Tottie Maybush, of Melgrove on the hills, was never known to tell an

untruth. Yet little kind-hearted Tottie could not be certain whether

she had fallen asleep and dreamed all about the fairies’ ball, or the

spirits of the dell had carried her off bodily to their annual

festival. On one of our beautiful Australian midsummer nights, the

dark-blue sky, and the earth beneath it, illumined by a full, radiant

moon, Tottie was seated under a large fig-tree in the garden, playing

with Sultan, the retriever puppy. The child’s parents had gone to visit

a neighbour; therefore there was no one at home save Jane, the servant,

who had promised Tottie that she might remain up till they returned.

No one can say—not even Tottie herself—how it was she came to leave her

seat and the puppy, and stroll all alone down the long walk beyond the

orchard, until she emerged upon a sloping lawn that dipped with an easy

fall to the edge of the river. The round, full moon overhead cast thin

streaks and broad bars of soft light athwart the branches of the tall

trees, which formed triangles, circles, and crosses, about the sombre

trunks, and lay like scraps of burnished steel about her path. Out on

the mossy bank the moon’s focus seemed to rest on one great patch of

light, whereon stood a group of small, slender, puny creatures, drawn

up in two lines, like a regiment of soldiers on parade. Tiny and

insignificant as they appeared, Tottie could not help observing their

costumes, which were both elegant and superb. Every rich and varied

flower in the botanical world of the Southern Hemisphere had lent its

bloom and beauty to adorn their persons, while beyond their ranks, on

the placid bosom of the river, sat six large, white swans, attached to

the car of state, which glowed and sparkled under the beams of the moon

like a mass of sapphires.

The moment Tottie appeared, the King of the fairies stepped forth and

addressed her,—

“Mortal, you are invited to our Jubilee in the dell. Xylophagus, my

Queen, has sent her barge of state, together with this gallant escort,

to convey you thither. Fear not to come with us; we are your friends

and your slaves for the hour. Gentlemen, let your royal barge

approach.”

The elfin monarch waved his hand, when instantly there arose upon the

air a choral melody from the fairy boat, far surpassing the song of

birds. No warbling bulbul, no melting note of dulcimer floating o’er

the waters at still midnight, ever ravished the senses, or soothed with

tones so liquid soft, as the strains which fell upon the ears of Tottie

Maybush as she was borne aboard by the elves. They placed her on a

couch of softest down, fringed by a border of wild rose leaves, and two

lovely fairy ladies fanned her with perfumed fans, which not only

warded off the mosquitoes, but lulled Tottie into a passive state,

wherein she was utterly powerless to move or act, yet which left her

sense of hearing and observation free and unfettered. What engines made

of mortal hands could propel a boat so swiftly and noiselessly as those

proud, vigorous swans, who glided onward down the river with the elfin

barque and its freight as if the whole thing had been no heavier than a

gossamer? What mortal ears could conceive from out the world of sound

such enchanting harmony? It was the silvery lullaby of Fairyland, that

our Australian sprites might chant to some fretful changeling they had

adopted and sought to hush to sleep.

And now the view opens upon a magnificent glade, with here and there a

huge eucalyptus standing out in bold relief like a grim giant on guard.

Here the elfin King and his grotesque retinue land, and escort their

mortal guest across the velvet sward and through a grove of trees,

which terminates in a deep dell—the scene of the fairy ball.

Upon a verdant, natural carpet, softer than velvet pile, stood two

lines of young trees, from the roots of which the vines of the purple

sarsaparilla had shot upward along the trunks and amongst the branches,

and there bending with a graceful slope had met and entwined, and so

had formed a long trellis-work roof, where the moon beamed through in

twice ten thousand rays into the gallery beneath.

The elfin King conducted Tottie into this primeval hall, where Queen

Xylophagus was seated with her ladies on a bank of wild violets. The

child was quite bewildered at the wildly odd scene that met her gaze.

The gallery was hung round with myriads of glow-worms and fire-flies,

which illumined the place with a soft, subdued light, and shed a

sparkling sheen on the parti-coloured robes of the gay creatures which

moved to and fro about her. Here, as in the higher world of mortals,

the ladies fanned and flirted, while the gentlemen flattered and were

smilingly attentive; but there was no lurking devil behind it all with

the elves. They, at least, were genuine.

“Approach, O mortal, and kiss my hand,” cried the fairy Queen, rising

and saluting Tottie. “In this dell thou shalt be fed on honeyed words.

We will deck thee with jewels brought from hidden caves and gathered in

bowers of green, where loop the clustered vines. Pure pearls of may-dew

shall adorn thy fair young brow like summer’s fruited gems, ripe and

mellow.”

Tottie tried to thank her Majesty.

“These are my ladies,” continued the Queen, pointing to several lovely

fays beside her. “Moppet, stand forth. This is our lady of the robes,

who supplies a new dress for our person every morning.”

A fair, wee creature rose from her seat and kissed Tottie.

“Moth and Poppy, two of my daughters, who are about to be

married—Poppy, the youngest, to Prince Cornflower, and her sister, to

the celebrated Grimalkin of the Hills,” said her Majesty, introducing

the members of the household. “Those three ladies in purple, who are

teasing that old gentleman with the crutch, are Gloze, Geneva, and

Moss, the King’s first cousins—old maiden ladies who have never been

married, and who delight in annoying the bachelors.”

Perhaps it was fortunate for poor Tottie Maybush that a great noise at

the other end of the gallery interrupted the Queen, otherwise she would

probably have been smothered by the warm-hearted beings presented to

her. The commotion was caused by the arrival of several ambassadors

from the vast realm of Nature. Here advanced the representative of the

Forest with stately dignity; then followed the Wind, whose tread shook

the roof of the ball-room; and after him came a long procession of

birds. The eagle headed one column, the wild turkey another, after

which came parrots and plovers, quails, snipe, and magpies, while the

jolliest of them all—the great kingfisher—brought up the rear. Round

and round the hall they trooped until the whole host found suitable

perches among the thick foliage of the trees, where they gazed down in

wonder upon the throng beneath.

Amid a deep silence which had fallen upon the place the elfin King rose

to his feet, and in a sharp, clear, piping tone, said, “We are all

assembled; let the dance begin.”

Suddenly the throng of birds struck up a wild medley of song, whereupon

the fairies, bounding to their feet, began a fantastic dance around the

grotto. Such a quick, changing whirl of steps and leaps and varied

motions it would be difficult to conceive. Circles here, confusion

there, up and down in mazes, until, the feathered band piping higher

and wilder, the eye was unable to follow the labyrinth of gay creatures

in their mad career. “The witches at Benevento” were as nothing

compared to the furious freaks and vagaries of the elves; but in the

midst of it all there was heard the booming of a bell, and—like

enchantment—darkness and quiet fell upon the sylvan festivity in the

twinkling of an eye.

“Tottie! Miss Tottie, do get up and come to bed!” cried Jane. “Your pa

and ma have returned home!”

ELSIE.

If you were to search the whole of Australia you could not find a more

beautiful place than “Hawthorne,” the residence of little Elsie Barton

Elsie’s father was a merchant with plenty of money. He therefore

erected a large house, a little way in the country, away from the dust

and noise of the city. The building stood on a lofty hill, surrounded

by trees and a lovely garden, with a broad river flowing down below

among crags and thick foliage, and where the water seemed like a great

mirror fixed in an emerald frame. Little Elsie loved music, and was

always ready every morning to begin her music lessons without being

scolded and driven to them, as some disobedient and naughty girls and

boys are. It was a bright morning, and Elsie raised up the window to

admit the fresh breeze and the sunshine, and then sat down to the

piano. She had scarcely touched the keys, however, when she was

startled at hearing some one pronounce her name. The voice which Elsie

heard calling her was not a gruff or a rough voice by any means,

neither was it shrill or disagreeable in its tone; yet it was decidedly

unlike any other voice she had ever heard before. It seemed more like

the tinkling of a tiny silver bell than anything else, save that the

utterance was clear and decided, and sent a thrill, half of fear, half

of surprise, through the frame of the listener.

“Elsie—Elsie Barton!” repeated the voice.

Elsie turned about quickly, and stood amazed to observe upon the

toilet-table near the window the tiniest and most grotesque creature in

the world. The form was that of an old woman. Such a wee, graceful old

lady, with a lithe, slight figure, no higher than the bottle of perfume

near her. She was attired in a purple robe, green baize shoes, and a

shining cloak of the same colour, with a hood attached, but which she

had thrown back, disclosing her yellow hair. She supported herself with

a crutch stick, about the size of a wax match.

“Well, my dear, you are no doubt astonished at seeing me?” said the old

lady, leaning on her staff, and looking at Elsie with a smile. “Pray

take out those horrid long spikes you call pins from the pincushion,

and I will sit down and rest myself, for I am really tired.”

There was nothing at all repulsive in the manner or the aspect of this

strange visitor. So little Elsie, overcoming her wonder and amazement,

prepared the pincushion and seated the old lady thereon, then inquired

in a respectful tone how she came into the room.

“Through the window, of course, my dear,” answered the creature,

smiling. “We fairies come and go at divers times and seasons, and

exactly how and when we please.”

“Are you a fairy—a real fairy?” cried Elsie, approaching and gazing

with deep interest on the little lady before her.

“Certainly, child. Couldn’t you see that? We Australian elves are not

so tall as our kindred over the ocean, but we are fairies

notwithstanding.”

“I—I have read of the fairies,” said Elsie shyly, “but I have never

seen any of them before.”

“Oh, my dear, it’s a great favour for any mortal to see us. It is only

good children who have the privilege. Do you know why I came here this

morning?” said the old lady, fanning herself with a rose-leaf.

“No. Pray tell me.”

“A poor little boy, who has been dreadfully hurt, and who lives in the

little hut near the quarry, sent me to you,” replied the fairy.

“Is it little Harry, the widow’s boy?”

“The same, my dear.”

“I will go this moment,” she replied; and running down the stairs,

Elsie took her sun-bonnet from the rack in the hall, and joined the

elfin in the garden. Without speaking another word the fairy led the

way down the hill, and away along the sunny banks of the river, and

onward to a secluded dell, where Nature had exhausted the skill of

simplicity. The earth undulating into tiny hillocks, was clothed with a

tender verdure as soft and green as moss. The deep blue waters rolled

by with a hushed ripple, that was more soothing than silence, and a

blueness that rivalled the deep azure of the skies. On one side rose

great masses of rugged rocks, and these and all the trees around were

draped with great masses of clematis. From the roots of these there

crept along the ground the beautiful vines of the purple sarsaparilla,

and the grass all around was gemmed with wild violets and the blossoms

of a delicately pencilled little wild orchid. The scent of the clematis

made the air heavy with perfume, and the song of birds came with added

music from the other side of the stream.

In this pleasant spot were gathered together a troop of elves—little,

transparent people, dressed in scarlet, and blue, and amber, others in

white, shining robes, and with green jewels and wreaths decking their

golden curls.

Elsie Barton stood spellbound with amazement at the wonderful sight

before her. Many a time she had strolled through the lovely dell

previously, but she had never met either fay or sprite. While she stood

with mouth agape, the old lady fairy whispered in her ear and led the

child away out of the glen and over the river, where the blue smoke

from the cottage wherein lay the sick boy could be seen ascending in a

thin, spiral column up toward heaven, as if bridging the void between

the suffering child and the ministering angels of God.

Within sight of the hut, the fairy halted, and seating herself upon a

mushroom, said in a sweet, piping tone: “I cannot venture farther,

Elsie. We elves are but the emblem of good thoughts and benevolent

deeds. Whoever thinks least of self can see us palpably everywhere,

because we are beneficence personified. Wherever there may be an act of

kindness to be done, we seek out the kindly disposed to do it; but it

is death to us to look upon any other mortals, save the humane and

kindly hearted. Bend down, my dear, so that I may kiss you. Now,

good-bye,” and the tiny lady vanished in a moment.

It was a very rude dwelling built of slabs, and almost devoid of

furniture, and little Elsie Barton’s eyes filled with tears as she

entered it and beheld on a bed, in one corner of the room, a boy about

her own age, lying pale and ill. The poor lad had been obliged to work

in a quarry, to help his widowed mother and his two little brothers,

and a large stone had fallen down and had crushed one of his legs

dreadfully. The brave child was sinking fast for want of generous diet

and such nourishment as the widow was unable to procure for him, and so

the fairy had brought kind-hearted little Elsie Barton to visit him;

and Elsie helped the widow to make the sick-room more light and cosy,

then went home and told her mother about the sick boy; and Mrs. Barton,

after filling a basket with nice food, returned with Elsie to the

cottage.

And every day for weeks Elsie Barton carried her basket of flowers and

fruit, and choice morsels of dainty food for the little sufferer, until

the lad grew well and strong again; and sometimes, sitting in the small

country church on Sundays, the quarry boy sees her in the family pew

listening with upturned face to the preacher, while through the stained

windows gleam broad bars of rich and gorgeous light, which float about

her as a gossamer, and surround the gentle face as with a glory tint.

THE WISHING-CAP.

CHAPTER I.

A fair-haired, freckled boy was Johnny Grudge. He was the grandson of

old Grudge the wood-carter, who occupied a hut on a Government grant

some few miles out of Sydney. Johnny’s father and mother were both dead

and buried, therefore the boy lived with his grandfather, and assisted

the old man in his business.

As our hero journeyed to the market with his wood, he often met young

Master Woolcrop riding by on his milk-white pony, with a tall groom

following on a fine charger, standing I don’t know how many hands high;

and I am sorry to say our little hero grew very envious; for, be it

known, young Woolcrop’s father was one of the richest men in New South

Wales, while Johnny’s grandfather had not enough cash to purchase a set

of harness for the old mare.

“Why was I not born to have a white pony and a servant following me?”

grumbled the youth, lashing the bushes with his whip in a savage way.

“I’m quite as good as he is, and bigger and stronger. Who is he to ride

while I have to walk in the dust and heat? Ah, I wish—but what’s the

use of wishing, I should like to know? I’m always wishing for something

or other, and I never get what I wish for. Now if I could only come

across the elves that grandad talks about, I’d ask them for a

wishing-cap. Then I could have all I want.” And there Johnny paused and

fell into a reverie, which lasted until he reached the wood market with

his team.

Often during the long winter nights the old wood-cutter had talked to

his grandson of the fairies, the good little people, light as the

thistledown, and beautiful as innocence, dwelling in the bell flowers,

drinking the dew for nectar, and happy, ay, as happy as the moonlight

night was long. Not far from the hut there were several mossy ridges

where, it was said, the elves danced at night and made merry.

The boy had wished to see them. How high were they? About as tall as a

sugar-stick? Why, he had an idea that it would be quite easy to capture

a whole army of them, and take them home as securely as blackfish out

of the creek.

Returning home, Johnny again met the son of Sir Anthony Woolcrop with a

little lady by his side, mounted on a cream-coloured pony. And the

little wood-carter agreed within himself that it was a shame, and

resolved to seek out the fairies that very night.

So, in not the very best of tempers, and the very lowest of spirits,

our hero went out to the moss ridges to seek the wishing-cap. He lay

down on the soft green carpet, and kept very quiet until he heard the

great clock at the post-office boom twelve; then he heard a rustic and

a bustle, and voices—not so loud as the buzz of a blue-bottle, and

laughter scarcely so distinct as the chirp-chirp of a canary; but he

knew it was the elves, and his heart went thump! thump!

Presently he ventured to look round him. The moon was shining—as it

only can shine in Australia—and by its light he saw the gayest company

of miniature beings you can possibly imagine dancing merrily. Time

would fail to tell you how beautiful they all were, how gaily dressed,

how courteous to each other, and how graceful in every motion. Johnny

rubbed his hands and fancied he was dreaming; he stretched out his hand

and ran it into a lot of prickles, and that quite convinced him he was

wide awake. The pain caused him to cry out, and instantly the ball

became a rout. The fairies fled in great haste, some hiding themselves

in the cracks and fissures of the ridges, some burying themselves under

the fallen leaves, all escaping save one, and he got his feet entangled

in a large ant-hole, and could do nothing but wriggle and cry out.

Johnny Grudge rose to his feet, and hastened to the rescue; yet when he

beheld the wee creature our hero stood quite still and did not attempt

to help him.

“Pray assist me out of this nasty hole; the ants are beginning to bite

me,” quoth the fairy.

“Certainly I will,” cried Johnny; “but if I help you I want you to give

me something in return.”

“What will you have?” said the little fay. “Speak quickly, and get me

out of this horrible web.”

“I should like the wishing-cap,” replied our hero boldly.

“The wishing-cap? Silly boy! Why do you ask such a boon?”

“Because I want to be as well off as young Bertie Woolcrop, who rides

on a white pony with a groom following him,” answered Johnny.

“Tush!” responded the fairy. “You are much better as you are.”

“Am I?” said the boy in a gruff tone. “If you say that you know nothing

about it, and you may stop in that hole until the ants sting you to

death, before I’ll help you, now! Why should he have a pony, and a

servant, and a little girl to ride with him and to keep him company,

while I——”

“You are a strong, healthy little boy, without a care,” interrupted the

entrapped elfin.

“I am worn with care and with hard work,” answered the youngster. “My

grandfather is cross; the damper is tough, and not too much of it; my

clothes are worn, and my boots are gaping at the toes; the old mare is

lazy, and firewood cheap. Come, what will you do for me?”

“If I gave you the wishing-cap, what would you do?” inquired the fay.

“I’d change places with the boy who rides the white pony,” he answered

readily.

“Very well. Be it so. Lift me out of the hole.”

When Johnny Grudge raised the elfin from his awkward position, the

creature commanded him to lie down on the moss and close his eyes. Our

hero obeyed, and strange to relate, in a twinkling, the moonlight,

grassy dell, fairy, all faded away, and he was sleeping on a soft, rich

couch. He awoke with a start, and looked round him in surprise. The

grey light of the morning was stealing into the room, and he saw that

the apartment was handsomely furnished. A clock struck five.

At that moment the door opened, and a man in a striped jacket came in,

and wished him “Good-morning.” He was rather astonished when the man

lifted him out of bed, took off his night clothes, and plunged him into

a cold bath. It was in vain Johnny gasped, and spluttered, and

protested that he didn’t like it, and was not used to it. The man only

shook his head very gravely, and went on plunging him till he was

satisfied; then he rubbed him dry with a rough towel. After this he

helped him to dress, and poor little Grudge never had so much trouble

before. It occupied nearly an hour, and when it was over there was a

tap at the door, and a message to say that Mr. Cramwell was expecting

Master Bertrand in the study.

“Who is he?” inquired Johnny.

“Your tutor, sir, of course.”

“What does he want with me?”

“To prepare you for the day’s exercises,” replied the servant, with a

stare.

“Oh! I can get exercise enough without him,” cried the boy. “Just you

give me a piece of fresh damper and some tea, and then I’m off down to

the creek to look for the old mare.”

The man in the striped jacket held up his hands in dismay. He assured

our hero the thing was impossible, and without further parley led him

out of the room and down a broad, winding, carpeted stair, on which

beautiful busts of ladies and gentlemen stood staring at him in wonder

to see him there, and appearing as if they were about to call out to

the whole household and proclaim that he was only Johnny Grudge the

wood-carter.

Down at the bottom of the stairway there stood a very prim old lady in

cap and apron, and looking as cold and stiff as the statues up above.

Our hero, not altogether liking the severe look upon her face,

attempted to push by in haste; but the dame bade the man return with

“Master Bertie,” and the mandate being obeyed, she turned upon the

youth, and inquired if he had left his manners behind him.

“Say, ‘Good-morning, Aunt Dora,’” whispered the servant in his ear, and

the boy having complied, he was conducted into a chamber with more

books in it than Johnny supposed could ever have been written or

printed in the world.

CHAPTER II.

The tutor was a stern-looking gentleman in a suit of sombre tweed. He

bade our hero, “Good-morning,” and then began to scold him for being

late; there were Latin, English, and mathematical exercises to be gone

through, and they would occupy much time. With a failing heart Johnny

Grudge took up his book and looked at the page. Strangely enough to

himself he could read it, and when Mr. Cramwell questioned him about it

he could repeat it; but it made his head ache, and he felt sick and

weary.

“If you please, may I have a little milk?” he asked; “or a little tea

and jam——”

“Certainly not,” interrupted the tutor. “It is time, however, that you

took your tonic.”

In answer to Mr. Cramwell’s summons, the man in the striped jacket

appeared with a wineglassful of—oh, such nasty stuff! and Johnny was

obliged to take it, every drop. Feeling very much the worse for his

draught, the poor boy went on with his lessons till half-past seven,

when his tutor in a terrible, frigid manner said, “Master Bertrand, it

is the hour for your constitutional promenade.”

Johnny Grudge at first thought he was going to have a dose of something

more nasty than had been given him before, but he soon learned that he

was to accompany his teacher for a stroll in the gardens, and for this

he was very glad; they were very beautiful—such beds of flowers, round,

diamond, heart, and all sort of shapes, screened from the sun by grand,

tall trees, whose leafy luxuriance formed natural groves where the

birds perched and sang, to the soft music of a large fountain which

splashed and flashed in millions of tiny jets.

Johnny’s first impulse was to dash off at a run when he found himself

in the sunshine, but he was sharply rebuked by Mr. Cramwell for his

“unpardonable vulgarity,” and forced to walk as solemnly as a mute at a

funeral.

When the breakfast bell began to ring our little hero took courage at

the thoughts of the wonderfully nice things there would be to eat.

Visions of cold wild-duck, ham, pie, eggs, salmon, and jam, flitted

before him; but, alas! he was wofully mistaken. All these things and

more were on the table; but not for him. He had a bowl of bread and

milk and nothing else, on account of his weak digestion. After

breakfast there were more hard, dry lessons, accompanied by much severe

rebuke, which made the time very dreary indeed. There was a French

master, and a dancing master, and a fencing master, who hurt poor

Johnny very much, because he couldn’t keep his right elbow in a line

with his wrist during the exercise. Ere dinner-time came our hero’s

head was ready to crack: it seemed to him to be made up of plates of

red-hot iron welded together with boiling lead. Dinner! Only one

dish—roast mutton, a piece of stale bread and a glass of water! Oh, how

the young wood-cutter yearned for a slice of damper, mounted with a

hunk of corned beef and an onion!

After dinner came the music master, and several other masters, and

after that the white pony. But by this time Johnny was so sick and

tired he begged hard that he might be allowed to go to bed. Mr.

Cramwell would not hear of it. So the boy mounted the white pony he had

coveted, saw a little girl, as weary as himself, on a cream-coloured

pony, was escorted by the tall groom in livery astride a high steed,

and felt most miserable.

As the lad rode on the highway where he was wont to journey with the

old mare and dray, he saw his own very self, whistling and cracking his

whip, and looking as happy as ever boy looked who had the sense to be

contented with health and strength. What would he not have given to

jump oft the pony’s back and be himself again! Oh, but he couldn’t do

that! He had longed for the “wishing-cap,” and now he had it he must

wear it!

As he rode onward he began to grumble and mutter as he had done before:

“Why should I be shut up in a big house, and made to do this, that, and

the other? Oh, I wish——”

He was going to wish that he was at home again with his grandfather;

but he held his peace, and rode on with the little lady.

Returning to the mansion he was ushered into a state-room, where a lot

of gentlemen in white waistcoats were eating fruit and drinking wine.

He had to stop there for about half an hour without speaking a word,

and was regaled with one small bunch of grapes. At the end of that time

he was taken away by the tutor, in whose presence he partook of a cup

of milk and water with a piece of dry toast. Then he was sent to bed,

as miserable as a bandicoot. In his sleep the fairy came to him once

more.

“Mortal child,” he cried in his ears, “are you satisfied with the

change in your life?”

“No, no, good fairy,” replied the sleeper faintly. “Take back the

wishing-cap—let me be my own self again. Do, do!”

“Reflect, Johnny Grudge. You will have to work again, and wear poor

clothing.”

“I don’t mind that now,” replied Johnny.

“And drive the old mare to market in the heat and dust,” continued the

elfin.

“Send me back to grandfather and the old mare,” he cried pleadingly,

“and you shall see I will never grumble again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please try me, good fay.”

“But what about the white pony?”

“Bother the pony! I don’t want it.”

“And the tall groom?”

“He is a cruel fellow, and I never want to see him again, nor Mr.

Cramwell either. Let me be myself again, dear fay! dear, kind fairy!

Pray take me home again to good old grandad,” and the poor dreamer

began to sob in his sleep.

“Enough,” responded the wee spirit in a kind tone. “The wishing-cap I

will take again, and you shall return to your home and to your daily

toil. Yet remember, boy, you shall resume your place here the moment

you begin to grow dissatisfied. Let this lesson cure you of envy.

People who ride white ponies, the same as those who ride in carriages,

are no more exempt from care, toil, denial, and suffering than

yourself. Learn contentment. It is a rare jewel, and better than fine

clothing and white ponies. Ta-ta, Johnny.”

Poor little envious boy! The bitter disappointment he felt at finding

out the truth of the old adage, “All that glitters is not gold,” was

very keen in his heart. Yet the lesson had done him good, by showing

him that we should be very miserable if we only had everything we

wished for.

When the boy woke he found himself in his own poor crib within the hut;

but Johnny felt very glad he was there. He rather surprised his

grandfather by the willing manner in which he began to prepare for

breakfast. And then he started off to look for the old mare. How

light-hearted and free he felt, as he bounded away, a hop, skip, and a

jump over the dewy grass, where the sun’s beams glinted as on a sea of

gems!

The old horse felt amazed at the way Johnny caressed her and rubbed his

cheek athwart her Roman nose. And indeed the boy felt as much amazed as

any of them, and vowed to himself never to be discontented again; and

Johnny Grudge kept his word.

TWO GIANTS.

The Blue Mountains of our neighbour New South Wales, are, it has been

said, the metropolis of Elfland. On those grand cliffs are caves where

grim giants lie in wait ready to be summoned by the fathers and mothers

of naughty, disobedient children. Away down in the cool dells the

fairies hold their councils and their balls, and many a merry frolic

have they when the ghosts are asleep and snoring.

I am going to tell you about giants in this story—about two giants, one

called Fog, and the other named Duty, and when the tale is finished,

you shall tell me which of the giants you like best.

In one of the most lonesome valleys among the mountains lived Harry

Podder, a little boy whose father was a poor selector. The selector,

his wife, and their only child, were quite alone in their solitude; the

dell which they occupied was shut in by high, rugged cliffs, upon whose

steep sides grew dwarfed gum-trees, whose outstretched limbs appeared

like the expanded wings of gigantic birds of prey, ready to swoop down

upon the frail bark-dwelling beneath. Wild, weird, and fantastic was

the scene. Here there was no school for Harry to go to, nor neighbours’

children for him to play with. The mother would take him out among the

peaks and turrets, and teach him from the open page of Nature around

them, until the mind of the lad became almost as strange and wild as

his surroundings.

Many a wondrous tale did the fond parent invent as to what the torrent

cried in its rushing, headlong course down the mountain side; and what

the trees said, as they bent and whispered one to the other in the

breeze; and where the clouds were going, and why the thick mists came

to kill the flowers and enfold the highest spurs as with a winding

sheet. Thus they were a poor but a very happy family.

But a dreadful winter came, which laid the selector on a bed of

sickness, and he was very ill indeed. “Harry, my little son,” said his

mother, “you must go to Ridgeford for the doctor.”

Ridgeford, the nearest township, was four miles distant, over a rough

track across the hills, where lived the only medical man on the range.

The boy hung his head, and she had to repeat her injunction.

“Ridgeford, mother! I can’t go. I’m afraid.”

“Afraid, Harry? Afraid of what?”

“Of the giants, mother.”

“Giants, boy? Why, there are no such beings as giants.”

“Oh, mother, but there is. Did you not show me the Giant Fog, that

haunts our valley? Why, you and I have watched him take all kind of

shapes to hide the sheep from us. He it was who led father into the

river, and caused poor old ‘Possum’ here to fall from the cliff.”

“Possum” was a large kangaroo hound, who looked up into his young

master’s face as his name was mentioned, and then began to frisk about

him.

The mother appeared puzzled for a moment, and then said quietly,—

“Yes, I remember Giant Fog; but, Harry, I know a giant far more

powerful than he. Go to the settlement for the doctor, and I will give

you a letter to my giant, and he will surely help you even if Fog were

to meet you on the way.”

So the mother took a sheet of paper and printed on it in large letters

such as Harry could read, “Duty.”

Then she wrapped up the boy as warmly as she could, gave him a note for

the doctor, and pinned the message to her giant on his breast. That

done, she called “Possum,” the kangaroo hound, and bade him accompany

his master.

Little Harry and the dog started off on their errand, while the woman

attended to her sick husband. Towards afternoon a thick fog settled on

the mountains, and the mother was heard to mutter, “Giant Fog will

overtake my poor child, I fear.”

Many times did she go to the windows and look forth in the hope of

seeing him and his faithful companion descending the cliff, but each

time she was disappointed.

And where was our hero all this time? Such a road as that poor boy had

to travel few little boys have ever seen, much less had to traverse

alone.

Harry thought little of the road; he walked along bravely, quite proud

of his journey, and, above all, his message to the Giant Duty. As he

and Possum climbed the hill-side and looked down on many a rugged

slope, he almost laughed and said, “I wonder if there are really such

things as giants in the mountains after all?”

Arrived at the township the boy gave the letter to the doctor, who

ordered some dinner for Harry, then started him and the dog homeward.

“I hope Giant Fog won’t catch us here, Possum,” cried the youngster, as

he mounted the steep crags above Ridgeford in safety. But the words

were hardly out of his mouth when both he and the dog were enveloped in

a deep mist, whirling and eddying round, till the child was quite giddy

and terrified. He put his hand to his breast, pressed the talisman his

mother had given him, and cried out, “Duty!” Strange, Giant Fog seemed

to clear out of the way for a moment, and they stumbled onward down the

crest of the mountain; but it soon became evident to Harry that all

shadow of the path was lost. Still the brave boy pursued his way, and

when his spirits flagged and the dog whined he cried out, “Duty,

Possum, Duty!”

At length they emerged out upon a ledge of ridges with deep ravines

intervening. Below the fog looked inky black.

Our hero paused, and Possum rubbed himself against him and looked up

whimpering in his face. “Never mind, old boy,” said Harry. “Even if

this is the very castle of Giant Fog, we have Duty with us. On, Possum,

on.”

The kangaroo hound drew back. The boy pressed forward, and in a moment

he felt he was falling rapidly through the air.

How long poor Harry lay at the base of those cruel crags he could not

say, but when he recovered consciousness the dog’s cold nose was

against his cheek. When he attempted to rise from the ground he found

one of his little arms hung useless at his side and sharp pains darted

through every limb. The tears started to his eyes, for he was but a

little fellow.

“Giant Fog has done us a bad turn, Possum; yet Giant Duty will help us

all right,” he muttered, and fell back with a groan of pain.

The dark night fell o’er the mountains. Patiently the mother waited and

watched for the return of her son. In her anxiety she was about to

issue forth in quest of him when the doctor made his appearance.

“Where is Harry?” he inquired eagerly.

“Not come back yet.”

“No, I made all haste to overtake him, but the fog is so thick I have

missed him on the way.”

While they were talking Possum dashed into the house, and without more

ado began to tug at the dress of the woman with might and main, and

with whines and barkings asked as plain as dog could ask for them to

follow him.

The woman understood the mute appeal. Accompanied by the doctor they

hastened after Possum, who led them over spurs and ridges to where lay

his insensible boy-master.

Tenderly did the kind doctor lift the exhausted child, skilfully did he

treat him, and faithfully did the mother nurse and tend him; but for

weeks it was doubtful who was to have the victory—the good or the bad

giant.

But at last one day Harry opened his eyes and said, “Mother, I hope the

doctor came and made father well again?”

“Yes, my darling, the doctor has cured father.”

“I’m so glad, mother. Giant Fog was very cruel, but Giant Duty brought

me home to you in spite of him; so if the doctor has made father well,

it’s all right. Ah! Possum. Here, Possum, old boy!”

MOTHLAND.

CHAPTER I.

Take your places. Turn down the lights. We are going to open our magic

lantern once more. Ho Presto! Here we are in Victoria.

Picture to yourself a plainly furnished room in a farmhouse on the

banks of the Murray River. Besides the ordinary tables, chairs,

pictures, and other things you will observe a clock on the mantel-shelf

over the fireplace. Now this clock is going to form the pivot upon

which our story turns.

The door of this apartment was gently opened, and two children—a boy

and a girl—entered. They had just stolen away unknown to the nurse, and

had come here to amuse themselves. There was, however, very little in

that room to amuse them. Neither hoop nor ball nor doll was here; but

there was the clock ticking away like a cricket who had lost its

mother. They say that curiosity is much stronger in the female, be it

child or adult, than in the male portion of humanity, so the little

girl drew a chair to the fireplace, and on the top of it she placed a

stool, and then both the children mounted and stood face to face with

the clock.

They examined the polished wooden case, and the marble base, the

figures and the painted scroll work which adorned its face, then the

minute-hand which they could see moving, and listened to the “Tick,

tick, tick,” which seemed to come from some voice within it.

“Tick-tick,” cried the clock, and still as the little boy looked and

listened it went on without stopping, “Tick, tick, tick.”

“What can it be?” said the little girl. “Where can the noise come from,

Teddy?”

“Oh!” answered Teddy, “it comes from the wee fellow inside there; can’t

you see him moving his arm about, eh, Lily?”

Lily looked and discovered a door. “It comes from here,” she said. “I

should like to open it and let the old man out.”

“No, no,” cried Teddy, “we must not. Papa would be angry. Come away

back again to nurse.” But Lily poked about with her fingers,

unknowingly touched a spring, and the door flew open.

There they saw a wonderful sight. There were wheels moving round and

round, and the inside shone like gold, and there was a long piece of

steel hanging down like a tail, which moved from side to side, and the

timepiece said louder than ever, “Tick, tick, tick.”

Lily put in her finger and touched the golden inside, and still the

clock ticked on. Then she touched the pendulum, and though the clock

paused for a moment as if to take breath, it went on again fresher than

ever, “Tick, tick, tick.”

But at last she happened to poke her finger between the spokes of the

little wheel, and the timepiece stopped. Lily thought it would tick

again in a minute, but she was disappointed. She touched the pendulum,

she touched the wheel, she touched every part; yet all to no purpose.

And then the boy, Teddy, tried his hand in vain. The clock wouldn’t say

“Tick, tick” any more.

What was to be done?

They were very much frightened. They closed the clock door as quickly

as possible, got down from the chair, put the things all tidy, and left

the room.

Nothing more occurred till breakfast-time next morning, when the father

called out suddenly, “Why, the clock has stopped!” and when he examined

it he found the mainspring was broken.

“Somebody has been playing with the clock. Did you touch it, Teddy?”

“No, I never,” answered the boy.

“Was it you, Lily?”

Now, Lily was not in the habit of being untruthful; but she was

frightened and replied, “No.”

“One of you must have done it yesterday. Jane saw you coming out of the

room,” continued the father.

By dint of questioning, Lily and Teddy at length acknowledged they had

been in the room, and then the boy said Lily had touched the timepiece,

and then the girl said so had Teddy; but which of them it was that had

really broken the spring their father could not discover.

“Very well, my children,” he said. “If you will not tell me who broke

the clock, you will be punished some day.” And the father spoke truly.

In that part of the Murray district where Lily and Teddy lived there

dwelt a small native race of people called “Moths.” This diminutive

tribe lived alone by themselves in a grand shaded valley by the

river-bank. They used to be seen very often by the settlers and bushmen

riding home late on moonlight nights. Indeed, many travellers had

stated they had seen them dancing on the green, making merry, courting,

laughing, etc., while others vouched to having spoken to the creatures.

Be that as it may, the Moths were there in the valley by the river, and

had been there long before Teddy and Lily’s grandfather first took up

the splendid selection adjacent.

The wee people had taken an interest in the fortunes of the different

families round about for many years, always patronising and favouring

good boys and girls, and always punishing the bad ones in some form or

other.

Just below the bush paddock where the valley dips down to the water

could be seen a circle of emerald green, on which the Moths assembled

every night when the moon shone. It was not often crossed by the feet

of mortals; but any one passing that way by daylight might observe

small round rings here and there, much greener than the grass around.

These were Moth circles.

Here the Moths sat in little circles on raised benches made of grass

blades, whilst others danced before them in the middle of the ring to

music played on flutes made from the backbones of locusts.

On the night after the clock had been broken the Moths met to hold a

great council. The whole race assembled on this occasion. There was the

King wearing a golden crown of flowers, and the Queen decked with

diamonds of dew, and all the Princes and Princesses in robes of mingled

green and blue. When the council were assembled the monarch spoke thus:

“People of Mothland, you all know what an interest we take in the

family near our valley, and especially in little Lily and Teddy. Now I

grieve to tell you these children have been very naughty. Indeed, one

of them has told a deliberate falsehood, a sin we hate and abhor beyond

all things. The boy is not so guilty as his sister; it was not he,

certainly, who spoilt the clock, but still he went up on the chair and

looked at it; and he ought to have told this like a brave boy, instead

of holding his tongue like a coward. But Lily has told a decided lie,

and she must be punished. What shall we do to her?”

“Carry her away from her home, and put Scarlet Mantle in her place,”

said the Queen of the Moths.

“It shall be done,” replied the King.

That night when Lily was sleeping soundly in her soft, pleasant bed,

the King of the Moths, accompanied by some of the strongest men in his

tribe, carried her away into the valley of Mothland, and they

substituted Scarlet Mantle in her stead.

Jane, the nurse, took her accustomed peep into the child’s bedroom, ere

retiring for the night, and was somewhat astonished to observe that her

charge appeared thinner and smaller and sharper than usual.

“I suppose it’s only my fancy,” cried the girl, so, kissing the

supposed child, she went her way, and left the Moth snugly coiled in

little Lily’s bed.

CHAPTER II.

The morning following the night on which the Moths took Lily away

dawned brightly. The farmer and his wife fancied somehow that their

little girl looked rather pale and thin; the mother thought poor Lily

was ill; the father thought she was sorry for saying she didn’t break

the clock. But the Moths are very clever people, and of course had

contrived to make Scarlet Mantle look as like Lily as possible. So she

took up the child’s place in the house, and ate bread and butter,

pudding, lollies, wore the girl’s new clothes, and was much happier

than she had ever been in Mothland. One or two little things Scarlet

Mantle could not entirely forget; still, on the whole, she managed to

conduct herself as a civilised human child should.

But where was Lily? She was away in the dells with the Moths, and very

unhappy. Firstly, she was very tired; secondly, she was hungry; and

thirdly, she was made ridiculous. These things were most tantalising,

and she was ready to cry her eyes out. No wonder she was tired, because

instead of going to bed at seven o’clock, and sleeping soundly every

night, she had to go out on the circles and dance till the moon set.

She was cold, too, for in place of her warm frocks she had nothing in

the world but Scarlet Mantle’s old clothes, made of rose-leaves and

gossamer. She might well be hungry also, for the Moths gave her nothing

but dew and locusts for food. Still there was one thing more dreadful

than all these put together. For some reason or other Lily’s tongue had

begun to grow very long.

Yes, it was not painful, but exceedingly ugly, as you may imagine.

Little by little it increased and grew longer, until she was obliged to

tie it round her neck to keep it out of her way, and the Moths were

always laughing about it, which made our little girl very melancholy.

The Queen of the Moths was a very motherly person, and Lily soon made

friends with her.

“Your Majesty,” she said one day, “I am very miserable. Indeed, I think

I shall die if I am kept here much longer.”

“What is amiss, my child?” inquired the Queen.

“Why am I detained here?” replied Lily. “And why have I so little to

eat and drink?”

“My dear child, you know the reason,” answered the Queen. “You told a

wicked falsehood, and you are paying the penalty for it now.”

“Ah! your Majesty, it wouldn’t be so bad if I could only get rid of my

long tongue,” pleaded Lily. “Dear Queen, please can’t you rid me of my

ugly tongue?”

“No, child, I cannot, but you can rid yourself of it.”

“How? Oh, please tell me.”

The Queen of the Moths sighed.

“There is only one way,” she answered. “Your tongue is disfigured,

because it hath offended. If you wish to get rid of it, you must

acknowledge your fault and confess the lie you told.”

Poor Lily! Like many other children of a larger growth, she was

stubborn, and did not like this plan of getting rid of her trouble.

Anything rather than saying: “I broke the clock.”

So the child went on among the Moths, suffering cold and hunger,

midnight dancing, and the big tongue.

But little Lily loved her father and mother, and did not like to be

away from them for ever. She began to steal away from the valley, and

go to her own home. Often she stood looking in at the window, and saw

her father and mother and Teddy sitting with Scarlet Mantle; and the

tears would start to her eyes, and run down her cheeks, and she would

cry out in her grief, “Oh! I do so wish I was sitting on my own stool

again.”

One night she was standing by the window particularly unhappy, and in a

very penitent mood. Had she but the opportunity, she determined to

confess her fault. There sat her father in the full flare of the lamp,

thinking he had Lily by his side. There was Teddy with his toys, and

while the little outcast was gazing, Jane, the nurse, entered with the

tea-tray; cups and saucers began to rattle, and her brother and Scarlet

Mantle gathered round the table. Oh, to be shut out from all this

comfort, and the smiles and caresses of her parents! At length,

something led her father to rise from his seat and look out into the

darkness beyond. He opened the window and stepped out upon the

verandah. In a moment a tiny hand was thrust into his own, and a timid,

hesitating voice was heard to say,—

“I—I am—so—sorry. I—broke—the clock.”

“You! Who are you?” cried the father in astonishment.

“I’m Lily, father,” she cried out, with a great sob.

“Lily! Why, Lily is in the dining-room with mamma.”

“No; I am Lily, your own naughty little girl, and—I broke the clock.

There!” she sobbed aloud. “The Moths took me away because I told you a

falsehood, and they only gave me old faded rose-leaves to wear, and the

legs of locusts to eat, and made me drink dew out of the cups of the

flowers; and see what a great, long, ugly tongue they have given me for

telling that story.”

The trilling voice sounded very remorseful, and the little hand clung

nervously to the father, who immediately led the little one into the

dining-room.

The first thing on which the eyes of the man rested was the vacant seat

of Scarlet Mantle.

“Hallo! Where’s the other one?” he cried.

“The other one?” repeated his wife. “What other one, dear?”

“The—the child, Lily,” replied the astonished pater.

The good woman laughed, and answered, “There she is, at your side,”

“Nonsense; this little lady says she has just come from Mothland, and

that she is our Lily whom the Moths stole because she told a falsehood

over the breaking of the clock. Surely there aren’t two Lilys?” and the

farmer looked beneath the sofa, under the table, and even up the

chimney; but Scarlet Mantle, the moment she saw Lily enter the room,

vanished through the window, and of course was not to be found.

“Well, this is a queer go, wife.”

“Most extraordinary,” responded the mother, gazing with a doubtful look

upon the real Lily, who stood quietly looking from one to the other.

“Oh, this is Sis,” exclaimed Teddy. “There’s the bump on the nose which

I made with my ball last week. You’re Lily, who smashed the clock,

aren’t you?” he asked, looking up in her face.

“Indeed, Teddy dear, I’m your little sister, and it was I who broke the

clock, and the Moths took me away, and gave me this big, frightful

tongue, because I said I didn’t. You see here——”

And she put up her hand to her mouth, but lo! the ugly member had

vanished. How glad she felt that it was gone! The mere effort to do

right had brought its own reward. And as she repeated again, more

earnestly, “I broke the clock, and I want you to forgive me,” her

father saw she was really his own little girl, and giving her a hearty

kiss of forgiveness, seated her in her own accustomed place at table,

and they were very happy once more.

That night Lily slept soundly in her own room, in her own cosy bed, and

she thought it much better than dancing till she was tired round the

Moth circles by the river-bank.

And so thought the Scarlet Mantle!

MOONLAND.

CHAPTER I.

Some of our relatives on the other side of the globe will be astonished

to learn that the way to the Moon has been discovered by an unfortunate

member of the literati of Australia.

The greatest thinkers of the day have scouted the idea as nothing but

moonshine, when spoken to about the practicability of the discovery.

But it must be borne in mind that the same laws of Nature which guide

and rule the Mother Country are somewhat erratic here at the Antipodes,

inasmuch as we are all upside down—standing on our heads, in fact.

Therefore we are prepared for marvels. In a land where there are

animals who stand on their tails, and fight with all four feet at once;

where the young leap out of and into their parents’ stomachs at

will—there being a strange bag in that quarter for the purpose of

humouring the antics of the juveniles, just like the hole in the bow of

a timber ship; where there are creatures that appear neither flesh nor

fowl—who swim in ponds like a duck, have a duck’s bill, who lay eggs,

yet have feet and hair like a beast; in a land where the leaves on the

trees grow edgeways to the sun, and the trees themselves shoot

downwards, surely it is no great wonder that we have found a passage to

the great luminary of night, and had the pleasure of shaking hands and

likewise supping with the disobedient man who gathered sticks on

Sunday.

The scientific world will never feel half the surprise anent our new

discovery as that which fell upon the old shepherd when he found

himself surrounded and made a prisoner. He had left his sheep in charge

of the only companion he had in these regions—viz., his dog. Within a

sheltered nook on one of the fairest and most luxuriant slopes of the

mysterious Blue Mountains, Patch, the half-bred dingo, held watch and

ward over his charge while his master wandered down the rugged side of

the cliff in search of gold. Here the sun was almost hid behind the

broad awning of gigantic trees, whose immense trunks, gnarled and hoary

with age, stood like mammoth sentinels to guard the dim glen below. The

lonely herdsman had often descended to that spot before unmolested, but

now from every mound and hollow there peered the grotesque faces of the

Mountain Sprites, watching his every movement, until with a sudden rush

they pounced upon him and held him fast. For a time he struggled

manfully to free himself. It was quite useless. The genii of the Blue

Mountains are a powerful people, not to be trifled with, as the

shepherd soon discovered. He was lifted bodily up, and borne along so

swiftly that he nearly lost his senses. The route of his captors lay in

a downward direction—never upward. And it appeared as if the dusky

ravines which they traversed led right away from the upper world into

the region of eternal night.

“Dear friends, good people, where are you taking me?” cried the poor

fellow in an affrighted tone.

“Bis, bus, silence, mortal!” replied an ancient gnome authoritatively.

“Your destination is not on the Earth, but the Moon.”

“Good gracious!” ejaculated the poor shepherd, with starting eyeballs.

“Bus, peace,” rejoined the brownie in a whisper. “The voice of man hath

never disturbed these solitudes since the creation.”

“Gentlemen, pray let me go!”

“Art thou not going, thou dissatisfied mortal? Be silent.”

“It is all up with me,” groaned the unfortunate captive.

“Nay, verily, it will be all down with thee,” answered the sprite.

“Behold!”

As the fairy spoke they emerged into a dismal spot, in the midst of

which gaped a wide, black pit; at the mouth of the chasm the shepherd

beheld the forms of two beings in shape like the fabled vampires, who

clapped their tremendous wings in ecstasy at sight of him.

“Who is this?” they cried.

And the fairies answered, “A visitor for Moonland.”

“No, no, I’m not going to the Moon,” replied the trembling shepherd.

The horrid vampires laughed in exultation at his misery, and the sound

shook the walls of the solid cliffs around. “Hear me, Dusk, and thou,

Lunar,” said the gnome, addressing the winged monsters. “This fellow

hath had the impudence to invade our sacred precincts, and attempted to

release some of our dreaded foes, the ‘Gold Nuggets’ whom we have made

prisoners. What shall we do with the rascal?”

“Send him to the Moon,” they cried with one voice.

“Mercy, gentlemen, mercy.”

“Fiddlesticks! To Moonland with him,” answered the sprite. “There is

lots of room for him to fossick there. Eh, Lunar?”

Over that terrible void, near where they held him, our hero observed a

strange object floating with a gentle, oscillating motion, as a feather

floats in space. In appearance, it was like a gigantic umbrella

inverted, with a hole cut in the centre. To the ends of the ribs cords

of gossamer were fastened which stretched upward to a car in the shape

of a star, the points expanded like huge wings. The nature of this

material, or by what process this curious vehicle had been

manufactured, the unfortunate shepherd had neither power nor leisure at

that moment to examine, for the ancient fay had no sooner spoken than

Dusk and his companion seized hold of him, like a pair of vultures, and

flew upward with him in the car of the parachute.

“Good-bye, Lunar, let me know when you arrive,” cried some of the

fairies.

“Slide a message down a moonbeam,” responded others.

“Or a rainbow, or the tail of a comet.” And while the mountain sprites

stood and jeered, the quaint machine suddenly shot down the empty space

with the velocity of a cannon-ball.

Who shall describe the sensation of the poor mortal, as he felt himself

falling—falling down—down, a blind mass, through the darkened air?

Those who have fallen, or have leaped even from a moderate height, can

have no conception of the frenzied terror that took possession of him

for a moment. Yet it was only for a moment. Strange to say, he did not

lose his presence of mind, and his fear left him as suddenly as it had

fallen upon him. From a bewildering chaos of thought in the captive’s

mind curiosity became paramount to all else. Amid the murky blackness

around and about there was very little to examine, but the shepherd

thrust his head through the gossamer network of the machine and gazed

below. Far, far away in the profound depths beneath them, he saw a vast

disc of soft light which threw its rays upward, and enabled him to

discern that the abyss through which they were descending appeared like

a hollow cone, the neck of which began in the mountain, and like an

eddying circle in the water, gradually became wider and wider as they

advanced.

The progress of the parachute was so swift that they rapidly emerged

into the focus of the light—the wide mouth of the cone receding to a

faint, dark circle on the pale horizon in the space of a few seconds.

It was astounding how wondrous soft and beautiful the shimmering glow

of light in this new region burst upon the mortal’s vision. He had

witnessed many lovely changes from the lofty peaks of the New South

Wales Alps, but Dame Nature had never presented herself to his eyes in

such a garb before. Not the glaring, hot, dazzling rays of the summer

sun here, but rather a gentle, subdued, dreamy refulgence, without the

ghost of a shadow or shade of variation upon anything.

Above, below, one universal, pale, liquid glimmer, devoid of vapour.

Distant mountains, peaked and gabled like an iceberg, appeared to view,

and hills and valleys, with deep ruts and chasms, forming an

amphitheatre of vast dimensions, became more clear to the sight every

moment. Everything seemed mixed up and confounded by the uniformity of

colour. Rocks, valleys, and streams presented a weird and wonderful

aspect under new conditions where, like Hoffmann’s shadowless man,

every object was lighted up on all sides, equally, in the absence of a

central point. Scorched and charred and burnt, there was not a sign of

a tree or a shrub on the face of the whole landscape. Scoriæ and dross

and pumice-stone—nothing else, save the waters that lay bathed in

luminous silvery grey.

From the vast panorama our hero turned his eyes upon his companions,

the vampires. They had cast the netting of the car aside.

“Prepare thyself, mortal,” cried Lunar in a terrible voice.

“Prepare myself, for what?”

“For a header into the sea yonder beneath us,” answered the vampire

coolly.

“Good heavens! Gentlemen, you really don’t think I can dive from this

great height! I shall be dashed to mincemeat,” responded the shepherd,

in a tone of consternation.

The monsters only laughed at him, and repeated their command.

“Descend a little lower, good Lunar. Do, gentle Dusk,” he pleaded.

“We can’t. This is Moonland. Not enough gravity here,” they replied.

“Moonland! Mercy on me! And shall I have to leave my old bones in the

Moon?” cried he in despair.

“Plenty of ’em here—loads. Valleys full, as you’ll find. Come, jump!”

“I won’t!” cried the shepherd in a savage tone. Whereupon the monsters

caught him with their claws, and threw him headlong from the car.

The fall was frightful to contemplate, and I’m afraid it will be

necessary to allow the poor fellow seven days to recover his

equilibrium.

CHAPTER II.

If the unhappy mortal had been capable of thinking at the moment he was

hurled from the car by the vampires, it is more than probable that his

mind would have presented the picture of a terrible and instantaneous

death. Strange to relate, instead of the rushing, headlong plunge

downward, to be anticipated under the conditions, our hero found

himself gently floating in space with the buoyancy of one of the

feathered tribe. The dread and fear of death were lost, or rather

swallowed up in a nameless terror, at the unnatural position in which

he was placed. Yet there was no mystery in it. According to a

well-known law, the weight of bodies diminishes as they descend from

the outside of the Earth. It is at the surface of the globe where

weight is most sensibly felt, and it is just possible that, had we

accompanied the shepherd through the thick crust of the terrestrial

sphere, we should have soon discovered, as he did, that beyond, at the

other side, there is little or no gravity at all. Hence his peculiar

position. Indeed, it was most fortunate that the old man chanced to

have several nuggets of gold in his pockets at the time, otherwise, I’m

afraid he would have been suspended in mid-air like Mohammed’s coffin.

As it happened, gold turned the scale, even in Moonland, and enabled

the adventurous mortal to descend in a horizontal rather than a

vertical course to the shores of the Moon.

Within his vision below lay a vast expanse of water; the rugged coast

bordered with majestic hills, torn by earthquakes, and blasted and

ravaged by volcanic fires. The waves broke on this shore with a dull,

hollow noise against the cliffs. Some of these, dividing the coast with

their sharp spurs, formed capes and promontories, fantastic in form and

worn by the ceaseless action of the surf. It was like a continuous

cosmical phenomenon, filling a basin of sufficient extent to contain an

inland sea, and walled by enormous mountains with the irregular shores

of Earth, but desert, and fearfully wild.

If the eyes of the shepherd were able to range afar over this sea, it

was because the shadowless light brought to view every detail of it.

The expanse above him was a sky of huge plains of cloud, pale yellow in

colour, and drifting with rapidity athwart the firmament, where

appeared dark circles, rings and cones, in lieu of stars. Everything

that he could liken to aught on this globe seemed changed by some

potent power into opposite extremes. Downward, slowly but surely,

without the faculty to change his course either to the right or to the

left, the mortal at length plunged into the water. He was a capital

swimmer, and had no fear of being drowned. Imagine his dismay, however,

when he found himself sinking to the bottom like a crowbar, in spite of

his vigorous efforts to keep afloat. In vain he struck out and

struggled desperately to rise to the surface by use of legs and arms.

Vain and useless. Down he went, plumbing the depths below, until he

touched the bottom; then, to his surprise, he rebounded back again like

a cork, but only to go down again as speedily as before.

The poor fellow had been pertinaciously holding his breath, as is

customary when bathing in terrestrial streams; and therefore when he

could no longer resist the unconquerable will of nature to draw breath,

judge of the consternation which laid hold of him, when, instead of the

choking gasp of suffocation anticipated, he found little difficulty in

respiration! In fact, that vast sheet was not water at all, such as he

knew it, but a subtle fluid, half way between a liquid and a gas,

which, though heavier than air, was yet so much lighter than water that

it was impossible for him to float in it.

These discoveries come to him in quick succession, and created within

his mind the most unspeakable astonishment. By degrees, and after many

attempts, he found that he could walk along the bed of this strange sea

with comparative ease. Accordingly he straightway reached the shore and

sat down on the cliffs to rest. Wonder upon wonder had crowded so fast

and thick upon the bewildered mind of our traveller that his thoughts

were in a whirl. Yet another surprise was in store for him, for as he

extended his vision over the landscape he beheld a gigantic creature

approaching with prodigious bounds and flying leaps. In his utter

amazement he believed one of the rugged hills had been suddenly endowed

with life, and was hurrying on to crush him. Never before had the eyes

of breathing mortal rested on such a mammoth of human outline. No, nor

upon anything with such power of movement. He was not certain whether

the monster was leaping or flying, but he was quite positive as to its

extraordinary swiftness.

In his terror the shepherd fled—when lo! he found that he too was

endowed with this singular force of locomotion. It is surprising how

fear lends a man wings. The terrestrial one didn’t need anything of the

kind, though. Incredible the springs and leaps he made over the high

peaks, across chasms and cliffs, and along the steep mountain-sides;

wonderful the feeling which changed from dread to exuberant delight and

ecstasy, and again to terror, as the mighty voice of the pursuer came

upon his ears like a peal of thunder.

“Halt! Stop! Who art thou?”

Had he been then and there endowed with wings, the old shepherd felt

that he could not escape from the owner of that voice. All he could do

was to cast himself flat on his face and await his doom in silence.

“Shall Greencheese utter his command twice? Who art thou?” repeated the

mammoth.

“Mercy, your Highness. I am only old Bob, the shepherd of the Blue

Mountains, New South Wales.”

“Old Bob! Blue Mountains! Ha! Fuddle-fum. Well?”

“Some fairies got hold of me t’other day, and bundles me down here, on

a sort of humberellar, your Worship; that’s all I knows about it,”

cried the mortal in a despairing tone.

“Fairies! Mum! I know the rogues,” responded the creature quickly.

“Many a summer’s night I have watched their freaks and gambols among

secluded nooks and dells hidden away from mortal ken. Many a long hour

we have held converse together, in the silent ravines and woods, when

all the human mites of the Australian world were locked in sleep. Go

on!”

“I knows noffin’ more, sir, only that I shouldn’t like to leave my old

body here!” cried Bob.

“Ha! Buncham! Fi-pho—fiddle-faddlem! Thou shalt live.”

“Thanks, your Highness.” And the shepherd lifted his eyes and gazed

upon his companion. The Colossus at Rhodes, towering high above the

lofty gables of the aged city, was but a pigmy in comparison. Ancient,

hoary Sphinx of the Egyptians, standing for countless years on the

shores of Father Nile, would have seemed a thing of yesterday beside

it. Nay, that primitive marvel, the figure of wood discovered in Joppa,

aged five thousand years, could reckon itself an infant in proximity to

this lunarian.

Save the round, full, Chinese-like face, with its accompanying

tremendous mouth, and the faint outline of the human form, there was

nothing further to assist description of the creature except that he

was high and bulky beyond conception, and quite as transparent as a

lighted lantern. The face wasn’t at all unpleasant. It beamed with such

a broad, friendly, yet withal humorous, expression as it gazed down

upon Bob, that the mortal found courage to address it.

“Please, who be you, sir?”

“Me? I’m the Man in the Moon, of course,” replied the creature,

smiling.

“Eh! Why, dash my old jumper, if I didn’t think as I’d seen your

countenance before!” answered the old herdsman with animation. “I can

tell yer, as ye comes out pretty strong sometimes on them ’ere

mountains t’other side of Sydney. Why, I’ve yarded many a thousand

sheep, and you’ve been a-looking at me all the while, eh?”

The Man in the Moon nodded.

“Ah, and I’ll bet you knows my old dog, Patch?”

Another nod in the affirmative.

“Brayvo! old boy. Why, we’re old chums. Shake hands.”

“We never shake hands in the Moon, Bob; but I’ll embrace you,” cried

the lunarian, smiling; and suiting the action to the word, he suddenly

enveloped the mortal in such a broad beam of refulgence that the old

fellow appeared as if cased in polished armour.

In accordance with the etiquette of Moonland, it would be rude to

disturb their tête-à-tête before next Saturday.

CHAPTER III.

“The presumptuous beings on earth have the impudence to tell their

children that the Moon is made of green cheese,” quoth the mammoth.

“Indeed, sir, but that is very true,” answered Bob. “When I was a boy I

believed it was only a big cheese, and I can safely say that when I’ve

seen it in the water, up at Bathurst, where we lived, I’ve been silly

enough to wade into the water arter it, thinking to take it home and

have my supper off it.”

“Ah, it’s rare fun to watch the moon-rakers try to grasp my shadow,

Bob.”

“I believe you, sir. Lord, how you must laugh in your sleeve at ’em!

Your Moonship must look down upon many a strange sight,” said the

shepherd reflectively.

The Man in the Moon smiled widely. “Humph! I look upon all kindred of

the terrestrial world,” he answered gravely. “I am but the pale

reflection of the great luminary, the Sun, whose slave I am. When he

fadeth from the surface of the globe, I borrow his beams and become the

watchman of the night. The mighty human beings, and the lowly; rich and

poor; the sinful and the good, are all beneath my vision. I watch the

murderer crawling with stealthy feet towards his victim, and I note the

robber lying in wait to plunder; I haunt the gloom where guilt and

misery lie huddled together in rags. Wickedness in high places cannot

escape me. Over the deep sleep of toiling millions my beams hold watch

and ward, kissing the rosy lips of innocence, where yet lingers the

soft breath of prayer. Hovering o’er the sighing maiden and the

restless miser, weaving fancies which fill the poet’s brain with

unutterable poesy, and with such shapes as live only in dreams of age

and infancy, and vanish with the light of morn. Cuddlephum!

Bobberish—Baa-lamb! Bo!”

“Just so,” said Bob, opening wide his eyes at the strange words. “I

begs to say that French wasn’t taught at the school I went to.

Howsoever, I’m quite willing to dine with you, if that’s what you mean.

I’m beginning to feel pereshious hungry, I can tell yer.”

“Hungry! Base mortal, there is no such word known here,” echoed the

monster.

“Good heavens! No eating!” cried Bob, aghast.

“None.”

“Scissors! I’m afraid visitors from Australia won’t overrun Moonland,

if that’s the case.”

“Peace! Follow me, and thou shalt taste nectar, which shall banish the

cravings of thy vulgar race.”

The Man in the Moon bounded away over the pumice-stone crags like a

gigantic kangaroo, followed by Bob. Chaos and desolation were

everywhere visible around them. Sad indeed and supremely melancholy

looked the place. Mountains riven asunder; vast ravines and valleys

choked with bleached bones of monsters unknown to men; immense plains,

scattered thickly with the fossil remnants of ages; mingled dust and

huge mounds of bony fragments of animal and reptile, which a thousand

Cuviers could never have reconstructed. Up the rugged zigzags with

tremendous leaps, echoless, shadowless, and across the dust, silent to

their footfall, went the lunarian and the mortal.

“This is a dreary place, sir,” muttered the latter, almost breathless

in his haste.

“Peace, or perchance the forms of these dead monsters will rise to

rebuke thee!” answered his companion solemnly. “Here, where thou art

standing, these enormous animals of the first period lived and roved at

will. The human mind cannot conceive their colossal proportions, for

they were extinct many ages before the advent of man.”

The shepherd followed his conductor in silence, wondering if it were

possible that these mighty dead could take shape again and swallow him

at one snap. Jonah had been bolted by a whale, but the skeletons of

these creatures appeared large enough to engulf a hundred whales a day,

and twice that number of Jonahs into the bargain.

Bob was almost ready to sink down amid the Golgotha when the Man in the

Moon halted before a very high mountain. Making a sign to his companion

to follow, he quickly disappeared from view. At first it seemed as if

the mammoth had vanished within the mountain, but the mortal saw an

opening at the base which he entered. What a study for a geologist! In

the dim ages of the past, when the satellite of our Earth seethed and

boiled as a vast crater, the solid intestines of this cone, yielding to

some great power below it, had been riven in twain, leaving an

unmeasurable grotto of winding galleries. Toiling along in the wake of

the lunarian, the captive trod on a broad aisle, on each side of which

rose a series of arches succeeding each other, like the noble arcades

of some Gothic cathedral. Obelisk-like massive pillars stood out from

the rent wall like mighty sentinels guarding the wreck. Had our hero

been a mineralogist, armed with his hammer, his steel pointer, his

magnetic needles, and his blow pipe, what a fund of information he

might have gleaned here to place before the spectacles of professors

and philosophers! Nay, had he but possessed the faintest idea of the

science of building, what patterns, what studies around and above him,

for every form of the art to hereafter confound architects of the

nineteenth century!

Poor Bob was neither a mineralogist nor an architect, so he passed by

these things without a second glance, and entered a vaulted chamber,

upon whose round, jagged dome rested the whole weight of the mountain;

the dented projections and the sharp points on wall and roof spun into

an endless network of lines and seams, luminous as all things here

seemed to be, and changing colour from silver-grey to deep crimson.

Wonder had lost its functions for Bob the shepherd, otherwise he would

have stood aghast at the strange forms moving to and fro within this

chamber; round in shape, and taller than giants of long ago, with arms

and legs evidently telescoped at the joints, so that they could

lengthen or shorten them at will, and each shedding their quota of

refulgence to illuminate the scene. Monster glow-worms, gigantic

fire-flies, with the trickery of monkeys, and the strength of bears,

seized the shrinking man, and rose with him to the dome, which opened

instantly and engulfed them. Amidst a circle of light, which changed

quicker than the sparkles of a diamond, the poor shepherd found he was

being borne upward and hemmed in by a ring of these natives of the

Moon—upward and yet upward, without will to pause or stop, the mad

whirlwind of light ever changing, red, blue, grey, yellow, white,

azure, and the legion gathering in increased numbers every moment round

him until the climax came, and the crater, that had been silent for

countless ages, once more opened its ponderous jaws, casting him forth

as a rocket, where—amidst fiery rings and bars, and blazing stars of

light—he fell down, down, down into darkness and oblivion!

“I say, mate, how far is it to the Blue Mountains Inn?”

Old Bob, the shepherd, rubbed his eyes and looked up at the questioner.

He was a stout, thick-set fellow, with a heavy swag on his back, and a

black billy-can in his hand.

The man had to repeat his query ere the herdsman found speech.

“Why, surely, you’re not the Man in the Moon, eh?” asked Bob, with a

wild stare.

The swagman stepped backward a pace or two, and regarded our hero with

more attention.

“Man in the Moon!” he repeated. “Why, the old fellow’s gone off his

head.”

“Where’s the others with the long legs and arms?” and the shepherd

shuddered.

“He’s cranky, sure enough,” muttered the traveller audibly. “The coves

as you were asking arter are all gone,” he said aloud. “You get up on

your pins, or they’ll be back again Here’s a bob; come now, hook it, or

they’ll have you,” saying which the swagman went on his way.

Our hero raised himself into a sitting posture. Before him lay the

verdant slopes and ridges of the mountain, bathed in sunlight. Yonder

his sheep fed peacefully, watched by the faithful Patch. Then the old

man raised his vision higher than the earth and thanked Heaven that he

was still safe and sound on terra firma.

“SAILOR.”

That great painter of animals, Sir Edwin Landseer, never sketched a

nobler specimen of the canine race than the big, black, curly

Newfoundland dog, Sailor, the hero of our story. He was a fine,

faithful dog, and almost as large as a young foal, and every bit as

frisky and as harmless, save when teased by naughty boys. If you tried

ever so hard you couldn’t hide anything from Sailor. You might fasten

him in a room and then attempt to conceal a ball, or a piece of wood,

in the garden or the stables, but the moment you set him free Sailor

would hunt the object out and return with it in his mouth. Besides

being sagacious, the faithful brute could dive and swim like a fish;

that is why he received such a suitable name.

Captain Hauser, of the barque South Australian, had brought him from

India when but a puppy, but now the worthy captain had settled down

ashore with his two boys at Anchordale on the River Murray, and the dog

had become almost one of the family circle.

On a very hot afternoon, and when the New Year was scarcely a score of

days old, Bertie Hauser and his cousin, Tom Blake, took it into their

heads to have a row down the river. Anchordale was a pleasant cottage

situated on the bank of the Murray, with a tiny skiff fastened to a

stout post at the end of the orchard.

Bertie was only eight years of age, and Tom one year older; but the

boat being so small and light they managed to get afloat and paddled

away in high glee down the river. The dog, Sailor, was the only one who

had seen them depart, and he, with wagging tail and out-hanging tongue,

had begged, as only dumb animals can, to accompany them on their trip;

but Tom Blake said the boat would be swamped with such a cargo, and so

the lads had departed without him. Now, although Sailor was dumb, he

wasn’t blind. Neither was the poor brute wanting in instinct. Many a

day he had acted as a substitute for a pony for little Bertie, and had

even suffered the child to put a string into his mouth for a bridle,

and had trotted or cantered and walked up and down the lawn according

to the whim of his infantile rider. Indeed, Sailor was a kind old dog,

and probably thought it his duty to guard the person of his young

master, on land or on the water.

Perhaps this instinct prompted the Newfoundland to crawl cat-like

through the dense scrub on the bank of the river and keep the skiff in

view. Be that as it may, the dog never lost sight of them for a moment.

He saw Tom Blake guide the boat into a wide part of the stream, and

where the banks were very high and almost as steep as the gable of a

house.

“Oh, Bertie, here’s the place for a bathe. Are you game?” asked Tom,

rocking the boat.

Bertie assented. They found a little cove, where they landed, and made

fast the skiff; then ascending the high bank they began to prepare for

the water. Both boys had been taught to swim—as all boys should be—but

Bertie and his cousin had been warned not to bathe down the river,

because there were places teeming with snags and dangerous

undercurrents. Tom and his companion had forgotten all about the

caution. The water at this spot appears very dark and still and cool,

with the shadows of the overhanging trees upon it, and the drooping

branches of the willows laving to and fro on its bosom with a dreamy

sound.

“What a frightful jump!” cried Bertie, approaching the brink timidly,

and looking over at the river beneath. “It’s a high leap, Tom; hadn’t

we better go a little farther down?”

“Not at all,” responds Tom, swinging his arms about above his head. “I

like a good header; you stand there and watch me dive.”

Bertie stands aside and watches him. Tom retires several paces, starts

forward with a short, quick run, and springs headforemost from the

cliff into the river. For a moment the waters bubble and widen out in

circling eddies over the broad expanse. Bertie Hauser stands looking

down trying to trace the white, shapely form of his cousin cleaving

through the dark stream, expecting to see him rise to the surface

twenty yards away from where he plunged in. But many seconds go by, and

Tom Blake rises not, and poor Bertie, in an agony of suspense, calls to

him to “come up at once, or he will be drownded,” as if the treacherous

element would part its substance and carry his weak voice below, to its

holes and caves, where his companion is struggling for his little life.

“Tom, Tom, dear cousin Tom,” cries the child on the bank, as the truth

begins to dawn upon him that Tom is drowning. “Oh! what shall I do to

help him? What shall I do?” When lo! old Sailor comes bounding towards

him with a joyous bark. The boy clutches his favourite by the ears and

draws him forward to the brink of the river, where, pointing down to

the water, he urges on the dog with voice and gesture. “Ho, Sailor,

fetch him out, old fellow, go on—bring him out.”

Sailor needs no second bidding. Before Bertie has the words out of his

mouth, the dog comprehends the whole business, and leaps into the water

and disappears. How anxiously the child watches for his re-appearance!

At a spot half way up the stream, he observes the water begin to whirl

and eddy and bubble upward, as being disturbed by a great commotion

beneath; and here Sailor rises to the surface, and blows the water from

his snout, like a whale; but the dog is alone. There is no sign of poor

Tom Blake. Little Bertie becomes sick and faint with terror, but the

boy does not lose his presence of mind. He has every confidence in the

Newfoundland’s strength and courage.

“Ho, Sailor, fetch him out, old boy, bring him out.”

Downward plunges the gallant dog again, while his young master, naked

as he is, rushes down to the skiff, jumps in, and pushes into

midstream, running athwart the dog, as he rises once more. This time

Sailor has something in his mouth, but the boat knocking against him

causes him to let go. Yet he dives after it, and appears again in a

moment with the drowning boy. Sailor has clutched him firmly by the

hair of the head, and the dog’s great red eyes are all aflame as he

buoys up the insensible child and paddles the water with ponderous

strokes and lands him safe upon the bank.

What avail little Bertie’s terms of endearment and the affectionate

appeals he makes to his still, silent cousin? Tom Blake is deaf. And

although Bertie may make a hundred promises of bats and guns and ponies

poor Tom cannot hear him.

It is fortunate that two men with swags upon their backs are passing at

the time, who carry the unfortunate youth into the sunlight, and rub

his body vigorously with their hands until the vitality that was almost

extinct begins to revive again within him.

When Tom had partly recovered and could speak, he told his uncle, the

captain, that when he dived he struck his head against a snag, which

rendered him insensible, and no doubt in that state he was being

carried away by the current when the dog found him.

And poor Tom was grateful for the service, for when he was quite well

he bought the Newfoundland a grand collar, and had the following

inscription engraven on it:—

“Sailor,

“Rescued Tom Anson Blake from drowning on the

18th January, 187-, at Anchordale, River Murray.”

NELLIE.

CHAPTER I.

Rain, rain—nothing but rain on this Christmas Eve, in the New South

Wales metropolis. Although it was in the heat of summer the wind from

the coast blew keenly through the almost deserted streets, and caused

the fine mist-like wet to penetrate the stoutest overcoat. It was such

weather that no one who had a roof over his head would care to be out

in. But there was one wearily toiling from street to street, beneath

the protection of the verandahs—a delicate-looking girl. With one hand

she was trying to wrap her scanty rags round her wasted body, and in

the other she held a half-dozen boxes of wax matches. Her face was

worn, and pinched, and dirty, but it was a very beautiful, patient,

little face; her hair, too, would have been a bright golden in natural

hue, save that it was shaggy and dirty also. It was to little purpose

that she offered her matches to the passers-by, who were few and far

between on this wet evening—they were all too anxious to get home out

of the rain. From the brightly lighted streets the little wanderer

crossed Hyde Park, and wended her way slowly up Oxford Street, and from

thence to the left, along the Bay Road, where dwell the wealthy and the

great. Why she had left the shops and all the busy part of the city for

the wide, bleak road, dotted with high, massive houses standing out

dark and cold in the falling rain, the poor child could not tell.

Impelled by some strange fascination, she had quitted her usual haunts,

and taken the opposite direction leading from her wretched home.

Although it was getting late, and past the time when she should have

returned, she had no thought of going home. Her memory was full of

faint, indistinct thoughts, whether dreams or faraway realities, who

shall say? She wondered why she had rambled so far from the city; but

she also felt she must go on. Her ragged dress was soaked with rain and

the keen wind was cruel and cutting, yet the poor little thing did not

feel the rain or the wind; on the contrary, she felt as if she was on

fire, save now and then there would pass a cold feeling all over her,

which caused a shivering fit. The match girl was well aware that she

would be beaten when she returned to her wretched dwelling, yet,

strange to say, she felt perfectly happy as she wandered farther away

from it.

Half way up the Bay Road there came over the little waif a feeling of

dizziness, accompanied by a feeling of thirst, and again that burning

sensation which again changed into a cold shiver, as she stood there.

Close at hand there was a friendly porch belonging to a grand mansion,

so the child crept into it, out of the wind and rain, and crouched

down. No sooner had she done so than all her light-heartedness appeared

to leave her, and she burst into tears. It was very strange that

directly the little match vendor began to cry she heard a confusion of

sounds around her—wild, mocking laughter, and shouts, and stamping of

feet, and strange lights were dancing before her eyes. The stones on

which she was lying seemed to be heaving and tossing, and she felt very

frightened just for a moment, and then she fell fast asleep.

These sounds still went on in her slumber, but they gradually got

softer and softer, and sweeter and more subdued, until they changed

into the most lovely music. And the little outcast thought she was

standing in the midst of a very beautiful garden, and somehow it

appeared to her that she had known it all a long time ago. The rain and

wind and the murky clouds had passed away, and it was glorious, sunny

day; the flowers were in full bloom. Voices of birds and insects filled

the balmy air, and gay coloured butterflies flitted here and there.

While she was standing, wondering that all these strange things should

seem so familiar to her, a handsome boy, with golden curls, approached,

and exclaimed,—

“Oh, dear sister Nellie, come and play. Why did you go away and stay

away so long?”

The dreamer looked up; she appeared to know the happy face quite well,

and she assured him in a voice, that was not like her old thin, weak

voice, but soft and clear, which seemed like a voice that had belonged

to her a long, long time ago,—

“Indeed, I don’t know where I have been, Frank; nor why I went away. Is

it a long time since?” she asked timidly.

“Such a long time, sister.”

“I am here at last, Frank; and I will never go away again. Come, let us

play in the garden.” And then she took his hand, and they walked on

together amongst the flowers, while the thousand voices round about

gave gladsome welcome. All the old miserable life of the beggar child

seemed to fade quickly away here, leaving nothing save the feeling that

she had always been accustomed to the grand objects by which she found

herself surrounded.

“Suppose we have a game of hide and seek?” suggested Frank.

“That will be very nice; but who shall hide first?”

They had a little consultation about that very important matter, when

it was decided that Nellie should hide first. It was most peculiar that

the name Nellie came quite natural to the dreamer, though she had been

called Maggie, Meg, and sometimes Peggy as long as she could remember.

So Nellie went to hide, and she hid behind a rosebush, and there she

found a great hole in the ground big enough for her to creep into. Ere

she had settled herself, Nellie found that the hole led to a dark

passage, with a soft light glimmering at the end of it. Still

wondering, she went towards the light. Passing along through several

archways, the child emerged into a splendid cavern, lit up with many

coloured, sparkling lights from thousands of precious stones, with

which the sides and roof of the place were studded. While she was

standing awe-struck with amazement at this magnificent place, she heard

by her side a flutter of light wings, and turning, saw hovering over

her a beautiful little creature with long hair, which glittered like

woven sunbeams. The form was rose-hued in colour, and from its

shoulders sprang green wings, sheeny and lustrous as the throat of a

humming-bird.

“Come!” warbled the being, and the voice was dreamy and sweet, like the

“coo” of a stock dove. “Come, and I will show you something wonderful.”

And the lovely being took Nellie by the hand, and led the child through

a cleft in the rock to another room which was lined, roof, walls, and

floor, with soft green moss. All round the room were hung beautiful

garlands adorned with diamonds. Some fairly blazed again with gems,

others contained only a few, fixed here and there, while fairy-like

forms flitted to and fro continually, bearing in their hands more gems,

which they fixed into the garlands. The dreamer was very much surprised

at what she beheld.

“Where do they get all those diamonds to put into the garlands?” she

inquired of her companion.

“The diamonds,” answered her conductor, “are the tears of sorrow shed

by the unhappy people in the world; for always while they are weeping

there are unseen watchers ready waiting to receive their tears and

convey them here.”

“And what are those very large gems, that shine so brightly in the

middle of the finished garlands?”

“Those are tears of joy; no garland can be finished without them.”

The child wandered round the chamber, and saw that almost all the

wreaths had some tears of joy and some of sorrow; but she came at last

to one that was quite full of tears of sorrow and in it no tears of joy

at all, while on it was a name, “Peggy the Beggar.”

Scarcely had her eyes fallen upon the name than she awoke; awoke, and

beheld bending over her a lady with a lovely face; but she looked proud

and stern, and the little wanderer instinctively shrank away from her

and crouched closer to the wall.

“How very tiresome that this wretched child should choose my porch, of

all places, to creep into for shelter,” cried the lady, in a cold,

unfeeling tone. “Yet I cannot turn the unfortunate thing away on such a

night as this. It’s a poor Christmas indeed for the poor child,” she

added, in a more tender way. “Here, Smith, take up this little beggar

and carry her to the kitchen, give her something to eat, and tell Jane

to put some dry things on her.”

A tall servant came forward and lifted the ragged bundle of humanity in

his arms as tenderly as a mother would have done. The man had just such

another little girl at home, and his heart yearned with sympathy for

the outcast as he bore her along the great hall of the house. Certainly

the place was strange to the child; but as in her dream she seemed to

remember everything, so now it appeared to her that the objects upon

which she gazed had been familiar to her a long, long time ago, and her

dream came back to her so vividly that she cried out aloud, “Oh, Frank!

Frank! Dear brother, where are you hiding? Do come to me. Come to

sister Nellie. I am not playing now.”

The stern lady had followed her servant with his living burden; but

when that cry reached her she stopped short, and grasped at the wall

for support. What sudden spasm caused the beautiful, haughty face to

grow instantly pale, and the tall form to bend trembling down as if

struck with palsy?

“Oh, Frank, come to sister Nellie. Dear brother, come.”

With a wild, hysterical sob the stately figure bowed lower yet, and

pressed her arms upon her throbbing bosom as if each of the little

outcast’s words had been cruel dagger-thrusts that were piercing her

through and through.

Coldness, pride, the vigorous will, that moulds martyrs and devils

alike, was strong within the woman, yet the combination of all three

had no power against that weak out-cry—“Come to sister Nellie, Frank!”

Ere the low, faint wail had died out, the proud lady had snatched the

poor child to her bosom, and covering the hot, unwashed face with

passionate kisses, cried aloud,—

“I—I had a darling Nellie once, and a golden-haired boy also, whom we

called Frank, but they were buds that faded here to bloom in heaven.

And now their dear voices will never fall upon my ears again. Alas!

Alas!”

Then like all else she had seen in this place, it seemed to the child

that the face of the beautiful lady was not altogether strange to her.

The very caress was like the endearing embrace of a mother, whose heart

had longed and yearned for her lost ones, and the poor little outcast

wondered how it all could be, until she lost all consciousness and

began to dream again.

CHAPTER II.

It was a long and troubled dream. Days and weeks appeared to pass away

in which the little sleeper could remember nothing clearly. At one time

the beautiful lady would appear to be bending fondly over her, and then

the face would change suddenly to that of a wretched hag, whom she had

known and called mother, in the miserable home she had within the slums

of the city. From this place came terrible voices in her ears, and

terrible things struggling round the bed. Flames of fire darted and

danced in her poor, weary eyes; but through all this she beheld the

fairy of the cavern appear again, holding in his hand the wreath

whereon was written her name. He held it towards her gleaming with

diamond tear-drops. How she struggled to reach it! The more she tried

the weaker she became, but it seemed to her that there was an invisible

arm round her for her to rest upon, and though faint and weary, her

failing footsteps ever got nearer and nearer the precious circlet. Then

followed an interval of soft, soothing quiet, and the eyes of our

heroine opened drowsily upon the waking world again. She felt very

weak, but somehow very happy. She was lying on a clean, white bed in a

comfortable room, which appeared as if she had seen it before somewhere

in her dreams. As the child raised her weary eyelids her gaze rested

upon the prostrate form of the lady kneeling by her bedside, with her

face hidden in the bedclothes, sobbing. The poor wanderer felt sorry

that one who had been so kind to her should weep in trouble, and

raising her little warm hand, she laid it on the beautiful head of the

kneeler, and uttered the familiar word, “Mamma.”

The little sufferer knew not why that tender word rose to her lips

before any other; she only knew that the affectionate term was in her

heart and mind—that was all.

At the sound the grand lady raised her head, and kissed the child again

and again with maternal fondness, her lips murmuring the while, “My own

darling child. My Nellie, whom I thought had departed from me for ever.

Heaven has been good to me.”

Then for the first time the little match vendor shed tears of joy.

Sleep came to her again, from which she was aroused by the sound of

voices talking in whispers close to the bed.

“I am so sorry to have disobeyed you, ma’am, but you must forgive me,

and let me stay and nurse my own little pet,” cried a girl’s voice in

pleading accents. “When they told me at home that the stolen child had

come home again to you, I couldn’t keep away. I know it’s all along of

my carelessness that she was took away. Yet I loved the deary and was

compelled to come, although you must hate the very sight of me.”

“Hush, nurse, hush!” replied the lady’s voice sadly. “I am so glad you

have come. Since I lost my Nellie, and Frank died, and my dear husband

perished at sea, I have been a friendless, lonely, and unhappy woman.

Now my lost darling has been restored to me again the world will not

seem so bleak and weary. You shall stay and help me nurse my stolen

baby into health again.”

It seemed very strange to the child, as she lay back in the bed, to

learn the early history of her own life; how she had been stolen away

when she was only a wee toddler; how her brother, just one year older

than herself, had pined and died for his sister; how the poor mother,

with all her grand and fashionable friends, had felt herself deserted,

and had hardened her heart against all good influences, until the cry

of the frightened little outcast had reached and softened it.

There were long, weary watchings by the couch of the sufferer, filled

with anxiety and suspense. For the mother who had found her lost one

had a vague dread haunting her that her darling might be snatched

ruthlessly from her a second time, and by a foe more terrible than a

kidnapper. The child’s sleep was filled with dreams of angels. They

carried her again and again to that rocky chamber where hung the

garlands; and each time she found her own all ablaze with tears of joy,

and nearly finished.

On one occasion she stretched forth her hand to take it, but the fairy

came up to her and said,—

“Not yet, my dear; you shall wear it very soon.”

The child related these dreams to her mother, who answered nothing, but

fell down upon her knees and prayed that the garland should not be

completed yet awhile.

Nellie could not understand all this, but one night she felt very weak

and cold. Her mother was seated by the bedside gazing with greedy eyes

at the poor, worn, pinched-up little face. There were others in the

room, but the patient now saw only her mother.

“Dear mamma!”

“What is it, my darling?”

“I have seen the garlands again. Mine is finished at last.”

The face of the lady grew very pale. She hid her weeping eyes and

muttered,—

“A little while longer, only a little while.”

“I know what the garland means now, mamma; I am going to die,”

“Oh no! my dear, long lost pet, not yet, not yet. I cannot spare you,

now you have come back to me. Stay with me a little while—just a little

while. You are so very dear to me.”

Who shall say what agony of supplication in that low wail of entreaty?

Who shall fathom its intensity?

“But you will come too, mamma?” said the weak voice, now grown very

weak and feeble. “You have cried so much, your garland must be nearly

ready.”

A great sob, which shook the tall, shapely figure like a reed, was the

only answer. She raised her head at length, and the eyes of mother and

child met.

“Oh, when I get there, I’ll prepare your garland, mamma,” came the

faint voice, almost in a whisper now.

For a moment there was a wild light in the poor mother’s eyes. The

words appeared to stir some old memory in her heart. She looked into

the peaceful face of her dying child, and the voice became more calm

and steady.

“It is very hard to part, my darling, very hard; but I will try to bear

it all, so that tears of joy may mingle with tears of sorrow in my

wreath of immortality.”

The words fell on an ear that heard them not. There was a look on the

child’s face that caused the mother to rush forward and throw her arms

about the poor weak clay, as if to stay the departing spirit in its

flight.

“Oh, mamma! there is little brother Frank with my garland. See! he is

beckoning to me.”

And then the weary little head fell forward on the mother’s shoulder,

and the tired spirit entered into rest.

IN THE CLOUDS.

They came to the boy one night when he was abed, and said they would

take him with them in their fairy balloon.

Willie Fenton told his father and mother that he had seen the elfins,

and what they had promised him, but they only laughed at him and told

him he had been dreaming.

Our hero wasn’t to be convinced that it was only a dream. Hadn’t he

seen them—three fairy creatures no higher than his top—enter his

bedroom through the keyhole, and seat themselves on his pillow, and

begin talking about the glorious sights to be seen in the clouds?

If Willie Fenton had been born up in a balloon his youthful fancy could

not have been imbued with a greater passion for the sport. Indeed,

since he was a child of four or five years old our youthful aeronaut

had blown soap bubbles, and had watched them soar away in the sun,

glistening with all the hues of the rainbow, and his dreams at night

and aspirations by day had been to emulate those daring spirits who

surpassed the mighty eagle in his flight into the bright blue sky above

the clouds.

Willie’s home, situated on Mount Pleasant, was in the vicinity of many

a romantic spot calculated to favour the elves in their adventure, and

one fine morning, as the lad was returning from a neighbouring farm, he

espied his three nocturnal visitors seated under a large gum-tree

awaiting him. Willie recognised them in a moment, and doffing his cap

said, “Good-morning, gentlemen.”

The fairies rose and saluted him, and answered that they were quite

ready to fulfil their promises. Our hero thanked them for their

kindness, and at the same time expressed himself quite ready to

accompany them. Whereupon the three elves conducted him in silence

along a narrow ravine which opened out on a still, quiet glen on the

banks of the river. Fastened securely between two huge trees, Willie

beheld a great, pear-shaped thing, swaying to and fro with the motion

of the breeze, and at which the elves pointed and said, “Behold, our

cloud car.”

Yes, it was a grand balloon, already inflated and with a cage attached,

bordered with wild roses and creepers, that reached from the apex of

the monster down to the car beneath, which hung suspended, like a

flower-pot in a balcony. How it surged and struggled desperately with

the wind, as if it were endowed with life, and wished to escape from

fastenings that held it, and soar upward! And how frail it appeared, as

Willie approached and examined it! Was it made of cloth? No, too fine

for cloth. Cotton? Nay, it was too soft for cotton, or silk either. Yet

the whole fabric seemed no weightier than a gossamer. The fairies

smiled at the boy’s curiosity, and invited him to enter the car. Our

little hero had no sooner complied than the elfins seated themselves at

his side. And one of them, who had a bright diadem glittering upon his

breast, stood up and waved his hand as a signal, when instantly the

balloon shot aloft with inconceivable velocity.

The young mortal closed his eyes and held his breath for one brief

moment; but when he looked forth, the earth appeared to be miraculously

vanishing from his sight. Although the ascent was fearfully rapid, the

motion of the balloon was quite imperceptible. The morning was bright

and sunny, the sky a deep, Prussian blue, and as the boy craned his

neck over the cage and gazed below, what a glorious sight met his view.

There stretched beneath him were the golden valleys of his birthplace,

with hundreds of farms dotting the landscape, and no bigger than a

child’s toy. From his elevated position the houses were as so many

dots, and the people in the fields as tiny ants. The flowing Torrens,

that had seemed so broad and deep, appeared as a silver thread, and the

high cliffs and hills were on a level with the dull round earth. Willie

Fenton felt not the least alarm; on the contrary, his courage rose with

the balloon, as it sped upward to the sky. The elfin with the diadem

threw out some pieces of paper, which seemed to drop like stones. This,

however, was not so, but only the effect of the terrible rate at which

they were travelling. Higher, higher, still higher. Now they

disappeared from view, in a thick vapour forming the white clouds,

which looked so light and fleecy from earth. The balloon did not remain

long in these, but quickly rose into a clear atmosphere beyond. And

here the scene changed to one splendid in the extreme. Above them

nothing but the big round sun, and the deep azure of the heavens.

Beneath no dingy earth, dim and gloomy, but a brilliant sea of

sparkling cloud, rose tinted, dancing and flashing in the sun’s rays.

The cloud completely hid everything below, and lay beneath like a huge,

rolling billow, the top of which flashed back the sunlight till our

hero almost fancied it was a wave of driven snow spangled with

diamonds. How long Willie might have remained in his rapt trance of

wonder it is hard to say, but he was aroused by a feeling of cold, and

a difficulty in breathing.

“Our mortal friend will find it very chilly up here,” said Pippin, who

wore the diadem, answering the boy’s unspoken words.

“It has grown very cold indeed, gentlemen,” rejoined Willie, his teeth

chattering as he spoke.

“Ha, ha! Listen to him, Needle; hear him, Bobbin; he’s beginning to

cry out already!” cried Pippin to his companions. “Cold, eh? Well, we

have a cure for cold, and for frost and snow—whole mountains of it. Eh,

Needle?” As Pippin spoke, he unrolled a parcel which had been lying

unnoticed at the bottom of the car, and produced a cloak made of the

same material as the balloon. Without more ado they enveloped Willie

from head to heel in the garment, with just sufficient space left clear

about his eyes so that he could see, the rest of him being completely

covered. In a few moments he began to breathe more freely, and the

rarity of the air made no impression upon him at all.

“You feel all right now, Willie Fenton?” questioned Bobbin. Willie

mumbled, and nodded his head in the affirmative.

“Let us mount higher then, my brethren. Excelsior!” exclaimed Pippin of

the diadem. “Bold indeed the mortal who first conceived and carried out

the idea of making the unstable element water subservient to his

genius, as witness the ships that come and go on the bosom of the

ocean; but it is left to us, the elves of Australia, to curb the air

and make it do our bidding. Higher and higher go we, to show this

mortal the wonders of the upper world.”

Upward still, beyond the cloud which breaks for a moment and gives them

a glimpse of the sea, and the coast-line away to the westward seeming

no broader than a single thread. And now the cold became intense, but

the fairies and their companion felt it not, for their gaze was fixed

upon a sight that no emperor or king had ever seen—and perchance never

would. If all the diamonds in that rich valley visited by Sinbad the

Sailor, also all the gems which Aladdin’s lamp could have procured, and

all that ever have been seen in the world had been pressed into the

service—they would have failed utterly in producing one tithe of the

strange sight Willie now saw. The whole dome of the balloon was covered

as it were in a diamond mantle. A shower of glittering gems was falling

in all directions, apparently coming from the blue void above, and

sprinkling down, with a fluttering motion like that of butterflies, and

then disappearing in the vast abyss below.

Lost in amazement at this marvellous vision, the boy frees one of his

hands, and reaches to catch one of the heavenly gems; but he discovers

the diamond shower is in reality only thin sheets of newly-formed ice.

The elves laugh at him and the look of wonder on his face. And Pippin

explains in a grave tone, “Boy, we have entered a region where some

watery vapour hath been, which the cold hath turned into ice, and now

being heavier than the atmosphere falls fluttering to the earth.

Towards the earth, I say, since I know well it will never reach it,

because before it can do so it will encounter a warmer region, when the

ice will again become water and the water vapour. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes. It’s the vapour which makes the clouds, isn’t it?” answered

Willie.

“Just so,” replied the elfin. “And now having fulfilled our promise, we

will descend again to old mother earth.”

Like a streak of light the fairy balloon shot downward through the

glittering, diamond shower, through the mist and cloud, until the

bright landscape appeared in view. The elfins, Pippin, Needle, and

Bobbin, landed Willie safely by the river-bank, and the boy reached

home just in time for dinner.

The three elves still haunt that dell by the Torrens, so if any of my

readers are anxious for a trip in the fairy balloon, I have no doubt

Messrs. Pippin & Co. will be only too glad to oblige them—that is, if

they are at home.

WONDERLAND.

Mount with me, my little friends, upon the wings of fancy. Don’t be

alarmed—the conveyance is perfectly safe, and warranted free from

accidents. Hi, Presto! Here we stand upon the famous Blue Mountains of

our neighbour, whose glens, dells, and deep ravines are haunted by

creatures beautiful beyond conception, and grotesque, and stranger than

any painter dreamed of. Yonder, on the mountain-side, the western train

is seen puffing its way along the gigantic “zigzag,” like a huge

serpent, and whose hot breath takes weird shapes before it is lost in

the blue haze above it. Beneath, on that natural terrace of rock,

stands the humble hut of the charcoal-burner, whose single window

overlooks a deep valley of monster trees—fallen and half-buried amongst

great blocks of stone and rank vegetation.

But who is that woman who is wringing her hands, and calling and

weeping by turns, as she runs to and fro among the chaos of undergrowth

and the ledges around? It is the wife of the charcoal-burner, and she

calls for her two children, who have wandered away and become lost in

this wild region. It was early morn when they strolled forth to

play—Edith and Winnie, both little toddlers, and quite helpless—yet the

sun is on the rim of the horizon and they cannot be found.

“Coo-ee, coo-ee!—Winnie—Edie, my darlings, where are you? Oh, where are

you?” cries the poor mother; and her voice grows faint and weary as she

calls to the echoing cliffs about. She becomes aware that some one is

answering her as she is about to retrace her steps to the hut. The

voice is far off at first, but it becomes gradually nearer and nearer,

until a rough mountain goat with long horns presents itself before her.

“I am here. What do you want with me?” it said, bowing itself before

her.

It was a beautiful animal, with a soft, white, silky fleece, and large,

kind-looking eyes, while its voice sounded so full of sympathy that the

suffering mother answered readily,—

“Oh, sir! I have lost my two children; pray tell me, have you seen

them?”

“I have seen them,” answered the goat. “And if you have sufficient

courage to follow my advice they shall soon be restored to you. I am

the guardian sprite of this glen, which my race have occupied since the

Flood. Here on this mountain are two kingdoms; the one on the surface

called Love; the other, beneath the surface, termed Hate. We are ever

at war with each other; therefore, I am here to serve you. Learn, O

mortal, that Croak and Gloom, of the lower world, have stolen your

children, and they have hid them within the bowels of the mountains.”

“Then they are dead, and I shall never see them more,” replied the

woman, falling on her knees and weeping bitterly.

“I have said they shall be restored to you again,” replied the goat

quickly. “My power is far mightier than the whole nation of Hate

combined. Have you faith that I can help you?”

“Yes,” she answered, “because Love is stronger than Hate.”

“Good. Extend your hand and pluck a tuft of hair from my right side,

roll it in your fingers, then twist it round your finger above your

wedding-ring.”

The charcoal-burner’s wife did as the goat desired her, but she had

scarcely finished before the animal vanished from her sight, and she

felt herself bodily lifted up, and borne away over the deep ravine, and

across over-hanging cliffs and the tops of tall trees, and away down

into a yawning chasm, which seemed like a deep and bottomless well.

Down, down, she went swiftly, yet with an easy, sliding motion that was

not at all unpleasant, while she felt no fear, save for the fate of her

little ones. She had a feeling of a powerful presence being near and

about her—extending from the finger on which was twisted the goat’s

hair round and round her person, and beneath her feet, like the strong

net-work of a balloon. Even when the void grew dim and black, a strange

glow, emanating from the ring, lit up the darkness and revealed to her

wondering eyes many earth-bound treasures. Here gleamed thick seams of

coal, and there slabs of tin and copper ores, and beyond these shone

white masses of stone, like marble, with thick veins of gold therein,

which sparkled athwart the woman’s eyes, and made her almost forget her

children, so great became her desire to possess some of it While she

cogitated she suddenly became conscious that she was upon her feet,

standing before a large cavern gate, guarded by a tall griffin, who

cried out the moment he espied her, “Who dare enter into the realm of

Hate?”

And the woman answered quickly, “Love. Love dares everything, because,

being pure, it is fearless. I have come to demand my children.”

The monster laughed at her, and advanced with a large stone to dash out

her brains; but the white goat, transformed now into a handsome youth,

with a sharp, gleaming sword in his hand, advanced boldly to the

rescue, and soon defeated the grim warder, took his keys without more

ado, and opening several doors, led his companion through a labyrinth

of caves until they reached a second gate guarded like the first, the

warder having the body of an ass and the head of a wolf. “Who knocks at

the gates of Hate?” he said fiercely.

“Love,” answered the valiant fairy, waving his sword.

“Love isn’t wanted here,” replied the monster. “Begone! Or I will kill

you both.” Whereupon he opened the gate and advanced towards them; but

the elfin engaged him at once, and so great was his power that he

overturned the creature in a moment.

“Now, Malice, I have thee,” cried the brave sprite sternly. “Yield up

thy keys and get thee hence, and hide thyself, together with Envy, at

the outer gate, for if I find you here on my return I will slay you

both.”

Malice gave up his keys and ran howling along the rocky caverns of the

place; while Love, the elfin, led the woman onward through a catacomb

of dismal vapour, which ended in a series of arched chambers, draped

and festooned with sheets of solid gold. The horrid creatures who

inhabited the place were hideous and frightful to behold. Some had two

heads, others were without legs or arms; many crawled like snakes, and

not a few presented the appearance of being half man and half beast.

These monsters fled in all directions at the sight of Love, and so he

passed onward unmolested until he came to Cavernous Hall—the palace of

Croak and Gloom—and here he found the two great chiefs of Hate with the

children, Winnie and Edith. The hall was filled with the rank and

fashion of the nation to see the wonderful mortals of the upper world;

and into their midst walked Love and the woman hand-in-hand.

“Who are these strange people?” cried the terrible voice of Gloom,

grasping the little ones in his arms, for they had uttered a glad cry

at sight of their mother.

“My children! Oh, give me my children!” pleaded the woman.