guards, armed cap-à-pié in

silver armour, and surrounded by lithe, gay figures, who flitted to and

fro like gorgeous butterflies in the sunlight.

The Australian youth was amazed at the dazzling beauty of the ladies,

who gathered round him as he landed, with loud cries. Some of them even

went so far out of the rule of good breeding and etiquette in their

reception as to embrace and almost smother him with kisses. But there

are no Mrs. Grundys in Elfland, and so the dames enjoyed themselves

with the freedom and the innocence of children. With waving banners and

bands of music, which sounded to his ears like so many tinkling musical

boxes, our hero was escorted by a troop of silver-clad Guards to the

palace of Bo-Peep. Grander than anything that ever entered the mind of

that famous architect, Sir Christopher Wren, rose the glittering domes

and lofty peaks of the fairy King’s palace. Through a labyrinth of

budding roses perfuming the air around; by gold and silver fountains in

full play, and whose soft cadence fell upon the ear like angels’

whispers; beneath a natural arch of mighty trees, every one of which

held a thronged choir of winged choristers warbling forth a jubilee;

and onward, amid glories and beauties unknown to the hosts of the

waking world, into the presence of Bo-Peep. No comparison in this

sea-bordered city would help to convey the faintest conception of the

pomp and splendour of the King’s reception-hall. Nature and Art had

here combined, and the blended effect was sublime. Not the array of

nobles nor the throng of superbly dressed ladies, through whom he

passed, nay, not even the throne itself, ablaze with jewels and

precious stones, which circled in the elfin monarch as the ring of a

magic lantern, had any attraction for the young stranger. His eyes had

fallen upon a young creature of enchanting loveliness at the King’s

side, and he had become spellbound thereby.

Poet or painter never dreamed of such a vision of beauty. Not the

sunset glow had a richer tint than the long glossy hair of Bo-Peep’s

only daughter. She was named “Princess Golden Hair”; and well did she

merit the name, for it was the most glorious golden hair that mortal

eye had ever seen. So Roland Trent thought as he was led forward and

seated by her side.

Here where the laws of Nature (as we recognise them) are altered and

suspended, the Princess and the mortal wanderer became enamoured of

each other instantly.

Oh! the power, the irresistible charm of love! How it glowed in the

eyes of Princess Golden Hair, and made the bewitching face yet more

charming! Like the clear notes of a flute, only infinitely softer and

more thrilling, her voice came upon his ears: “Welcome, oh, my

Prince—lord of my being!—welcome to Dreamland!”

What mattered the cheers of the people and the great speech from the

fairy King, and the grand banquet that followed—what mattered the

thousand surprises and the wonderful things that encountered him at

every turn? There was no fascination like the lovely Princess.

Glorious light and sunshine reigned here eternally. Roland watched in

vain for the approach of eve and darkness; but gloom came not. It was

one never-ceasing day.

By order of Bo-Peep, our hero was attired in rich robes softer than

silken velvet, which emitted a rose-coloured glow, mingled with a

delicious perfume, that by some mysterious power gave him a keener zest

for pleasure and enjoyment. Go where he would, the King’s daughter was

ever at his side.

What bliss to be with her on the bright lake, seated beneath a canopy

of roses in the royal barge; what sensations he felt with his head

pillowed on her lap, and her snow-white fingers toying with his curls!

“The sun never fades in this enchanting valley?” he asked.

“No,” she replied softly. “The great light is our life. Dulness is

destruction in Dreamland. We are only creatures of an hour, that is

all.”

Oh, what witchery in the low, thrilling voice! Creatures of an hour,

forsooth. Take care, Princess Golden hair! Take care.

“Your people are very beautiful, my Princess; but thou art fairer than

a summer dream,” he responded gaily.

“Flatterer, I and my people are but as dreams,” she answered, smiling.

“All thou see’st here of brightness and splendour are merely passing

visions, nothing more.”

“Thou art more real and enchanting, dear Rosebud, than any dream that

has haunted me.”

“Nay, adored stranger, mock me not,” said Golden Hair. “I am as the

wind, which fills our sail—here, there, then gone for ever. Life with

me is but a breath. But thou—thou wilt live when the wind and the vast

sun, which giveth our race life and motion, are fled for ever.”

“Dear Princess,” and he caught her hand within his own, looking into

her eyes the while, “Love is not a breath, a sunbeam. It is mightier

than the wind, and more powerful than the combined forces of sea and

air. Didst thou ever love, sweet maiden?”

What soft diffused light, glinting from the rich window of some ancient

cathedral, ever shed such a rosy glow as was seen for one brief instant

upon her face?

“Oh, Love has come with thee from beyond the Western Mountain,” she

answered quietly.

“And thou hast felt its presence?”

“Ay, in thee. Yet thou hast brought a demon with thee also,” she

replied.

“The sprite Whiskerkiss; of course, I remember.”

“Nay, not Whiskerkiss; but a gnome a thousand times more terrible than

the monster of the Barrier.”

“And what is that, Princess?”

“Pain,” replied Golden Hair.

“What! has Pain never entered into this realm?” he inquired with

amazement.

“Never.”

“Wonderful!” he ejaculated. “Had my charming Princess ever the

toothache?”

The ringing laugh which burst from her lips was like the carol of a

canary on a June morning.

“Nor the whooping-cough or—or the measles?” he added, smiling at her

excessive merriment.

“Stop, stop!” she cried, looking at him with a wilful light in her

large eyes, that held him as a spell. “The words thou hast uttered are

unknown to me, even as Pain was unknown to me ere I saw thee.”

A cloud fell over his handsome face at her words, which did not escape

Golden Hair, for she added quickly, “Lord of my life, Love and Pain are

twinborn, and go hand-in-hand, but the one is so beautiful that it

destroys even while it creates the other. Thou seemest to me all love.

Tell me, are all thy race like thee?”

“Fair Princess,” he replied gravely, “beyond the Mountain Barrier from

whence I came the people are as varied as the hues on yonder peak. Some

there are who feel not love. Many suffer pain willingly in the service

of a powerful world-god called Money. Amid the many fetishes who are

honoured and exalted, none are more esteemed than this. At his word

mighty empires rise in the wilderness, oceans are bridged, space

changed into a willing slave.”

“Money is a mighty demon,” answered Princess Golden Hair.

“Yes, lady,” continued Roland. “Money is mighty, but ere now he has

lent his power to an evil spirit called Hate, who going broadcast among

the races of men has incited them to gather together and destroy each

other without cause.”

“Hate is a monster, uglier than Pain,” replied the fairy.

“Ay, and he is invariably assisted by three other wicked powers known

as Murder, Slander, and Malice.”

“Poor lost people!” cried the gentle Princess. “Is there no good genii

to do battle with these wicked ones?”

“Oh yes; the renowned champion Sympathy has unfurled his banner to meet

the hosts of evil in the world; and by-and-by the people who have

groaned groans from their birth shall live as serene and peaceful as

the shadows on this lake. And now, sweet love, I would fain close my

eyes in repose, under the melody of thy lute.”

Sweetly fell the cadence over the still waters. Goldenly shone the

domes and peaks of the marble palaces, as Roland Trent dreamed.

Shall we wake him out of his glorious vision? Nay; let him slumber on.

He will open his eyes soon enough upon the realities of this sober

empire at the Antipodes.

A CROOKED SIXPENCE.

Patter, patter, splash, splash, drip, drip, fell the rain on the

housetops, down the waterspouts, and along the narrow streets of the

New South Wales capital. A dismal evening to be abroad; the fierce wind

playing antic tricks with the people returning home from work, by

driving the rain full in their faces, turning their umbrellas inside

out, and compelling many to seek temporary shelter beneath verandahs

and the projecting gables of high buildings.

The tempest of wind and rain didn’t appear to trouble a small,

dirty-looking urchin who had taken up his quarters in a sheltered nook

at the corner of one of the main thoroughfares of the city, and where

he crouched, watching the vehicles, with their gleaming lamps, dash

onward through the mud and wet. The poor child’s clothes would have

suited a warmer temperature than the keen wind and rain; but he

indulged in an occasional short run beneath the portico to keep his

blood in circulation. It was while taking his trot to and fro that the

boy’s attention was attracted by the stoppage of an omnibus, which drew

close up to the curb to allow an old gentleman to alight therefrom. He

was a portly old fellow, buttoned up in a portly overcoat, and he

carried a portly umbrella. The boy noted this by the light of the gas

lamp as the passenger went by him, and he also noted a small dark

object lying on the wet pavement, not a yard away, that was not there

before.

“Hallo! What’s this? A pocket-book with money in it. That gentleman who

passed has lost it. Hi, sir, hi!” And away ran the urchin in pursuit of

the elderly gentleman. The little fellow overtook him, after a good

chase against the pelting rain, which soaked his thin garments through

and through. “I say, sir, hi!”

“Be off, boy! I never give to beggars,” said the old gentleman, turning

round upon the lad briskly.

“I ain’t a beggar,” answered the little fellow with spirit. “I ran

after you to know if yer lost anything just now.”

“Lost! lost! not a——I say, by Jove! you—you don’t mean to——why, if it

is not gone, and I would not lose it for——”

The actions of the portly gentleman were somewhat singular. He first

passed his hand hastily over the breast of his buttoned-up coat, then

he threw down his open umbrella on the pavement—which the wind carried

away in a moment—tore open his clothing violently, and dived into the

recesses of a capacious inner pocket. Then he began a frenzied sort of

war-dance in front of the boy. “I had it in my hand not ten minutes

since,” he cried excitedly; “and I can swear to it before the Mayor and

all the J. P.’s in the colony. Mark that.”

“Mark what, sir?”

“Why, I have told you—haven’t I? My pocket-book, full of——Ah! I see you

have found it, my good, honest lad,” he went on, altering his tone, and

recovering his composure as the child held out the bloated purse to its

owner. “Full of documents, boy; of no use to anybody but me. Thank you

for restoring it.”

He snatched at the recovered treasure, and hastily unfastened the clasp

to see if any of its contents had been disturbed, revealing to the

youth some of the documents, which appeared marvellously like

bank-notes, and a good many of them.

“It’s all right, my little man. Stop! What is your name?”

“Eddy Wilkinson, sir.”

“Eddy Wilkinson, eh? Where d’ye live, boy? Where’s your father and

mother?”

“Father’s dead; and we live in Baker’s Court, Redfern,” answered Eddy,

turning to depart.

“Stay one moment. I like to encourage honesty. Honesty is the best

policy, eh?” cried the old gentleman, fumbling in his vest pocket.

“Here is sixpence for you, and to-morrow, if you call at the office of

Balam Bros., Woolbrokers, York Street, I will consider about a further

reward. Now run off home out of the wet.”

“It’s very mean of him, so it is, only to give me sixpence for finding

such a lot of money,” muttered Eddy, as he trotted homeward through the

storm. “Well, well, I must not grumble; sixpences are sixpences these

’ere times—so mother says. But what a thin, battered old coin it is!”

he cried, holding it up beneath the glare of a gas lamp. “I believe

it’s a bad one!” and the boy closed his sharp teeth on it the next

moment.

“Oh dear! Oh!” shrieked a voice, which seemed to issue out of Eddy’s

own mouth. The poor child dropped the coin instantly, and ran for his

life; but he soon recovered from his surprise, and returned to where

the sixpence lay on the shining flag in the full light of the street

lamp.

“Surely it wasn’t you who cried out just now?” said Eddy,

apostrophising it.

“Yes, it was, and you have hurt me very much, biting me in such a

savage way,” replied the crooked sixpence reprovingly. “Here have I

been rudely tossed and hustled from pouch to pocket, and hand to hand,

to try and serve you, and you show your gratitude by saying I’m bad.

For shame, Eddy Wilkinson.”

“Indeed, I’m very sorry, ma’am,” rejoined Eddy, astonished and

trembling all over at the strange incident.

“I’m not of the feminine gender, Eddy. Don’t call me ‘ma’am,’ please.”

“Very well, sir,” apologised the boy.

“That’s worse; I’m not a gentleman.”

“What are you, then?” asked the lad, in an impatient tone.

“Neither one nor the other, yet I’m a little of both. If you turn me on

this side, I’m a man; roll me over, and I’m a woman. Still I’m

incongruous, and only a sixpence,” replied the coin.

“You’re very thin, and worn, and of no earthly use to anybody, I

think,” said Eddy boldly, “except the banks, who are taking worn-out

customers like you.”

“I shall prove very useful to you, Eddy, so don’t insult me. On me,

thin as I am, you will build a stupendous fortune.”

“Oh, let us be joyful!” cried Eddy, shaking the rain from his rags.

“And when you grow to be a man, and are elected Mayor of this city,”

added the sixpence, “you will wear me on your watchchain as a relic, to

remind you of your first advanced step in life.”

“You old humbug! I’ve a good mind to pick you up and spend you at the

confectioner’s over the way,” answered Eddy, laughing.

“They won’t have smooth money there,” rejoined the coin. “Take my

advice, and put me in your pocket out of the wet. As you said just now,

I’m very thin, and I can’t stand the rain.”

“What shall I do with you then?”

“Put me by in that old teapot in the cupboard at home until you get

another of my race to keep me company,” answered the voice of the

crooked sixpence earnestly. “Remember, boy, a penny saved is a penny

gained, for it is by such small beginnings that people have amassed

fortunes to benefit humanity, and by saving pennies and sixpences,

little boys who have no fathers to work for them have been enabled to

assist their widowed mothers and to make their home comfortable and

happy.”

“That is quite true. I’m sure, I often wish I could keep my mother, who

is always working,” answered the child in a sad tone.

“Your wish will be gratified, Eddy, if you only take my advice,” said

the voice, in the same resolute accent. “You are ten years old, and you

ought to begin to earn money. The gentleman whose purse you restored

wants an office boy. When he sees you to-morrow he will employ you,

because the prompt manner in which you returned his pocket-book has

made a good impression on him. Be careful to maintain and strengthen

that effort by being trustworthy, honest, and truthful; above all,

never forget the old teapot in the cupboard, where I shall be ready to

welcome every new-comer placed therein.”

“I’m so glad I’m going to work to help mother, and I’ll not forget what

you have said to me,” replied the boy.

“I am fully aware of it, Eddy Wilkinson,” responded the voice modestly.

“I have seen a great deal of human nature in my travels, and I have

noted that people—both old and young—rarely forget what I say to them.

You must know that I never came out of the Mint. I was born of a good

old fairy family on the Queensland border. From my childhood I hated

Money, and was constantly railing against it and its evil influences,

until our chief, Fen, transformed me into a sixpence as a penalty for

my abuse of Mammon. In less than a month I went from the dainty purse

of the Governor’s lady to the dirty fob of a sweep. Once I was the only

coin in the pocket of a poor solitary swagman travelling in the bush,

who was attacked by a robber and foully murdered; but had you seen the

murderer’s face after rifling my master’s pouch, and to find only me,

you would have said, as I did, that crime brings its own punishment.

Again, a very proud man dropped me on the pavement, and disdaining to

stoop for me, there I lay for hours trampled by the crowd passing up

and down. A poor, despairing, wretch, without a home, without a

friend—without even the smallest means of procuring a meal—hurried with

feverish haste through the by-ways of this great city, to end his life

and his misery in the river; but he discovered me in his path. Weary

and faint with long fasting, I supplied him with food and a night’s

lodging. With the return of day came other thoughts and fresh resolves,

and so the man was saved the awful act of self-destruction, and lived

to bless the old crooked sixpence.”

And so did little Eddy Wilkinson, my dear children. The firm of “Balam

Brothers & Wilkinson” is one of the most sound and thriving concerns in

the colonies. The junior partner has just been elected to the civic

chair of Sydney, and when he dies he intends to bequeath the crooked

sixpence to the Museum.

THE BALL IN THE DELL.