CHAPTER I._Chatterbox, 1905.

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CHATTERBOX

[Illustration: Chatterbox]

Founded by J. Erskine Clarke, M.A.

Boston: Dana Estes & Company, 212 Summer Street.

Presswork by

Colonial Press: C. H. Simonds & Co.

Boston, U.S.A.

CONTENTS.

[Illustration]

1905.

Page

A Boy's Heroism 179

A Coat of Paint 319

Advice that Saved a King's Life 279

A Fair-sized Field 358

Affectionate Eagles 71

Afloat on the Dogger Bank 188, 198, 202, 214, 218, 226, 238, 242,

253, 258, 266, 277, 285, 291, 300, 308,

317, 324, 334, 342, 346, 354, 366, 374,

378, 386, 398, 402, 410

A Hundred Years Ago 15, 34, 142, 163, 210, 322, 382

A Kindly Visit 3

A Lesson in Steering 127

All Prime Ministers 243

A Monkey's Memory 11

A Mother Rabbit's Courage 122

A Motor-car of the Past 331

Anecdotes 98, 130, 167, 195, 230, 262, 290, 339,

371, 394

Animal Makeshifts 220, 251, 275, 340, 371, 397

An Impression of Zanzibar 391

An Indian Custom 22

An Ocean Policeman 19

An Old-fashioned Grace 109

A Novel Rain Protector 58

A Queer Address on a Post-card 390

A Peep at Northern Italy 247

A Sparrow's Coolness 183

A Story of Stanley 87

A Stroll amongst Ferns 358

A Strong Motive 299

A Timely Rescue 259

Chased by Seagulls 63

Clever Billy 323

Cruisers in the Clouds 2, 62, 98, 154, 190, 223, 250, 266, 298,

346, 370, 395

Cuban Lizards 119

Curious Names in London City 110

Diamonds 299

Doctor Abernethy's Advice 263

Earning an Honest Penny 110

Eastern Jugglers 197

Encounters with Lions 311

Encouragement 133

Ethel's Orange-plant 339

Faith and Sight 211

Freed in Vain 3

Frost-bitten in the Red Sea 187

Generosity 251

Gemmal Rings 315

George II. at Dettingen 38

'Ginger for Pluck' 114

Heroes and Heroines of Famous Books 38, 42, 166, 171, 274, 351, 354

He set the Example 246

His First Wolf Hunt 390, 406

How Hetais Wore his Medal 359

Indian Wireless Telegraphy 395

Insect Ways and Means 29, 43, 77, 109, 149, 179, 211, 237,

261, 283, 307, 357, 364, 387

In the Snow 373

Japanese Plums 146

Jim's Shower-bath 227

Life in Bohemia 282

Magic Rods 122

May Day 143

McLeod of Clere 66, 78, 82, 90

Mice on a Submarine 279

Nature's Noblemen 158

Never Caught It 270

Never draw a Sword except in a Cause that is Just and Right 170

Nicolo in Vienna 411

No Hurry 155

Nothing is Perfect 18

Not the same Thing 146

Old Conduits 323

One Good Turn deserves Another 306

One More Chance 295

One was Missing 287

Outwitting Himself 255

Philip Wood and Sir Christopher Wren 314

Pussy's Playmate 287

Puzzlers for Wise Heads 30, 58, 98, 130, 167, 195, 230, 263,

290, 339, 371, 395

Rat-skins 270

Ready! 283

Regiments in the City 350

Rice-paper 203

Rudel and Lisbeth 150

Saved by the Enemy 51

Saved by Twenty Guineas 47

Served her Right 207

Smithfield Tournaments 170

Spy or Guide? 394

Steeple-climbers 74

Strange Children 290

The Admiral and the Fisherman 50

The Best Beginning 98

The Best Lesson 11

The Black Leopard 234

The Black Swan 364

The Boy Tramp 6, 12, 22, 26, 34, 44, 54, 58, 69, 74, 85,

94, 102, 106, 117, 125, 134, 138, 146,

158, 162, 173, 181, 187, 194

The Captain and the Invalid 66

The Captain's Cigar 90

The Captain's Turn First 47

The Cashmere Stag 231

The Castle Light 10

The Chinese Laundryman 382

The Cow-tree 307

The Cypher Telegram 123, 130

The Duke and the Traveller 167

The Duke of Wellington's Head Gardener 219

The Eagle's Nest 349

The Elephant and the Crocodile 78

The Feast of Cherries 175

The Flower-girl 207

The Frog and the Geese 22

The Gate-keeper of Rambouillet 231

The Generous Bakers 71

The Girl who Did Not Run Away 130

The Great Northern Diver 133

The Hidden Room 327, 330, 338

The Indian Chief and the Bishop 11

The Intruding Squirrel 186

The Jumping Mouse 299

The Legend of Helfenstein 63

The Lime or Linden 98

The Little Bush-boy 155

The Man with the Glasses 213

The Mysterious Chest 30

The Old Clock 271

The Parks of London 205, 245, 270

The Pitcher-plant 221

The Poet Crabbe's First School 234

The Potato 263

The Puff-adder 90

The Reason Why 107

The Sago-tree 210

The Story of Slate 186

The Teal 53

The Teeth of Hyenas 231

The Wreck of the _Hope_ 391

Torn to Rags 178

Toys from the Streets 379, 389, 403

Twenty Pounds Reward 362

Two Medals 219

Two Ways of Reading a Sentence 150

Ulrich's Opportunity 234

Whalebone 50

What Katie Heard 303

White Negroes 178

Without a Hen to Buy Stamps 143

Wonderful Caverns 18, 51, 83, 115, 139, 195, 229, 294,

315, 332, 363

POETRY.

Page

A Busy World 382

Against Odds 406

Bouquets 66

Discontent brings Dulness 157

Don't Begin 244

Fairy Song 350

Good-bye to the Last Fire 163

Good-night, Good-day! 50

Growing Up 115

How Tom Dresses 282

Invitations 148

Jack's Wish 259

My Friend 38

My Garden Concert 63

My Picture-book 234

One and One make Two 222

Our Puss 122

Sad Company in the Nursery 299

Take Care of the Days 47

The Bat and the Ball 142

The Contented Pansy 358

The Father of All 279

The Fox's Serenade 306

The Friendly Light 29

The Great Picture-book 186

The Jealous Kittens 101

The Lover-doll 390

The Naughty Kittens 11

The Pioneers 170

The Promise of the Storm 394

The Rabbit and the Hare 331

The Slate's Story 371

The Song of the Broom 294

The Startled Hares 92

The Trumpet and the Drum 227

The Two Dolls 315

The Way to Win 3

The Weather Sprites 195

Too Clever 178

Too Tempting to be Lost 204

Travellers' Tales 134

Waiting 22

Welcome to the First Fire 323

What am I? 214

What Insects Love 342

Why the Sea Sobs 363

Willie's Sum 251

ILLUSTRATIONS.

COLOURED PLATES.

"Why Should We Wait Till To-morrow?" _Frontispiece_

Home for the Holidays, facing p. 64

On a Voyage of Discovery, facing p. 128

All Hands to the Pump, facing p. 192

Crossing the Brook, facing p. 256

Good News of the Boy, facing p. 320

Page

A Cliff-dwelling of North America 229

A Corner of Hyde Park 205

A Countryman's Well-deserved Rebuke 17

Afloat on the Dogger Bank (Illustrations to), 189, 200, 201, 216, 217,

225, 240, 241, 253, 257,

268, 277, 285, 292, 301,

309, 317, 325, 336, 344,

348, 356, 368, 376, 377,

385, 400, 401, 409

'After all, I will wait' 93

'A great number of seagulls were chasing the fugitive' 64

'A horseman galloped to the spot in the hope of

finding them still alive' 153

A Monkey's Memory 12

Andrée's Departure for the North Pole 297

An Eastern Snake Charmer 197

Animal Makeshifts (Illustrations to), 220, 221, 252, 276, 341, 372, 397

An Ocean Policeman 20

An Old-fashioned Motor-car 332

A Peep at Northern Italy 248

A Picture Puzzle 28

A Scene in Clissold Park 245

A Scene in Regent's Park 269

'As we cleared the water we could hear the wolves close behind' 403

'Billy allowed the letter to be taken' 324

'"Boh! Boh!" the clear voice shouted' 81

Chinese Laundrymen 381

Cliff-dwelling, New Mexico, and Cave-pottery 333

Cuban Lizards 120

'Daisy soon grew clever at keeping the head to the wind' 128

East Front of the Rock Temple of Elephanta 140

Entrance to the Grotto of La Balme 316

'Fight against my country! Not for the ransom of a king!' 49

Fingal's Cave, Staffa 52

Hans Christian Andersen 164

'He could hardly find words to welcome them' 5

'He deliberately lighted a cigar with a scrap of the burning rope' 89

'He hit out with all his force' 349

'He loaded the children with cherry branches' 176

'He looked wistfully at the pair of crutches' 124

'He ran towards the bull and opened his umbrella quickly' 260

'He saw an old man, who seemed to be very weary' 353

'He started, and let the lancet fall' 280

'He steered his balloon round the Eiffel Tower' 369

'He told his son he would disinherit him and turn him out of doors' 40

'His grandfather lay gagged and bound on the floor' 9

'How dare you strike me when you know God can see you?' 165

'How it tasted--well, I've never heard' 204

'How would you like to earn twenty pounds reward?' 361

'I am afraid I have no berth here for you, my lad' 305

'I am worth something when I can call that brave boy my son' 152

'I cannot bear to sit out here' 21

'I don't know what to do' 157

'If you hang him, you shall hang me too' 169

'I got these easily from the cellar' 329

Insect Ways and Means (Illustrations to), 29, 44, 77, 109, 149, 180,

212, 237, 261, 284, 308,

357, 364, 388

'I saw it first--'tis mine--let go!' 244

'It hopped into the space between the rails' 184

'It is a terrible thing, is a wreck on this coast' 392

'It is good! very good' 313

'It rose at once to the ceiling' 1

'It was fortunate that we put them off the scent' 132

'"I will add this too, lady," said the pedlar' 337

'I will take care of Boh' 80

'Jack worked with a will' 320

'Jim got a terrible drenching' 228

'Just as Lord Massereene was leaving the prison, he was arrested' 209

'Katie stood on the doorstep' 304

'Live on sixpence a day--and earn it' 264

'Look out, father, they are going to shoot you' 118

'Maung and his young companion came to what they sought at last' 68

'May turned away, feeling ashamed and miserable' 340

'M. Charles stepped into the blue and golden car' 100

'My master wishes to speak with you' 352

Nicolo and the Krampus 412

'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers' 112

October 21st, 1805 321

'One bolder than the rest stabbed it with a pitchfork' 61

'One pig went squealing down the road' 177

'Paralysed with fear, he clung to the bough' 4

'Please do not shoot me' 393

'See what my speckled hen has hatched' 328

'Seven miles high!' 265

'Shame on you all, to hit a helpless man' 16

'She could hardly stand still while Alice tied the ribbon on' 114

'She managed to drag her on shore' 129

'She was just high enough, and could light the lamps' 41

The Best Beginning 97

The Black Leopard 233

The Black Swan of Australia 365

'The bottle stood in the air as though hanging there' 396

The Boy Tramp (Illustrations to), 8, 13, 24, 25, 36, 45, 56, 60,

69, 76, 85, 96, 104, 105, 117,

125, 136, 137, 148, 160, 161,

173, 181, 193

'The cat washed the jackdaw in its turn' 289

'The commanding officer advanced towards the bier' 360

The Death of a Deserter 33

The Deerslayer in the hands of the Indians 172

'The driver heard them, and reversed his engine' 224

'The dog hailed his master as he passed' 345

'The eagle seized its wounded mate with its beak and claws' 72

'The empty branch bore a label' 145

The First Post-office in the Sky 192

The Giant's Hall, Luray 293

'The grateful mother handed the doctor a handsome pocket-book' 256

The Grottoes of Han in the Ardennes 116

The Great-Northern Diver 133

'The horse nearly carried the King into the French lines' 37

The Jealous Kittens 101

The Jumping Mouse 300

'The little bush-boy appeared' 156

The Mammoth Cave, Kentucky 84

The Man with the Glasses 218

'The men set to work to load their muskets' 272

'The other passengers thought him mad' 57

'The peacock took all her play in good part' 288

'The rabbit bit the stoat in the most infuriated manner' 121

The Rock Temple of Kailus at Ellora 196

'The sailor-pupil climbed into the car' 249

'The second lion seized him' 312

The Simplon Pass 141

'The soldiers forgot the prisoner, and scrambled for the money' 48

'The stag stayed by his mate's body' 232

The Teal 53

'The two were soon locked in fight' 384

'The women of Bohemia act as bricklayers labourers' 281

'The woodpecker fled in fear' 185

'They burnt the Shakespeare, breaking the spell' 88

'They came hopping in, Paul an easy first' 92

'They stumbled along, supporting the stranger as best they could' 373

''Tis the very man!' 273

Toys from the Streets (Illustrations to), 380, 389, 404

'We charged at the midst of the foe' 405

'We will see where this rat came from' 32

'What is it?--a fire? Speak, boy!' 236

'Who'll buy?' 208

'Wootton stood quite upright on the pinnacle of the steeple' 73

'Would you take a message of importance for me?' 168

'Your Majesty is certainly wrong' 108

'"You shall go," said the captain, "if I lose every passenger"' 65

'You young rascal' 296

Chatterbox.

[Illustration: "It rose at once to the ceiling."]

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

I.--THE TWO BROTHERS OF ANNONAY AND THEIR PAPER BALLOON.

In the chimney corner of a cottage in Avignon, a man sat one day

watching the smoke as it rose in changing clouds from the smouldering

embers to the sooty cavern above, and if those who did not know him had

supposed from his attitude that he was a most idle person, they would

have been very far from the truth.

It was in the days when the combined fleets of Europe were thundering

with cannon on the rocky walls of Gibraltar, in the hope of driving the

English out, and, the long effort having proved in vain, Joseph

Montgolfier, of whom we have spoken, fell to wondering, as he sat by the

fire, how the great task could be accomplished.

'If the soldiers and sailors could only fly,' he thought, 'there would

be no difficulty.' He looked at a picture of the Rock lying on the table

beside him, and saw many places on its summit very suitable for such

flying foes to settle on. 'But, ah! who could give them wings?' He

turned to the fireplace, and his eyes fell once more on the column of

smoke, silently, silently rising; and yet not so silently as the world

might think, for though he had not yet quite understood its meaning,

Joseph Montgolfier had been striving for some time past to learn the

lesson which he felt sure it was to teach him at last. And to-day the

secret came out. Thoughts so active as his did not take long to get from

Gibraltar back to the smoke, and they had not been there many minutes

when Montgolfier jumped from his seat, and, throwing open the door of

the room, called to his landlady. A great idea had occurred to him, and,

to carry it out, he required some light, silky material, called taffeta.

This the good landlady quickly supplied, and when she entered the room

some time later, she found her lodger holding the taffeta, which he had

formed into a bag, over the fire. As the smoke filled it, it certainly

showed an inclination to rise, but once out of reach of the warmest glow

it toppled over and collapsed on the floor.

The landlady watched the experiments for some time in silence. Then,

with a little laugh, she said, 'Ah, M. Montgolfier, why do you not tie

the fire to the bag?'

The great inventor had not thought of that; but he did not require to be

told twice, and obtaining a little bunch of some inflammable material,

he tied it under his bag and set it on fire. The smoke and heat inflated

the tiny balloon, and it rose at once to the ceiling. A few minutes

later the inventor called for pen and ink, and wrote the following

letter:

'Prepare without delay a supply of taffeta and cordage, and you shall

see one of the most astonishing things in the world.'

This hasty note was addressed to M. Stephen Montgolfier at Annonay, near

Lyons, and never was a request made that was more likely to be carefully

and promptly granted. Stephen Montgolfier, like his brother, had busy

thoughts concerning means for rising in the air, and when Joseph

returned from Avignon, they set to work with stronger hope of realising

their dreams. As they were the largest and best paper-makers in Annonay,

they did not lack material for carrying on experiments, and when these

experiments had repeatedly resulted in success, they decided that the

rest of the world should be admitted into their secret. A large balloon,

made of paper and taffeta, should be inflated in the public square, and

be allowed to rise before the eyes of any who might gather there to see

it. And they carried out this determination on June 5th, 1783. On that

day there assembled at Annonay a number of local celebrities, and no

better opportunity could have been chosen.

In the public square a large circular space was railed off to keep the

crowd at a proper distance, and in the centre of this space rose a

wooden platform to accommodate the new cloud-ship and the fire which was

to fill it with the power of flight. Never had the brothers Montgolfier

had a busier morning; never had the good people of Annonay seen such

excitement in their quiet village. The crowd had gathered from far and

near, and watched the busy workers round the mysterious platform with

widely different thoughts. Some were silent with expectation, some

jeered noisily; but, unconscious of praise or laughter, the two brothers

directed their little band of workmen, confident of coming triumph.

At last the specially invited guests had all arrived, and when they were

accommodated with seats, one of the brothers made a little speech of

explanation, ending with the remark that he would apply a torch to the

heap of chopped straw and wool beneath the platform. The smoke arising

from these different kinds of fuel formed, when combined, he said, the

most suitable gas for raising a substance into the air. These diligent

brothers, however, had only partly learned the truth as yet, or they

would have known that it was the _heat_, and not the _smoke_, which

lifted the paper bag.

The torch was put to the straw, the yellow flames leapt up, and the

smoke, passing through a hole in the platform, entered the open end of

the globe-shaped bag, which up to the present had, of course, been lying

flat and empty. Instantly a paper dome seemed to rise from the platform.

This continued to grow in size, while the workmen stood round in a ring,

each holding a rope which passed to the top of the dome. The ropes grew

longer and longer as the balloon filled, and it soon became hard work to

hold them. But on no account were the men to let go until the word was

given.

When at last the paper walls were extended to their uttermost size, the

wondering spectators saw a huge ball of some one hundred and ten feet in

circumference, swaying uneasily to and fro with every breath of air, as

though straining at its fetters. At last came the word. The ropes were

released, and the great body rose rapidly into the air, followed by a

thunder of applause. With straining eyes the crowd followed that

wondrous flight. Higher and higher, nearer and nearer to the clouds,

till what a few moments before was so very imposing in size seemed no

bigger than a child's plaything. Then, caught in a current of air, it

drifted out of sight for ever.

Such was the launching of the first ship in the new navigation of the

clouds. On the place from which it started a handsome monument has been

erected, bearing the names of the two builders--Joseph and Stephen

Montgolfier--the brothers who always worked together, sharing equally

the fame that their discovery brought, and never selfishly seeking for

self-advancement. Recent searchings seem to show that the principal

honour is due to Joseph, the elder, and, if one of the many stories told

in detail (and repeated at the beginning of this article) may be relied

upon, surely we ought to also remember with some praise the unknown

woman who let lodgings in Avignon.

JOHN LEA.

THE WAY TO WIN.

'I wish I could win one!' a lassie was sighing,

When sitting quite still in a meadow one day,

And thinking of prizes not won without trying--

Not won by mere wishing as time slips away.

And as she sat wishing she heard a hen clucking;

She lifted her eyes and that hen she could see,

And soon it was rapidly scratching and chucking--

As gay and as busy and glad as could be.

She watched how it struggled to upturn a treasure,

A thing it was wishing for, something to eat,

A worm to be dug for with patience and pleasure!

'Twas found, and it gave Henny-Penny a treat!

That worm the hen wished for she could not have eaten

Unless she had scratched it right up from the ground;

And Mabel had seen that the hen was not beaten--

By carefully _working_ the prize had been found.

So Mabel thought quietly over the matter,

And learnt the good lesson, 'No prize can be won

By thinking and wishing, by waiting and chatter!'

And soon she jumped up and to work she begun.

D. H.

FREED IN VAIN.

Prince, the parrot, was a proud and happy bird; he was proud of his

gorgeous red and green feathers, of his ability to say 'Pretty Poll' and

'How do?' and, above all, of his fine gilded cage, which stood just

inside the breakfast-room window.

But, in an evil hour, Prince, watching the birds which flew to and fro

outside the glass, was struck with a desire for freedom. He thought no

more of his splendid feathers, or his handsome cage; but, from morning

till night, he wondered how he should get out. There was not wit enough

in his parrot brain to make him understand that the cold English garden

was not in the least like the flowery forest of his native island.

His chance came one snowy morning; the French window had been opened,

after breakfast, that some one might go out and scatter crumbs for the

robins. The cage-door happened to be open too. Unobserved, Prince darted

swiftly out, and perched amid the leafless boughs of one of the high

trees on the lawn.

He was free! but, oh, how cold it was! How wretched he was already

beginning to feel! He crouched shivering on a bough; and when the snow

began to fall again in large, wet flakes, he was more miserable than he

had ever been in all his petted life.

Paralysed with cold and fear, he clung to the tree, too unhappy even to

cry out and let people know where he was.

[Illustration: "Paralysed with fear, he clung to the bough."]

Poor Prince! he must soon have died if some one had not noticed the

empty cage. The alarm was given at once, but it was some time before the

bird was seen on his lofty perch.

When they did see him, and everybody called and coaxed 'Poor Prince!

dear Prince!' to come down, he was too stupefied with cold and misery to

do as he was told.

At last Tom, the page-boy, volunteered to climb the tree and try to

reach Prince. It was rather a dangerous task, as the bark was slippery

from the frost and snow; but Tom persevered, and, by dint of much

effort, got hold of the parrot.

Prince was restored to his cage, but he had caught a bad cold, and never

again held up his head as jauntily, or seemed as proud of himself, as he

had done in former days.

C. J. BLAKE.

A KINDLY VISIT.

Willie Mortimer was a cripple, but he did not often complain of his lot,

nor, as a rule, did he feel very unhappy about it. His love for drawing

and painting was such a resource to him, that when he could hobble on

his crutches down to the shore, he was never tired of watching the sea

and the boats, and of trying to make sketches which he could work up

into pictures at home, as he sat in the window of the little cottage.

But it was a year since the accident which had made the amputation of

his leg a necessity, and for the first time Willie's cheerfulness was

beginning to forsake him. He could not help noticing how worn and

anxious his mother looked, and he knew how hard it was for her to earn

enough money, by her plain sewing, to keep up the little house. Until

the previous summer she had let lodgings, but she could not manage it

when she was nursing Willie, and waiting on him after he left the

hospital, and this year no people had applied for her rooms yet.

One of her former lodgers had been an artist, and it was he who, being

struck with Willie's talent, had given him instruction, and taught him

all he knew about art. But the boy was now thirsting for more knowledge.

If only he could be trained to be an artist! That was his dream, and

often he would sit at his little window, looking over the blue waters

of the bay, while his eyes would fill with tears as he thought how

impossible it was for a little ignorant boy to paint pictures which

would have any beauty.

His pathetic face attracted Dora and Elsie Vaughan as they passed the

cottage every day. They were having a perfectly lovely time in this

Devonshire village, where their father had taken a house for the summer

holidays. Mr. Vaughan was a celebrated artist, and Willie would watch

him eagerly as he passed with his canvas and sketching materials, and

would long for a sight of the pictures which would soon be so famous.

'That poor little cripple boy does look sad,' Dora said to her sister.

'I think we ought to go and visit him and take him some flowers.'

'But he is not always a prisoner,' Elsie answered. 'I see him on the

beach sometimes with his crutches, and he is often trying to sketch

boats and things.'

[Illustration: "He could hardly find words to welcome them."]

'Anyway it must be dull for him, and we might cheer him up a little,'

Dora persisted.

'It is rather tiresome, though, when there are such heaps of lovely

things to do, and the holidays do fly so quickly,' Elsie argued, for she

was not as unselfish as her sister, and did not much care to give up her

own pleasure.

However, Dora had her way, for Elsie knew from former experience that if

she were really set on a thing, it saved trouble to give in at once and

make the best of it. She even found a box of chocolates not quite

empty, and with the sweets that were left, and some of Dora's, was able

to fill a smaller box. Then they begged some cakes from the cook, and

hunted up a couple of story-books from the number they had brought with

them, and in the end had quite a well-filled basket for Elsie to carry.

Dora picked a bunch of roses and then they set out for the cottage.

When they arrived Willie was sitting before his easel, looking sadly at

his latest attempt at a picture, and thinking how poor it was compared

with the scene his imagination painted. He was so shy and so much

overcome by the honour of their visit that he could hardly find words to

welcome them, but the girls' exclamations of delight when they saw his

picture soon set him at ease.

'How lovely!' Dora cried. 'Did you really paint it yourself?'

'I have watched you sketching on the beach, but I never thought you were

so clever,' Elsie told him, and Willie blushed with pleasure at their

praise.

Then he opened the box on which his painting materials stood, and showed

them all the pictures and sketches he had done in the past year.

'You see, Miss,' he said to Dora, 'now I cannot get about much, it

passes the time; but I do wish I had somebody to tell me all the faults

in them, and help me to do better.'

'We must bring Father to see them; he will not be backward about

pointing out faults,' said Elsie, laughing, 'though I cannot find any

myself.'

'But Mr. Vaughan is such a great artist, he would never look at my poor

little pictures,' Willie said, flushing at the very thought.

'He may be a great artist, but he is a very kind father,' Elsie told

him, 'and he nearly always does what we ask him.'

Certainly he did not disappoint his daughters this time. Moreover, he

was amazed at the progress the boy had made with so little help, and saw

that he was worth training.

'Your son has great natural talent,' he said to Willie's mother. 'I am

even inclined to think he may be a genius. You must allow me to make it

easy for him to be trained in the best schools.'

And so poor crippled Willie, instead of being a burden to his mother,

became her pride and joy, beginning a career which was one day to make

him even more famous than the artist who had given him a helping hand.

M. H.

THE BOY TRAMP.

CHAPTER I.

The first time I saw Captain Knowlton, we were living in lodgings at

Acacia Road, Saint John's Wood. My Aunt Marion had breakfasted in bed,

and I, having nothing better to do, wandered downstairs to what our

landlady called the 'hall,' where I stood watching Jane as she dipped a

piece of flannel into her pail, and smacked it down noisily on to the

oilcloth, until there was a loud ringing of the street-door bell.

As Jane rose from her knees, rubbing her red hands on her apron, I edged

along the passage, keeping touch of the wall, and staring unabashed at

the tall, well-dressed, distinguished-looking visitor.

'Does Miss Everard live here?' he inquired.

'Yes, sir,' answered Jane.

'I should like to see her.'

'Master Jack!' cried Jane, 'do you know if your aunt has come down yet?'

But as I was on the point of running upstairs to find out, the visitor

called me back.

'Half a second,' he said. 'Are you young Everard?'

'Yes,' I replied; and fixing an eyeglass in his left eye, he looked at

me with considerable curiosity.

'Tell your aunt,' he continued, 'that Captain Knowlton wishes to see

her.'

And upon that I ran off, shouting, 'Aunt Marion! Aunt Marion!' at the

top of my voice. 'Aunt Marion,' I repeated, entering the sitting-room,

'Captain Knowlton is downstairs, and he wants to speak to you.'

'Captain Knowlton!' she murmured.

'Shall I bring him up?' I asked.

Rising from the sofa, and laying down the newspaper which she had been

reading, Aunt Marion walked towards the door. She must have been near

her thirty-fifth year at that time, about the same age as our visitor.

She was tall, fair, and nice-looking, good-tempered, and perhaps a

little careless. That morning she was wearing a light blue

dressing-gown, although it was past eleven o'clock.

'Yes, bring Captain Knowlton up,' she answered, 'and ask him to wait a

few minutes.'

As she went to the bedroom, I returned to the street door, where Captain

Knowlton stood gazing at Jane as she continued to smack the oilcloth

with her wet flannel.

'You are to come upstairs,' I cried, and following me to the

sitting-room, he sat down and began to stare afresh.

'So you are poor Frank Everard's boy!' he said.

'Did you know my father?' I demanded, for I had no recollection of

either parent, or of any relative with the exception of Aunt Marion,

under whose charge I had moved about from lodging-house to lodging-house

since I was four years of age.

'Well,' said Captain Knowlton, 'if I had not known him, I should not be

here to-day.'

He became silent for a few moments, and then added, as he took my hand

and drew me against his knee, 'Your father once saved my life, Jack. How

old are you?' he asked.

'Eleven next month,' I replied, and, somewhat to my disappointment, Aunt

Marion entered the room as I spoke, wearing the dress in which she went

to church on Sundays.

'I have often heard of you, Captain Knowlton,' she said, as he rose from

his chair, 'although I have never seen you before.'

'Oh, well,' he answered, 'I have been in India the last five years! I

came home last week, and from a few words I heard at the club, I

gathered that poor Frank Everard's boy----'

Aunt Marion's cheeks flushed, and she held her head a little further

back.

'I have done the best I could for him,' she exclaimed.

'I am certain of that,' he continued; 'but, anyhow, I made inquiries,

and, after some difficulty, succeeded in discovering your address.

Perhaps,' he added, glancing in my direction, 'you would not mind

sparing me a few minutes alone.'

To my great disgust, she told me to run away, so that I returned to the

damp passage, which was now deserted by Jane. After waiting there what

seemed a long time, I saw Captain Knowlton on the stairs. After bidding

me good-bye, he let himself out of the house.

'Aunt Marion!' I cried, before there was time to reach the sitting-room,

'he says that Father saved his life!'

'Well, Jack, he said what was quite true.'

'But,' I continued, 'why did Captain Knowlton call father "poor Frank

Everard?" Was he really poor?'

Aunt Marion sighed before she answered.

'Goodness knows, he ought not to have been,' she said. 'Your father had

a lot of money when he came of age, but he was foolish enough to spend

it all, and the consequence was that nothing remained for your mother,

or for you when she died.'

'Hasn't Captain Knowlton any money either?' I asked.

'He has lately come into a large fortune,' she said; and then she told

me that he had promised to come again at the same hour to-morrow

morning, and take me out with him.

Captain Knowlton seemed so satisfactory in every way that the mere

prospect of walking in the street by his side was enticing. I lay awake

that night a long time, wondering where he would take me.

When I awoke the next morning, Aunt Marion said I was to put on my best

clothes (which were nothing to boast of), and insisted on washing me

herself, putting a quantity of soap into my eyes, oiling my hair, and,

in short, doing her best in readiness for Captain Knowlton's arrival.

'Well, Jack, are you ready?' he asked, as he entered our room.

'Rather!' I answered.

'Have you got a handkerchief?' said Aunt Marion, and I drew it from my

jacket as proof.

'Come along, then,' cried Captain Knowlton, and I rejoiced to see that

he had kept his hansom at the door.

The first stoppage on that eventful morning was at the hair-dresser's,

where I sat in a high chair, enveloped in a loose cotton wrapper, while

Captain Knowlton smoked a cigarette and a man cut my hair, after which

we went to a tailor's, where I was measured for two suits of clothes.

Having visited a hatter's and a hosier's in turn, we entered a large

restaurant, sitting down one on each side of a small table, Captain

Knowlton leaning across it and reading the bill of fare aloud for my

benefit.

'I think I will have roast turkey,' I said, after prolonged consideration,

and I accordingly had it, with the accompaniment of sausage and bread

sauce, to say nothing of the sweets and the ice which followed. But

even what Captain Knowlton described as luncheon, and what I regarded as

a kind of king of dinners, was eclipsed by what came afterwards, for we

were driven to a theatre, where a comic opera was being played; and at

seven o'clock that evening a very tired and sleepy boy, with his right

hand tightly clenched on a half-sovereign in his jacket pocket, was

deposited on the steps of the house in Acacia Road.

During the next few weeks Captain Knowlton was a frequent visitor,

while, for my own part, I wished that he would come every day. One

afternoon he arrived in the rain and stayed to tea.

'Now, Jack,' he said, setting down his empty cup, 'I should like to hear

you read.'

But as I was bringing one of our small collection of books from the

sideboard, he called me away.

'No, none of that,' he cried, with a laugh; 'something you have never

seen before. Try the newspaper.'

Although I appeared to win approval by my reading of the extremely

uninteresting leading article, he shook his head at the sight of my

handwriting, whilst he seemed to be astounded by my total ignorance of

Latin and French.

'The fact is,' he said, 'it is high time you went to boarding-school!'

Before he left the house that afternoon he had another private

conversation with Aunt Marion, and a week or two later he arrived with

the announcement that 'everything had been arranged.'

'Windlesham has been very strongly recommended to me,' he explained.

'The Reverend Matthew Windlesham, to give him his full title.'

'Has he a living?' inquired Aunt Marion.

'No, but he has a capital house, with a large garden and a meadow, at a

place called Castlemore.'

'Where is that?'

'About a hundred miles from London. Windlesham has a wife and five

daughters, and at present there are only six or seven pupils. As Jack is

rather backward, it will suit him better than a larger school.'

So everything was decided, and I fancy that Aunt Marion looked forward

to my departure with a satisfaction equal to my own--it could scarcely

have been greater. Boys and girls were at that time an unknown quantity

to us, as were most of their sports and pastimes.

It was true that there were scarcely enough of us at Ascot House for

football or cricket; nevertheless we did our best in the meadow at the

bottom of the garden, our scanty numbers being eked out by Mr. and Mrs.

Windlesham's five girls. They were nice, kind people, and, when the

first shyness had worn off, I settled down happily at Castlemore. During

the next three uneventful years I received occasional visits from

Captain Knowlton, while I grew greatly in stature, and, it is to be

hoped, in knowledge.

The holidays were, for the most part, spent with Aunt Marion, sometimes

in boarding-houses at the seaside, sometimes in London, and I had no

anticipation of troubles ahead until shortly after I passed my

fourteenth birthday.

(_Continued on page 12._)

[Illustration: "'Does Miss Everard live here?' he inquired."]

[Illustration: "His grandfather lay gagged and bound on the floor."]

THE CASTLE LIGHT.

'I wish you would tell me, Grandfather, how it was you first thought of

building a lighthouse tower.'

'Well, Conrad, if you _will_ know, you shall hear the story,' and Sir

Matthew Cairns, as he said these words, looked kindly down into the

bright young face uplifted to his own.

'It was twenty years ago that the thought first came to me that Cairns

Castle might serve as a beacon to those far out at sea. The reason for

this was that on a certain winter's night a vessel was wrecked on these

shores, solely on account of there being no light to warn her of her

peril. More than a hundred souls went to their doom, to the joy, it is

said, of the wreckers, who made a fine harvest on the coast at

daybreak.'

'Oh, Grandfather,' Conrad said with a shudder, 'how awful! Surely we

have no such people about now?'

His grandfather sighed, and, to turn the subject, proceeded to explain

to the little lad his method of lighting the lamp.

Cairns Castle was an ancient building which overlooked the sea, its

isolated position rendering it a very lonely dwelling-place. Sir

Matthew, its present possessor, though by no means a wealthy man, had

spent a considerable sum of money in adding a lighthouse tower to the

castle. From the window-panes shone forth a gleam so clear and

brilliant, that many a gallant seaman was guided safely home thereby.

'Let me light the lamp to-night, Grandfather,' said Conrad, after

listening intently to all Sir Matthew's instructions. 'Perhaps it will

guide Father and Mother on their way home from India.'

'Aye, laddie, perhaps it will; the good ship _Benares_ should be nearing

our coast by this time,' was the reply.

'Then may I, Grandfather?' said Conrad.

'Yes, my boy, and I will look on to see that you do it properly.'

Ah! little did Sir Matthew think, as he said these words, of the

incidents which would take place, ere the castle light should next fling

its friendly rays across the sea.

* * * * *

The November afternoon was creeping on apace, and Sir Matthew, absorbed

in thought, drew long whiffs from his pipe, as he sat over the

dining-room fire. The wind was wild and stormy, and dashed against the

window-pane with angry force.

Conrad, who was busy preparing his lessons for his tutor next morning,

looked up anxiously. But the words he was about to say were checked by

the entrance of a rough-looking man of the fisher type.

It was William Forrest, or Black Bill as he was called by his

neighbours, partly on account of his swarthy appearance, and partly

because of his evil deeds.

The baronet rose in surprise, wondering at his entering the room

unannounced.

'Good evening, Forrest,' he said.

'Evening, master,' was the sullen reply; 'I have come on business, and I

want to see you alone.'

Sir Matthew bade Conrad take his lessons into the library, whilst he

spoke to his visitor. The boy obeyed, unwillingly enough, for

instinctively he felt that Black Bill meant no good to his dearly loved

grandfather.

Somehow he could not give his mind to his lessons, and at length,

thinking the interview must be ended, he returned to the dining-room.

The sight which there met his eyes made his heart stand still with

terror and alarm. His grandfather lay gagged and bound upon the floor.

It was the work of a few moments to remove the gag, and when Sir Matthew

could find voice, he told the story of his attack.

Black Bill, who was in reality a wrecker, for some evil reason of his

own, had endeavoured to extract from the baronet a promise not to light

the lamp that night. Upon Sir Matthew's indignant refusal, he, with the

aid of two colleagues who were waiting near, had next proceeded to

render him helpless. They had already gagged and bound the three old

servants of the castle. So massive were the walls and lengthy the

passages that not a sound had reached Conrad's ears; and the men had

apparently forgotten his presence in the castle.

The boy, in terrible distress of mind, tried to unloose the cords which

bound his grandfather hand and foot.

'Never mind the cords, Conrad,' said the old man at last, 'they are more

than you can manage. Go and light the lamp, for it is already past the

hour, and may Heaven protect you.'

Conrad, sick at heart, turned to obey.

'I will do it, Grandfather,' he replied, looking fearfully around lest

Black Bill and his colleagues should be listening. 'Then I will come

back and help you,' he added bravely.

With light, fleet footsteps, the little ten-year-old laddie made his way

along the passage, towards the staircase. Presently sounds fell on his

ears which sent all the colour from his face. Black Bill and his

comrades were talking together in a room close by, the door of which was

open; and to reach the lighthouse staircase he must pass that very room.

For a few minutes he crouched in shadow, too panic-stricken to move. He

thought of his promise to his grandfather and of the homeward-bound

_Benares_ battling with wind and wave; then like an inspiration came the

thought of Him Who stilled the waters of Galilee, and Who at this moment

was watching over him.

The lad hesitated no more. On he sped past the open door, towards his

goal. But, alas! Black Bill had noted his light footsteps.

'Stop, boy!' he shouted, 'or it will be the worse for you.'

But never once paused Conrad.

Then the men gave chase, and despair filled the brave young heart.

Mercifully in the darkness the men took a wrong turn, and the boy

mounted quickly up, up, up, until he was safe in the shelter of the

lighthouse tower.

It took him but a few seconds to turn the key in the lock, and to slip

the heavy bolts. Then he was safe from his pursuers.

Meanwhile the good ship _Benares_ was tossing on the angry sea, out of

its course and in sore peril, with no castle light to guide it home.

Then, almost at the moment of its extremity, shot forth a brilliant

gleam, and the gallant vessel was saved--saved by a little lad's courage

and daring.

Black Bill, after hammering vainly at the door, at length turned away,

muttering threats of vengeance.

An hour crept by on leaden wings, and at last, to Conrad's joy, he heard

his grandfather's voice calling him by name. In a very short space of

time they were face to face, and Conrad heard how that one man, more

tender-hearted than the rest, had secretly returned to the castle (after

Black Bill's departure) and freed Sir Matthew from his bonds.

* * * * *

Cairns Castle is now falling into decay, and its light no longer exists.

But on the coast near by stands a magnificent lighthouse, which sends

forth its life-saving gleam across the sea. Conrad has left boyhood far

behind him, and has now little lads and lasses of his own. Many are the

stories which their parents have to tell of the once stately home of the

Cairns family, but the story the children like best to hear is how

Father lit the Castle Light.

M. I. HURRELL.

THE INDIAN CHIEF AND THE BISHOP.

Bishop Whipple, who did so much work among the Indians of North America,

tells how a great Indian chief became a Christian. 'One day,' he writes,

'the chief came to see me, and said that he wished to be a Christian;

that he knew he must die some day, but he had been told of the new life

into which Christians entered after death, and that he also would like

to enter that life.'

'Shall I cut your hair?' asked the Bishop.

This strange question was understood perfectly well by the chief. It

meant that he must cut off the bad old habit of going on the war-path.

'No, I cannot allow you to cut my hair,' he answered, reluctantly, for

he was not ready to give up going on the war-path.

'Well, you cannot become a Christian unless you cut your hair,' said the

Bishop, sorrowfully.

The chief went away, but he still attended the services which the Bishop

held, and after some months came again to the Bishop.

'I want to be sure of that life after death,' he said. 'Please make me a

Christian.'

'Shall I cut your hair?' asked the Bishop again.

'Yes; do whatever you like with me so long as you make me a Christian,'

answered the chief.

Thus the chief eventually became a Christian, and many of his tribe

followed his example.

THE NAUGHTY KITTENS.

'Look at old Puss,' the Kittens said,

'He's fast asleep, he nods his head;

How dull and stupid it must be

To be as slow and old as he!

He lies and sleeps there in the sun,

And does not try to play or run;

Creep up and gives him just a pat--

He ought to run, he gets so fat!'

But Puss awoke. 'Hullo,' said he,

'You think to play your tricks on me?

I know I'm old, I'm glad I'm fat--

My dear, kind mistress sees to that;

I scare the birds while lying here--

They dare not come when I am near,

To steal my mistress's nice fruit;

My time to some good use is put.

'But you! what have you done to-day,

Except to romp and run and play?'

The Kittens, looking quite subdued,

Said, 'We are sorry we were rude.'

'Well then, this time I let you go,'

Old Puss replied, 'for now you know

That older folk are wiser far

Than silly little kittens are.'

With this remark Puss walked away

And left the Kittens to their play.

I'm glad to say they ne'er forgot

The lesson that they had been taught,

And from that day tried hard to be

From naughty, idle ways quite free;

In fact they now behave so well

That I have nothing more to tell.

C. D. B.

THE BEST LESSON.

A good man once had a serious illness, during which his life was several

times despaired of. On his becoming convalescent, a friend said to him,

'It will be a long time before you are able to collect your thoughts to

preach again, or to think of material for your sermons.'

'You are mistaken, friend,' was the answer. 'This illness has taught me

more than all the books and learning I have studied in the whole of my

life before.'

He had been not far from death, and had learnt more fully than any books

could teach him, that there is something greater than mere human wisdom.

A MONKEY'S MEMORY.

A French lady on one occasion saw an organ-grinder ill-treating his

monkey. She was moved with pity, and bought it. It became her chief pet,

and used to follow her about everywhere. Once she invited a party of

guests to a concert. The monkey was allowed to watch; but instead of

staying where she had put it, it took the hat of one of the guests, and

made a collection, much to the delight of the audience, and then emptied

the contents into the player's lap. It had not forgotten its old

habits.

[Illustration: A Monkey's Memory.]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 7._)

CHAPTER II.

'Jack,' said Captain Knowlton, who had come to see me at Castlemore for

a few hours, 'I have brought some news. Your aunt is going to be

married.'

'Aunt Marion?' I cried.

'You haven't another aunt, have you?' he asked.

'No, of course not,' I answered; 'but I thought she was too old.'

'Anyhow,' he said, 'she is going to marry Major Ruston, and in about a

month I shall come to fetch you to the wedding.'

'But,' I asked, 'what shall I do in the holidays?'

'We must manage as best we can,' he answered. 'You understand that I

have taken you entirely off her hands. In the future you must look to

me. Will you object to that?'

'I shall like it immensely,' I said; and the following morning Mrs.

Windlesham helped me to compose a suitable letter of congratulation to

Aunt Marion.

In due course Captain Knowlton came, according to his promise, to take

me to the wedding, and we were driven direct from the London terminus to

his own rooms in the Albany, where I made the acquaintance of Rogers,

his servant, a pleasant-looking man, about twenty-seven years of age,

who seemed always to wear a blue serge suit. Rogers took me to the

Hippodrome that evening, and the next afternoon to a house at South

Kensington, where I found Aunt Marion looking younger and more smartly

dressed than I had ever seen her before.

'Did Captain Knowlton tell you the news?' she asked, when I had sat by

her side for a few moments.

'I _was_ surprised!' I exclaimed.

'I am sure I don't know why,' she answered, with a peculiar kind of

laugh.

'Is Major Ruston here?' I asked.

'No,' she said; 'you won't see him until Captain Knowlton brings you to

the church to-morrow. It is to be a very quiet wedding, and we shall

start for India the next day.'

When Rogers returned to fetch me an hour later, Aunt Marion put her arms

around my neck and kissed me a great many times, telling me to be good,

and try in every way to please Captain Knowlton--advice which I

considered very unnecessary.

After the wedding ceremony the following day, we went to an hotel, where

the four of us had luncheon, and, later on, Captain Knowlton stood on

the pavement without his hat, and took a white satin slipper from his

pocket, throwing it after the carriage as Major and Mrs. Ruston were

driven away.

[Illustration: "I shook hands with the three in turn."]

'I don't think much of Major Ruston,' I remarked as I walked to the

Albany with Captain Knowlton.

'What is the matter with him?'

'He is too fat, and his face is too red,' I answered, whereupon he

laughed.

After Rogers had cleared the table that evening, and brought two cups of

coffee, and Captain Knowlton had lighted a cigar, 'Jack,' he said, 'how

old are you by this time?'

'Turned fourteen,' I replied.

'Ah, a grand age, isn't it?' he exclaimed. 'I was talking about you to

Windlesham. He gave you a pretty good character on the whole.'

'I am glad of that,' I said, for although I had never thought much about

my character hitherto, it seemed desirable to possess a good one, if

only to please Captain Knowlton.

'A bit mischievous,' he continued, 'and rather headstrong. Inclined to

act too much on the impulse of the moment. It is time you set to work in

earnest, you know, Jack. You will have to look sharp if you wish to go

to Sandhurst.'

'That is just what I should like!' I cried, with a great deal of

excitement.

'That is all right then. You are quite old enough to understand things.

I feel certain your father would have liked you to enter the army. Now,'

he added, 'I am afraid you will have to spend the next holidays at

Castlemore. I have one or two engagements which cannot very well be put

off, and unfortunately there is nobody in the world who can be said to

belong to you.'

I looked up abruptly.

'Well?' he asked.

'Oh--nothing!' I muttered.

'Come, out with it, Jack!'

'There is you,' I said; and he leaned forward, resting a hand on my

knee.

'Quite right,' he answered. 'I want you to feel you have me. Understand,

Jack?'

'Yes,' I cried, and suddenly I seemed to realise what a bad thing it

would be if I had not Captain Knowlton to depend upon.

The next day I returned to Ascot House, naturally disappointed at the

prospect of spending the holiday at school. The other fellows all went

home at the end of March, and about a week later I was surprised when

Elsie Windlesham, the eldest of the five girls, told me that Captain

Knowlton was waiting in the drawing-room. But my satisfaction faded when

he explained that he was going abroad for some months, and that he had

come to say good-bye. 'The fact is I have not been up to the mark,' he

continued, 'so I have bought a small steam yacht.'

'What is her name?' I interrupted.

'The _Seagull_--a jolly little craft, and I hope to make a voyage round

the world in her. I shall get back again before the summer holidays, and

then we will have a good time together. I have had a chat with Mr.

Windlesham,' said Captain Knowlton, 'and told him to keep you well

supplied with pocket-money and so forth. You will be a good chap,' he

added, 'and work hard for Sandhurst.'

As he would probably be absent on my fifteenth birthday, he had brought

a silver watch and chain, which certainly went some way towards

consoling me for his departure. So I said good-bye to Captain Knowlton,

little dreaming of what was destined to occur to both of us in the near

future.

For now events began to happen quickly one on the top of another, and it

was less than a fortnight after Captain Knowlton's departure that Elsie

told me, as a great secret, that her father had been offered a lucrative

living in the north of England.

'But,' I asked, 'how about the school?'

'That is why he has gone to London to-day,' she explained. 'He wants to

sell the school before next term begins, and he has heard of somebody

who will very likely buy it.'

A few days later, Mr. Turton appeared on the scene, accompanied by his

wife and his only son, Augustus. Mr. Turton was not a clergyman,

although he dressed a little like one; he was short, rather stout, with

a pale face and an untidy dark beard. But his wife was tall and lean,

and her face looked gaunt and pinched, while, as for Augustus, it was

difficult to judge whether he ought to be described as a boy or a man.

Taller than Mr. Turton, he had a long, thin face like his mother's, and

a growth of fair down upon his chin. With a boy's jacket he wore a very

high stand-up collar, while his hair sadly needed cutting.

I shook hands with the three in turn, and as I tried to think of

something to say to the painfully bashful Augustus, I overheard a remark

of Mr. Windlesham's which led me to believe I was being spoken of as an

important source of revenue.

The result of Mr. Turton's visit was that the holidays were lengthened

for eight days, to allow the Windleshams to move away and their

successors to take possession of Ascot House. I learnt from Elsie that

the furniture had been bought as it stood, and that Mr. Bosanquet--the

assistant master, and a thoroughly good fellow--was to stay on for one

term, after which Augustus would take his place.

'I have felt a little at a loss,' said Mr. Windlesham, the day before

his departure. 'All the other boys are returning, but in your case I

have been compelled to take Captain Knowlton's approval for granted.

However, I have explained all the circumstances to Mr. Turton, and I

have no doubt you will be very happy and comfortable.'

Still, I had certain doubts, and, in fact, after I had reluctantly said

good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Windlesham, and to Elsie and her sisters, and

the fellows came back from the holidays, a change was at once

perceptible. Perhaps, in some ways, an impartial observer might have

regarded it as a change for the better. Everything was conducted in a

far more orderly manner. We rose an hour earlier in the morning, and

went to bed half an hour earlier at night. We had the same kind of meat

every week-day in regular rotation, and less of it; our bread was cut

thicker, and spread with less butter; we were no longer permitted to

wander about the small town at our own sweet wills.

It became necessary to ask leave before we spent any money, and although

Augustus shared for the present our lessons with Mr. Bosanquet, he acted

as a kind of tyrannical overseer during the rest of the day.

One morning in June, about two months after Captain Knowlton's departure

from England, I was summoned to Mr. Turton's study, and I found him with

a more than usually grave face.

'Everard,' he said, 'you must be prepared for the most serious news.'

'Not about Captain Knowlton?' I cried, for it seemed that there was

really no one else in the world for whom I very much cared.

'What was the name of his vessel?' asked Mr. Turton.

'The _Seagull_. You don't mean that she has been wrecked?' I faltered.

'Unfortunately, that is the fact,' was the answer.

Turning aside, I leaned against the door with my face buried in my

sleeve.

Mr. Turton spoke kindly, as did Mrs. Turton in her rather cold,

unsympathetic way; but nothing that any one could say made the slightest

difference. I felt that I had lost my best and, indeed, my only friend.

(_Continued on page 22._)

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

I.--IN THE PILLORY.

One summer's day in the year 1805, a farmer's wife, carrying a heavy

basket of eggs, was slowly trudging along a lane leading to the market

town, when a woman ran hastily to her, calling out as she passed, 'You

are in luck to-day, Mrs. Hodge! Eggs are so scarce that you can ask any

price you like.'

'Why is that?' asked Mrs. Hodge, surprised.

'Why?' laughed the woman. 'Because every one wants them! A man has just

been put in the pillory for speaking against the King, or the

Parliament, I don't rightly know which; but at any rate he is safe in

the pillory, and folk are having rare fun pelting him,' and the woman

passed on to join in what she called 'the fun!'

Mrs. Hodge, however, was a woman of a different sort. 'I will sell none

of my eggs for such cruel work as that,' she said resolutely. 'Sooner,

by far, would I take the whole lot back unsold, that I would, than

ill-treat an unfortunate man in that way.'

She had now reached the market-place, and there, on a platform raised

several feet above the ground, stood a wide wooden post, with three

round holes in it, through which appeared a man's head and his two

hands. Thus imprisoned and utterly unable to protect himself in any way,

he furnished sport for a thoughtless, cruel mob, who were aiming at him

with rotten eggs, cabbage-stalks, and any rubbish that came to hand.

Mrs. Hodge's blood boiled with indignation as she saw the terror and

agony in the poor man's eyes, as missile after missile hit him, each hit

being greeted with a shout of delight from the populace.

'Shame on you!' cried the honest woman, and hastily leaving her basket

at a shop-door, she somehow pushed her way through the masses, and

climbing the platform, stood right in front of the pillory. 'Shame on

you all, to hit a helpless man!' she cried again.

'Get down! get down!' shouted the mob, furious at any one interfering

with their fun. 'Get down, or we will treat you the same!'

'More shame to you,' said the dauntless woman. 'I shall not leave for

all your threats! Surely there will be one amongst you all who will not

see a helpless man tortured.'

'But he is a bad man. He was trying to set folk against the Government.

He deserves to be punished!' was shouted by different voices in the

crowd.

'If he has done wrong he is being punished for it,' said the woman

firmly, still continuing to shelter the man by standing before him. 'It

is bad enough for him to stand all day in the pillory under this

broiling sun, without having his eyes blinded and his nose broken. We

shall all, maybe, want a friend one day, so let us help this poor fellow

now. Here, Ralph,' she continued, catching the eye of the chief leader

of the rioting, 'you said, when I saved you from bleeding to death in

the hay-field last summer, that you owed me a good turn. Pay it me now!

Leave this poor fellow alone, and get your friends to do the same.'

The man stood irresolute one minute; then his feeling of gratitude

conquered him, and he said, half-sheepishly, 'Have your own way, Mother!

I will see that no one throws any more at him.'

'That is right, Ralph,' said Mrs. Hodge, heartily, for she knew that

Ralph's influence was great. 'Now for a pail of fresh water, and let me

see if I cannot get all this dirt off this poor fellow's face and hair.'

'Thank you, Missis, you have been real good to me,' the man said,

hoarsely. 'I could never have stood it much longer.'

The mob--fickle as mobs so often are--were now as ready to help as

before to injure, and instead of jeering and reviling, there were now

those who remarked that 'perhaps the chap was no worse than the rest of

us,' whilst others were glad they had been stopped in time, for only a

few weeks before a man had been killed, whilst standing in the pillory,

by those who were only 'amusing' themselves in much the same fashion as

folk on that day.

One of the crowd fetched water, and a woman brought a mug of milk, which

was sweet as nectar to the poor man's parched throat, and now, though he

had still many hours before sundown to stand in the pillory, yet it was

shorn of its chief terror, as Ralph undertook to shield him from all

further injury.

So he once more thanked Mrs. Hodge, and she returned to her eggs with a

mind at ease.

* * * * *

It may surprise our readers to know that the punishment of the pillory

remained on the Statute-book of this country until the year 1837, though

it had practically fallen into disuse for many years before it was

repealed.

The pillory came down to us from Anglo-Saxon times, and there was a law

passed in the reign of Henry III., ordering every village to set up a

pillory when required for bakers who used false weights, perjurers, and

so on.

CLARENDON.

[Illustration: "'Shame on you all, to hit a helpless man!'"]

[Illustration: A Countryman's Well-deserved Rebuke.]

NOTHING IS PERFECT.

An Italian artist had painted a little girl holding a basket of

strawberries. One of his friends, who was at the time a great admirer of

his genius, wishing to show the perfection of the picture, said to some

people who were looking at it, 'These strawberries are so very natural

and perfect, that I have seen birds coming down from the trees to peck

them, mistaking them for real strawberries.'

A countryman, on hearing this ridiculous praise, burst out laughing:

'Well, sir,' he cried, 'if the strawberries are so well represented as

you say they are, it must not be the same with the little girl, since

she does not frighten the birds.'

The painter's friend could answer nothing; he had received a

well-deserved rebuke for his flattery.

MORAL.--Excessive praise wrongs rather than benefits the person upon

whom it is bestowed.

W. YARWOOD.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

I.--ON CAVERNS IN GENERAL.

Long ago, in the dark ages of the world, when superstitious terrors

ruled the mind of savage man, caverns were looked upon with awe and

peopled with supernatural beings. The mysterious waters that issued from

some, the depth and length of the winding ways of others, the

unaccountable sounds that echoed through the vaults and galleries of

all, gave rise to wonderful legends in many parts of the world.

Beneath the Holy Peak of Kailas, supposed to be the centre of the Hindoo

Universe, are caverns in which, according to legend, live the four

sacred animals, the elephant, the lion, the cow, and the horse, from

whose mouths issue the four great rivers of India, the Ganges, Sutlej,

Indus, and Brahmapootra.

According to Scandinavian mythology, Loke, the incarnation of evil, was

for a long time bound to points of rock in a cavern, with a huge serpent

crouching above and spitting venom on the prisoner.

Hastrand, the nether world of the Vikings, was also depicted as a cavern

of colossal size, furnished with poisonous serpents and unlimited

sources of torture for mind and body.

The Greeks held caverns to be sacred to various gods--Pan, Bacchus,

Pluto, and the Moon. The Romans peopled them with Sibyls, or priestesses

of Fate, and beautiful nymphs; whilst in ancient Germany and Gaul,

fairies, dragons, and evil spirits shared the gloomy recesses which no

mortal might invade and live.

In the Middle Ages there were many legends of evil spirits dwelling in

caves, who beguiled human beings to their rocky homes, whence the

visitors never returned. Probably the truth of this particular fable

lay in the growing spirit of exploration into the recesses of Nature,

the dangers of which--ill provided with light, ropes, and modern means

of security as they were--must have been extreme.

About this era, too, the forests of Northern Europe were largely

thinned, and fairies, dwarfs, and such folk, it was thought, were

obliged to take refuge in caverns and grottoes. Within the last hundred

years a legend was common in the Hartz Mountains, that if a wedding

feast lacked copper or brass kettles, cooking-pans, or plates, the needs

would be supplied on invoking the dwarfs at the entry of their rocky

homes. No payment was asked for or expected, but a little meat left in

the pans on their return was appreciated and might lead to future

civilities.

Moorish children are still brought up to believe that Boabdil, the last

King of Granada, with his mighty host, is still sleeping in a huge

cavern, whence he will some day issue to a last great victory over the

Christians.

So far we have seen only the imaginative ideas of these great hollows of

the earth, for 'hollow' is the true meaning of the Latin word _cavea_,

from which cave or cavern is derived: now we will glance at the more

practical purposes to which the smaller and more superficial caves have

been adapted.

With the dawn of Christianity, many men and women, shocked at the

excesses of Greek and Roman civilisation, retired from the world and led

simple lives as hermits in remote caves. To this day, 'The Hermit's

Cave' is a common name in England, and, though it is not always a

genuine one, it usually denotes that in olden times some hermit or

'anchorite' passed his lonely existence in the spot in question.

Long before this era, in Hindoostan, advantage had been taken of natural

caverns to hew into shape the marvellous rock temples of Elephanta,

Ellora, and Ajunta, still accounted as amongst the wonders of the world.

In New Mexico and Arizona in remote ages whole tribes lived in caves,

some natural, but more often made habitable by the aid of masonry. Most

of these are high up on shelves edging precipitous cliffs, and were

clearly chosen as places of refuge from enemies of the plain.

All over Europe caves are found containing bones of human beings, most

of which are recognised by scientists to belong to an earlier race, who

made use of these homes provided by Nature, both for abiding-places

during life and resting-places for the dead. In many of these caves,

sketches on bone, horn, and ivory have been found, remarkable for their

clear and vigorous drawing at a time when art was an unknown quantity.

It is noticeable that drawings found amongst the Esquimaux relics depict

seals, whales, and walruses, whilst those of more southern races show

mammoths, wild horses, and bisons; the only animals drawn by both being

the reindeer.

Numerous caves in Britain, and indeed all over the world, contain bones

of animals, and from classifying these, learned folk have found out a

great deal respecting the geological and geographical changes which have

taken place on the crust of the earth since the Creation.

Now that we have thought of the terrors with which caverns inspired our

remote forefathers, as well as of the practical uses to which they have

been put by less imaginative men and animals, let us try to see how and

why these mighty hollows came to exist at all.

Earthquakes are often accountable for rocks heaped in wild confusion,

leaving great chasms below. Volcanic agency also deposits huge roofs of

lava over tracts of ice and snow, and the melting of the latter leaves

empty spaces of vast extent. The neighbourhood of Mount Etna, in Sicily,

has various wonderful caverns of this formation. Landslips and

rock-falls on the surface account for many small grottoes, but water is

the main origin of all the most celebrated caverns of the world.

Underground streams and rivers gradually eat their way along the surface

of their rocky flooring, the carbonic acid in the water acting

chemically on the stone in addition to the wearing force of the element.

Once a shallow channel is worn, new forces set to work to deepen it:

sand, pebbles and grit of all kinds, washed down by the current, grind

and wear away the rock. In course of time great depths are hollowed out,

and if it happens that some obstacle turns the course of the water, and

the river finds a new outlet, a long deep gallery is left dry, and here

and there an apparently bottomless pit where the water has acted on

specially soft stone. From above, also, a steady action of moisture has

been eating away the cliff, adding height to the cavern, as well as

coating its roof and sides with a sparkling substance derived from the

union of water and particles of the limestone, in which caves usually

abound.

Nothing can be more beautiful, when illuminated, than a roof of

stalactites, with ascending pillars of stalagmite often meeting and

forming pillars, like those which will be later on described in the

Mammoth Cave and others. The building of these fairy grottoes is really

a simple matter, but one only possible to the Great Architect to whom a

thousand years are as one day; for a very little bit of one of those

stony icicles would take hundreds of years in formation. Water flowing

above a cave is certain to contain carbonic acid, some given to it by

the atmosphere, and some imparted from decaying vegetation. This water

oozes slowly through the rock, and the carbonic acid in passing

dissolves a mite of lime, carrying it through the roof, to which the

lime adheres whilst the water evaporates. Drop follows drop, each tiny

particle sliding down its fellow, until, as weeks and years and

centuries roll by, a lovely long pendant is formed, known as a

stalactite. Sometimes the drops of acidulated watery lime fall through

the roof by an easier passage, and fall right on to the floor of the

cavern, when an upward process takes place, each drop exactly striking

the one before, until one of the stately columns arises known as a

stalagmite.

HELENA HEATH.

AN OCEAN POLICEMAN.

Amid a flutter of flags and the cheers of onlookers, the 'ocean

policeman,' H.M.S. _Speedy_, first took to the water on May 18th, 1893.

Its birthplace was the banks of the Thames at Chiswick, but hardly had

it settled itself on the smooth surface of the river when orders came

from official quarters that it should proceed at once to school. They

were no easy lessons that it had to learn, and the subsequent

examinations were extremely difficult and trying, for they were

conducted by a large crowd of the most learned gentlemen in England and

the Continent connected with naval matters. The school was at Sheerness,

and here the _Speedy_ spent four months in preparation. On September

28th the first run was made, and three weeks later the examiners were

delighted to find that this splendid new boat was able to steam at a

speed of twenty knots an hour. Everything the inventor and designer had

claimed for her was proving true. The new style of tubing in the boilers

made it possible to get up steam very quickly after the fires were

lighted, so that when the order came to start there was no 'Oh, wait a

minute, please; I am not quite ready!'

The engines, four thousand five hundred horse-power in strength, did

their work far more nimbly than those in any previous gunboat of the

same size. The vessel is two hundred and thirty feet long, and can steam

triumphantly through water no more than ten feet deep. That in itself is

enough to terrify evil-doers who would otherwise hope to escape by

getting into shallow water beyond her reach. But in addition, she

carries two large guns and a search-light.

Having thoroughly satisfied the examiners, this huge scholar soon had

the honour of receiving a commission, and is now on duty in the North

Sea among the brown-sailed fishing-smacks, like a gigantic duck watching

over her ducklings. There are several gunboats of the British navy

employed in the same way, but few of them quite so modern as the

_Speedy_, or so capable of guarding the interests of the fishermen. Any

foreign smack or lugger that comes within three miles of the English

coast is 'trespassing,' and is immediately called upon by the _Speedy_

to give an explanation. If the trespasser hesitates, a boat is lowered

from the steamer with an officer on board to make inquiries, and should

the answers to his questions be unsatisfactory, the stranger and his

boat are sent prisoners to the nearest English port.

Thus, up and down among the great fleet of peaceful fishers, the

_Speedy_ plies all day, and even in the darkest night her watching is as

keen and sure, for then her search-light, a dazzling beam, sweeps over

the sea in all directions, and not the tiniest rowboat could escape

unseen. Many a time it has revealed some stealthy marauder who hoped,

under the cover of darkness, to pull in a net of fish from these

forbidden waters and then sail into some French or Dutch port

undetected. All chance of escape, however, is over when once that

dazzling light falls upon the dishonest craft.

[Illustration: An Ocean Policeman by Day.]

[Illustration: An Ocean Policeman by Night.]

And who would begrudge such protection to our fishermen? Their busy

fleets are floating towns of industry, in which some thirty-three

thousand men and boys are employed. In 1901 their harvest represented

eight million six hundred and forty-seven thousand eight hundred and

five hundred-weight of fish, and realised six million eight hundred and

forty-eight thousand one hundred and ninety-two pounds in money. A

very large portion of this came from the North Sea.

But such treasure is only secured at great danger and with loss of life.

In this same year 1901, over three hundred fishermen were drowned, some

in wrecks and collisions, some in missing barks, and many by being

dragged overboard by the cumbersome fishing gear. At all hours of the

day and night, at all seasons of the year, these perilous labours are

carried on, and when we think of this, is it not some gratification to

know that the rights and privileges of our fishermen are jealously

guarded by such stalwart ocean policemen as the _Speedy_?

JOHN LEA.

[Illustration: "I cannot bear to sit out here."]

WAITING.

In London town the streets are gay,

And crowds go quickly by,

It is a glorious summer day,

But I sit here and sigh;

The pavement's hot, my feet are sore,

Yet I must wait outside the door.

I cannot bear to sit out here,

But I am tied up fast,

I saw my master disappear,

But I could not get past;

'No dogs allowed inside this shop'

They said, so here I have to stop.

Ah! here he is, and off we go!

'Tis jolly to be free!

I bark, and do my best to show,

As he caresses me,

How much I love him, for to part

From him I know would break my heart.

C. D. B.

THE FROG AND THE GEESE.

Two wild geese, when about to start southwards for the winter, were

entreated by a frog to take him with them. On the geese consenting to do

so if a means of carrying him could be found, the frog produced a stalk

of long grass, got the two geese to take it one by each end, while he

clung to it in the middle by his mouth. In this manner the three were

making their journey, when they were noticed by some men, who loudly

expressed their admiration of the plan, and wondered who had been clever

enough to discover it. The proud frog, opening his mouth to say, 'It was

I,' lost his hold, fell to the earth, and was dashed to pieces.

_From_ LA FONTAINE.

AN INDIAN CUSTOM.

'Look here!' said a young fellow as he opened the door of the log-house,

in Canada, where he and a friend were 'camping out.' 'See what I have

found dangling from a tree in the forest;' and he held up for his

friend's inspection a tiny pair of leather moccasins gaudily embroidered

with coloured beads.

'You must put those back where you found them,' said his friend quickly.

'They are of no value,' interrupted the other; 'there is a hole in the

toe. I expect some Indian mother hung them there to get rid of them.'

'No! no! they were hung there because the child who wore them is buried

under that tree, and these moccasins are put there for its use in the

next world,' explained his friend.

'Oh, if that's the case!' said the young fellow, 'I will go back at

once, and replace the little shoes, for I would not hurt their feelings

about their dead friends for anything.'

So the little shoes were once more hung on the bough of the big

fir-tree.

Mistaken as are the Red Indian's ideas of the next world, he is yet as

careful as we are to honour the last resting-place of his loved ones.

S. C.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 15._)

CHAPTER III.

Mr. Turton lent me the newspaper in which he had read the account of the

wreck of the _Seagull_, and upstairs, in the room which I shared with

two other fellows, I sat down on my bed to master it.

It appeared that the skipper of the vessel, with seven of the crew, had

been landed by a British cargo steamer at Hobart Town, Tasmania. The

_Westward Ho!_ had picked them up in a small boat about seven days out

from Capetown.

According to the story of the _Seagull's_ skipper--Captain Wilkinson--she

had experienced extremely bad weather for some days, and, becoming

almost unmanageable, had been run down by a large liner in the middle of

a dark night at the height of the gale.

Whether the liner was British or foreign, Captain Wilkinson could not

state; but, in any case, she had continued on her way without attempting

to stand by to save life. The _Seagull_ foundered in less than ten

minutes, Captain Knowlton persisting in his refusal to leave in the

first, and--as Captain Wilkinson declared--the only, boat which got

away. He had done his utmost to stand by, in spite of the fury of the

gale; but when day broke, and the storm to some degree abated, there was

no sign of either Captain Knowlton or the _Seagull_. That she had

foundered with the remainder of the crew and her owner the skipper had

not the slightest doubt, although he went as far as to admit, to the

newspaper reporter, the possibility that the small boat in which he had

escaped might have drifted some distance from the scene of the wreck in

the darkness.

My only gleam of hope was due to Mr. Bosanquet, although I felt inclined

to discount this, because he was given to look at the brightest side of

things, and often predicted fine weather just before a storm.

'Still,' he urged, 'you do not know for certain that Captain Knowlton

was drowned. I admit there is a great probability that you will never

see him again, but, after all, it is quite within the bounds of

possibility that the skipper's boat drifted away, and that the owner and

the rest of the crew managed to leave the _Seagull_. Of course,' he

added, 'if I am right, you are pretty certain to hear something farther

in a week or two.'

Accordingly I lived in the most acute suspense during the next few days;

but the time passed without news of Captain Knowlton, and such faint

hope as I had cherished faded entirely away. In the meantime it seemed

evident that Mr. and Mrs. Turton had not shared it. I learned from

Augustus that his father had written to Mr. Windlesham, asking that I

might be removed from Ascot House as a bad bargain.

Moreover, I began to observe a kind of resentfulness in Mr. Turton's

demeanour, and especially in his wife's. It was rumoured in the school

that they were 'hard up,' and hence the shorter supplies of meat and

butter. But it was Augustus who first made me realise my new situation.

'I say, Everard,' he said, when we were alone one day, 'I should not

care to stand in your shoes. Now Captain Knowlton is dead you cannot

stay here, you know.'

'Well,' I answered, 'who wants to stay? I am going to Sandhurst soon.'

'I guess you are not, though!' he exclaimed. 'There is no one to pay for

you, and Windlesham is mean enough to say he won't take you off our

hands.'

The entrance of Mr. Bosanquet put an end to Augustus's gloomy forecast

of my future, and, as the assistant master seemed to be the best friend

I had left, I asked his opinion on the subject.

'Of course,' he said, taking my arm, 'it is a rather difficult position.

If Captain Knowlton has left a will with a legacy to you, there need not

be much difference; but Mr. Turton is of opinion that if this were the

case, he would have heard from the solicitor. Mr. Turton is a good deal

perplexed to know what to do with you, though we will hope for the best,

in spite of everything.'

Now, I was fifteen, and fairly tall and strong for my age. I could

easily perceive the difficulties at which Mr. Bosanquet hinted, and

that, if Captain Knowlton were actually dead, and had left me nothing in

his will, there was only Aunt Marion to whom it was possible to look for

help; and she had taken no notice of me since her wedding-day. I was

ignorant of her address in India, and felt that I should be little

better off even if I knew it. So, after a few days' reflection, I

determined to speak to Mr. Turton.

'Well, Everard, what is it now?' he demanded, a little impatiently, as I

entered his study.

'I want to know about the holidays,' I answered. 'Where am I to go?'

'Just what I should like to be in a position to tell you,' he exclaimed.

'At present I have been unable to discover the name and address of

Captain Knowlton's solicitor, but, when I go to London with the boys at

the end of the term, I shall do my best to gain farther information. We

will put off the discussion until my return.'

It was, however, impossible to keep the question of my future in the

background, and no day passed without many speculations. Numerous

out-of-the-way projects had one peculiarity in common--they were all to

end satisfactorily. Even if I were fated to endure certain trials and

hardships, I felt perfectly confident in my ability to rise above them

eventually.

The first important difference which I experienced as a result of the

loss of the _Seagull_ occurred on the Saturday after this interview with

Mr. Turton. It was the custom to go to Mrs. Turton after dinner on

Saturday for our pocket-money; my own allowance since Captain Knowlton's

departure having been a shilling a week.

'What do you want, Everard?' asked Mrs. Turton, when my turn came.

'My shilling, please,' I answered.

But she ominously shook her head.

'I am afraid there will not be any more pocket-money for you this term!'

she exclaimed--and, suddenly understanding, I walked dejectedly away.

Before I had gone many yards Smythe took my arm.

'I can lend you fourpence, old chap,' he said.

'Awful ass if you do,' cried Augustus, who had a knack of overhearing

what was not intended for his ears.

'Why am I an ass?' demanded Smythe.

'Because Everard will never pay you back.'

'Suppose I don't want him to pay me back?'

'Oh, well!' said Augustus, 'of course, if he is beggar enough to take

your money!'

I should have liked to kick Augustus as he walked away with a snigger;

but at least he had made it impossible to take advantage of Smythe's

offer. It was a new and painful experience to stay outside the

confectioner's shop while the other fellows entered, and the matter was

freely discussed in my presence by Smythe and the rest on our return.

Indeed, justice compelled me to agree with Barton's opinion that, as

Turton stood uncommonly little chance of being paid for the current

term's board and tuition, it was scarcely to be expected that he should

feel inclined to provide me with additional pocket-money.

CHAPTER IV.

The end of the term soon came, and on the last afternoon I stood

listening while Smythe, Barton, and the rest of the fellows boasted of

all the wonderful things they intended to do during the holidays.

'I should not care to stand in Everard's shoes,' said Augustus. 'As

likely as not he will have to go to the workhouse before he has done. He

will see when my father comes back from London.'

Before they all set out to the railway station the next morning, Mr.

Bosanquet took me apart for a last word of hope and encouragement. He

was not to return to Ascot House after the holidays, and for my part I

felt extremely sorry to bid him good-bye.

'I feel confident Mr. Turton will do his best for you,' he said. 'But

you must try to make allowances if he seems a little put out. He is not

by any means a rich man, and, of course, he had to pay Mr. Windlesham

for the goodwill of the school. Mr. Turton will feel the loss of your

bill, you understand--that is to say, if Captain Knowlton does not turn

up again.'

'If he had been rescued,' I asked, 'don't you think we should have heard

news of him before now?'

'Well, in all probability we should,' said Mr. Bosanquet. 'But strange

things happen sometimes, you know; and, after all, I do not consider it

impossible that he may be stranded somewhere, and prevented from

communicating with his friends.'

'Still,' I answered, 'all the newspapers and Mr. Turton say he must be

dead.'

'Anyhow,' he insisted, 'there is no positive proof, and even at the

worst his solicitor may be able to satisfy Mr. Turton about your

future.'

(_Continued on page 26._)

[Illustration: "'I can lend you fourpence, old chap,' said Smythe."]

[Illustration: "'Hullo, Susan!' cried Augustus."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 23._)

At last the other fellows went to the station with Mr. Turton and Mr.

Bosanquet, leaving me to enjoy the company of Augustus and his mother,

who did not make much of an attempt to disguise her disfavour. It may be

imagined with what anxiety I awaited Mr. Turton's return from London. He

arrived at Ascot House late the following evening, having passed one

night away from home. Although he had a long talk with Mrs. Turton, he

did not speak to me that evening; but an ominous note seemed to be

struck when Augustus told me I was henceforth to breakfast alone in the

schoolroom. So, to my great disgust, the following morning, whilst

Augustus and Mr. and Mrs. Turton breakfasted in the dining-room, a cup

of milk and water, with five thick slices of bread and scrape, were

brought to me on one of the desks; no bacon or egg, or relish of any

kind, accompanied the meal.

Presently the door opened again, and Mr. Turton entered with a troubled

face.

'Well, Everard,' he said, 'I succeeded in finding the address of Captain

Knowlton's solicitor, and I had a long conversation with him.'

'Does he think Captain Knowlton is dead?' I exclaimed.

'I regret to say that he has no doubt about the fact; but, at the same

time, the estate cannot be administered for some months yet. In any case

that will make no difference to you. Captain Knowlton had not made a

will, and everything he died possessed of will pass to his nearest

relatives.'

'Then--then, what am I to do?' I asked.

'The circumstances are extremely unfortunate,' was the answer. 'For me

it is a serious loss, and I confess it is difficult to know what to do

for the best. I understand you have no relatives of any kind.'

'Only my Aunt Marion.'

'Ah, that is the Mrs. Ruston whom Mr. Windlesham mentioned. She is in

India, I believe?'

'Yes,' I answered, 'but I do not know her address.'

'I can no doubt find it out in an Army List,' he said. 'But from what

Captain Knowlton told Mr. Windlesham, I fear little is to be gained in

that direction.'

From that day nothing was the same, and I soon began to realise that my

presence in the house was regarded as a nuisance. All my meals were

solitary, and I seldom had enough to eat.

'Everard!' cried Mrs. Turton, directly I had finished breakfast two

mornings after the above conversation, 'all the servants are very busy

this morning, so you must make your own bed.'

If she had told me to stand on my head, I should not have felt more

surprise.

'Don't you understand?' she demanded.

'Yes, Mrs. Turton.'

'Then why do you stand staring there? Please set about it at once.'

I went upstairs to the bedroom which I had occupied alone since the

beginning of the holidays, and after staring at the bed for a few

moments, I was about to strip off the clothes, when I heard a snigger at

the door.

'Hullo, Susan!' cried Augustus.

Darting to the dressing-table, I seized a hair-brush, and threw it at

his head. Unfortunately it hit him on the forehead, making an ugly cut,

and, of course, he at once went to show Mr. Turton, who came upstairs a

few minutes later, by which time my bed was made--after a fashion.

'What was your reason for attacking my son?' demanded Mr. Turton.

'Well,' I answered, rather sullenly, I am afraid, for I was growing

somewhat desperate, 'he should not be cheeky.'

'You will not leave this room until dinner-time,' he said, 'and your

meal will consist of bread and water.'

I spent a miserable morning staring out of the window on to the garden

and the fields beyond, without a book to pass the time, my only comfort

being the sight of Augustus with a strip of court-plaster above his left

eyebrow.

At half-past one a servant came to tell me to come down to dinner. Alone

in the schoolroom, I at first determined to refuse my food, until hunger

conquered my resolution, and I ate it every scrap. Soon afterwards Mrs.

Turton entered, but she said nothing about Augustus's injury.

'You must not spend your time in idleness,' she exclaimed.

'There was not anything to do in my bedroom,' I answered.

'The house is being cleaned,' she said, 'and all the woodwork has to be

washed. You may as well go down to the kitchen for a pail of hot water

and begin with the wainscotting in the hall.'

'I'm not a servant!' I answered.

'Honest work is no disgrace to anybody,' she said. 'You must try to make

yourself useful in every possible way, and be careful not to splash your

jacket.'

Raging inwardly at my task, I only hesitated a few moments; then, going

down to the kitchen, I asked the good-natured cook for a pail of water.

'I call it a shame!' she muttered. 'Things were different in Mr.

Windlesham's time. A shame I call it.'

'Oh, it doesn't matter,' I answered, feeling not a little embarrassed by

her sympathy.

She filled an iron pail at the boiler-tap, and, as I stood waiting, my

thoughts flew back to earlier days at Acacia Road, and to Jane and her

energetic manner of smacking the oilcloth. But I suppose my ideas had

developed since those times, and certainly I felt this morning that I

was being subjected to the lowest humiliation. However, I carried up the

pail, slopping the water on the stairs at every step, with a

scrubbing-brush in the other hand, and then I set to work. When once I

had begun, I cannot pretend that I found the actual washing of the

wainscot particularly distasteful, although it seemed rather hard, after

I had done my best, that Mrs. Turton should upbraid me for soiling my

clothes.

It was perhaps a week later that the notion of running away definitely

entered my mind. By that time I had cleaned a considerable portion of

the woodwork of the house, lime-whitened a portion of an outside wall,

filled several coal-scuttles, and swept the yard. My clothes were

naturally not at the best at the end of the term; I had grown

considerably since they were new, and now they were splashed with

distemper and soiled with dirt. One Monday morning I noticed the absence

of the boy who cleaned the boots and knives and forks, and remarked upon

it to Augustus.

'You see we shall not want him now,' he answered, with one of his

irritating sniggers, and I fully understood the significance of his

words. I try to do the Turtons no injustice, reminding myself that, to

begin with, they were far from rich, and that they had lost the forty

pounds or more which should have been paid for the last term's board and

schooling. Moreover, they had not known me for some years, as the

Windleshams had done; I was in their house, requiring food and shelter,

and perhaps they could not reconcile their consciences to turning me

out. So they determined to make me useful in the only possible way.

Already I had begun to wonder what would happen when Smythe and the

other fellows came back after the holidays. One thing I knew for

certain, and this was that Augustus would not fail to tell them how I

had spent the time since they left; in fact, he had more than once

hinted at their interest in my proceedings. The dismissal of the

boot-boy made me more and more apprehensive that I should still continue

to be degraded after the beginning of the term, while I felt humiliated

by the conviction that, even in the present circumstances, Mr. and Mrs.

Turton were keeping me only on sufferance.

But this Monday morning brought me to a determination. I had finished

breakfast, and was wondering what I should be set to do next, when

Augustus opened the schoolroom door.

'Everard,' he said, 'you are to clean my boots.'

'Clean them yourself,' I retorted.

'I shall tell Father,' he exclaimed.

'Tell your mother, too, if you like,' I said.

He went to tell them, and a few minutes later Mr. Turton entered the

room.

'Everard,' he said, 'I wish to speak to you.'

'Yes, sir,' I answered.

'You understand,' he continued, 'that I have no desire to say or do

anything to hurt your feelings. I can quite sympathise with you, and I

am grieved that this necessity has arisen. But the fact remains.'

'I am not going to clean Augustus's boots,' I answered.

'Do you think work is disgraceful to you?' he demanded.

'I am not going to clean Augustus's boots,' I insisted.

'You compel me to take harsh measures,' he said. 'I have no wish to take

them, but I shall give orders that you have no food until you obey me.

You have to work for your living. I certainly cannot afford to keep you

in idleness. You will go to your bedroom, and stay there until you clean

the boots and bring them to my study.'

Looking back, I am never able to forgive myself for surrendering. Yet I

did surrender, although not at once. I passed Mr. Turton at the door and

walked slowly upstairs, where I shut myself in the bedroom. Then and

there I finally made up my mind. Without any definite scheme when I

succeeded in reaching my destination, I determined to go to London. I

did not possess a penny of money, but I had my silver watch and chain,

which surely it must possible to sell.

The hundred-miles' walk caused me not the least alarm. I was strong and

well, although I had grown thinner during the holidays; the weather was

warm, and I reckoned on reaching my destination in about a week. As to

what I should do on my arrival I had very little idea; but, for one

thing, I thought I would try to find Rogers and ask his advice. I had

read many books about boys who had gone to London without a penny in

their pockets and made immense fortunes, from Dick Whittington

downwards, and I saw every reason to believe that, in some wonderful

way, I should be equally successful. At all events, I would go. I would

put some clothing into a bundle, and then I would await a favourable

opportunity and take my departure, for at the worst it seemed certain I

should be safe from pursuit. Mr. and Mrs. Turton would be thankful

enough to get me off their hands, although Augustus might miss me as his

butt.

The hours passed very slowly in the bedroom, and, having breakfasted on

bread and water, I began presently to feel more and more hungry.

'I will not clean Augustus's boots,' I repeated at intervals, and I

tightened the strap behind my waistcoat. But, as the long afternoon

began to wear away, and my hunger still increased, I sang to a different

tune. 'What did it matter whether I cleaned the boots or not?' I asked

myself, especially if I could succeed in finding Augustus alone in the

garden for a few quiet minutes before I left the school. Anyhow, it

would be the first and the last time. So, just after the clock struck

seven, I opened my door, went down to the hall, and thence to the

kitchen, and knocked at the door.

'Cook,' I said, 'where do you keep the boot-brushes?'

'In the coal-cellar, Master Everard,' she answered. 'I would have done

them with pleasure, only Mrs. Turton forbid me.'

I went into the coal-cellar, took the brush and blacked the boots, and,

oddly enough, I did not cease until I had made them shine far more

brightly than Augustus's boots had ever shone before. Then I took them

in my right hand and carried them upstairs, knocked at the door of Mr.

Turton's study, and was told to enter.

'I have brought the boots,' I said.

'Ah,' answered Mr. Turton, 'I am glad you have come to a less

unreasonable state of mind. You can go to the kitchen and ask Cook for

some food.'

(_Continued on page 34._)

[Illustration: A PICTURE PUZZLE FROM HISTORY.

(_For Answer see page 130._)]

THE FRIENDLY LIGHT.

Wildly the wind doth rage,

Loudly the waters roar,

And anxious are the hearts of those

That wait upon the shore,

Till through the darkness of the night

The lighthouse sends its friendly light.

Warning and guiding light,

It shines across the bay.

And helps the sailor steer his course

Till safely on the way:

The harbour gained, and home once more,

He greets his loved ones on the shore.

C. D. B.

[Illustration:

1. Water-bug's Lancet (much magnified).

2. Water-bug.

3. Sting of Bee and Poison-dart (both much magnified).]

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

I.--STINGS AND LANCETS.

Bees and Spiders, Earwigs, Beetles and Snails, Dragon-flies,

Grasshoppers, and Butterflies are familiar enough to us all; yet how

many realise how 'fearfully and wonderfully' they are made? What a

marvellously complex weapon is the 'sting' of the bee! What a wonderful

'rasp' the snail possesses! How many can tell how an insect smells, and

where its organs of taste and hearing lie? Since these are questions

which young people often ask again and again, some of them will be

answered in the course of these articles. To explain such matters

clearly is a very difficult task, but with the aid of drawings,

specially made for this purpose, the main facts at least should be easy

to grasp.

* * * * *

Most of us agree to treat the bee respectfully, having a wholesome dread

of the vengeance he is likely to inflict on those who offend him. But

how does a bee sting? and what is the sting like?

To take the last question first. The sting of the bee is really an

extremely cunningly devised weapon, so complex that only the bare

outlines of its structure can possibly be described clearly.

If you turn to the illustration of the bee-sting, you will notice, in

the right-hand figure, at the upper end, three pointed projections or

'processes' marked. The two outer ones (S S) we may neglect, for they

are only protecting sheaths; that in the middle (I S) is the sting

proper. This consists of two parts, (1) a strong gouge-like portion, and

(2) a pair of darts of marvellous delicacy. These darts we cannot see in

position because they lie on the other side of the gouge-like piece. But

to the left you will notice a long sword-like blade, drawn separately,

with a curiously crooked handle and a sharp barbed point. This is one of

the pair of darts. Those who have had the misfortune to be stung may be

interested to know that this painful wound was inflicted thus: When the

bee alighted on you, he first thrust through the skin this hard, pointed

gouge; then one of the darts was pushed down, then the other, a little

further; then the gouge penetrated still deeper, and the opposite dart

deeper still, and so on, first one dart, then the other, going deeper

and deeper, the gouge following. As they penetrated, little drops of

poison oozed out from the barbs of the dart, and this caused the pain

and inflammation.

This poison is made in what is called the poison gland, the long,

slender, coiled tube (P _g_) in the picture. As the poison is made, it

is stored in the big bag (marked P) at the back of the sting, and when

this is working, the poison is forced down between the gouge and the

darts, to find its way out at the barbs into the flesh.

But this sting is not only used for the purpose of giving pain. The bee

long ago discovered the fact that food, if it is to be preserved for any

length of time, requires to be specially dealt with. Accordingly the

honey which is destined to be kept is preserved from fermentation by the

addition of a drop of formic acid deposited by the sting.

Only the workers and the queen-bees of a hive have stings: the males are

stingless.

In stinging it often happens that the barbed darts are thrust so far

into the wound that they cannot be withdrawn. As a result, the whole

apparatus is left behind, and the bee pays the penalty with its life.

But whilst some insects, such as the bees, inject poison by means of a

'sting,' others effect the same end by peculiar modifications of the

mouth-parts. The gnat is a case in point: the water-bug, common in our

ponds and ditches, is another.

Strangely enough, the mechanism adopted is precisely similar in character,

though the parts of which this mechanism is made up are of a totally

different kind. Here, the mouth-parts are specially modified, so as to

form a supporting and piercing weapon, like the 'gouge-like' piercing

weapon of the bee, with delicate pointed and barbed weapons corresponding

to the barbs of the bee's sting. This piercing organ may be used for

sapping the tissue of plants, or, as in the case of gnats and fleas,

they may be employed for the purpose of absorbing the blood of animals.

In the latter case, after the surface of the skin is pierced, a poison

is forced down into the wound, for the purpose, it is thought, of making

the blood more fluid. But this poison is of a highly irritant nature,

and leaves a very painful feeling, accompanied by more or less

inflammation of the parts attacked.

The water-boatman, which almost every one must have seen swimming

back-downwards in ponds, can inflict a very painful wound in this

manner. The illustration shows the 'lancet' of _nepa_, the water-bug.

The piercing organ just described is the spear-shaped piece bounded on

either side by two long filaments.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

1.--GEOGRAPHICAL ACROSTIC.

An American Republic, having a hot climate on the coast-line, but cooler

inland. It is a rich and fertile country, where many valuable trees

grow. Useful plants and fruits are produced in great abundance, and

there are many wild animals, and birds of brilliant plumage. Numerous

shallow rivers water the land, and gold, silver, iron, copper, and other

metals are to be found there.

1. A mountain near Athens, famous in old times for honey and marble.

2. A decayed seaport in Italy, with a castle which gave the title to a

celebrated story.

3. A Cornish fishing village, much frequented by artists.

4. A village in Ireland, where a notorious fair was formerly held.

5. A small country or district on the eastern side of an African lake;

its chief town is the terminus of a great caravan route.

6. A city of Virginia, U.S.A., built on a river of the same name.

7. A tea-growing district of British India, abounding in wild animals.

8. The most important seaport of central China.

C. J. B.

2.--ARITHMOGRAPH.

A word of eight letters, naming the hero of a noted poem.

1.--6, 5, 4. A game; also the toy with which the game is played.

2.--7, 3, 4. A wild berry.

3.--1, 3, 6. A covering for the head.

4.--4, 7, 2, 6. A tiny particle.

5.--6, 7, 5, 4. To melt, dissolve, or become fluid.

6.--7, 8, 1, 3. A peculiar kind of fence.

7.--4, 1, 3, 6. An interrogation.

8.--4, 2, 6. Mental faculty.

C. J. B.

[_Answers on page 58._]

THE MYSTERIOUS CHEST.

'It is hard lines it should rain the first day of the holidays,' said

George, somewhat gloomily, as he looked out at the heavy downpour, which

was fast changing the tennis-lawn into a miniature lake.

'No chance of a game!' sighed Pelham, thinking of the swamped

cricket-field.

'If you two lads want an indoor job, I have one for you, and one that

has baffled me,' said Mr. Carteret, looking up from his paper.

'What is it, Father?' asked Pelham, the eldest boy.

'A lot of things were sent here from Vale Place last month, and amongst

them an oak chest, which I cannot unlock, try as I may, so I waited for

you two, as I know you are more handy with your fingers than I am,'

answered his father.

'We will soon tackle it!' said Pelham, confidently.

'Father,' here broke in George, 'I thought _you_ were to have Vale Place

when old Mr. Pelham died?'

'So did I,' said Mr. Carteret shortly.

'But it is left to some one else, is it not?' went on George, anxious to

understand the matter, which had greatly puzzled both boys for some

weeks.

'Yes, I meant to tell you about it when you came home,' said their

father. 'It was no good writing bad news, but you must know it sooner or

later. You know,' he continued, 'that my father and Mr. Pelham were

brother-officers in India, and when both my parents were swept away in

one week by cholera, Mr. Pelham brought me home to Vale Place, where I

was brought up as his son and heir. But after his death, a few months

ago, no will could be found, though he had repeatedly told me that he

had made one, leaving Vale Place to me and my children.'

'Then who has Vale Place now?' asked George, as his father paused a

minute.

'It passed to the heir,' said Mr. Carteret. 'He is a distant cousin, who

cares nothing about the property, and means to sell it for building

land.'

'What a shame!' said Pelham, hotly.

'Well, I do not know that there is any shame about it, for this cousin

has never lived there, and it has none of the old associations for him

that make me regret its loss so deeply. He seems a very considerate man

in some ways, and begged to be allowed to send me all the old furniture

which stood in my room at Vale Place, thinking I should value it, as

indeed I do. So that is how the old chest came to me, and here are the

keys. See what you can do with them.'

'Come on, George!' said Pelham. 'Where is the chest, father?'

'Upstairs in the attic. You will want a candle; it is in a dark corner,'

was the answer.

'I am coming too!' announced Nannie. 'I want to see what is in the

chest. I have fed my birds, and I may not stay out in the rain.'

'Little girls should not be inquisitive,' said George, who dearly loved

to tease his sister. 'You may see more than you want.'

'Oh, George! what?' said Nannie, in rather a shaky voice. 'What do you

think is in the chest?'

'You will see by-and-by, and remember I have warned you!' said George,

mysteriously.

Nannie, though alarmed, bravely stood her ground and watched the two

boys as they tried every key on the bunch; then, finding that none

fitted, they used a screw-driver, and at last were successful.

'Now, Nannie!' shouted George, as Pelham lifted the heavy lid. 'Look

out! I am sure I heard something stirring inside.'

Pelham held up the candle and looked eagerly into the dark chest.

'Empty! quite empty!' he cried, in a tone of the utmost disgust.

'Nothing at all in it but an old letter!' and he threw the paper on to

the ground by the side of the chisel.

'I told you so,' began Nannie, but the sentence was hardly out of her

mouth before she gave a little shriek and leapt high into the air. 'A

rat! a horrid rat!' shrieked the child. 'It ran over my foot.'

George did not shriek; but he, too, was startled, for the rat had

appeared so suddenly.

'It came right out of the chest,' he said, as if to excuse his alarm.

'It could not!' said Pelham, bluntly. 'I was looking in the chest when

Nannie shrieked, and there was nothing in it--that I know! I saw no rat

anywhere.'

'But I saw it!' said George. 'Look! look!' he shouted, excitedly. 'There

it goes! Just by your foot! You may depend upon it this box has a false

bottom. Let us turn it over and see.'

'I believe you are right, George!' said Pelham. 'Hold the candle, Nan,

and we will see where this rat came from.'

The chest, empty as it appeared to be, was yet so heavy that it was with

difficulty that the two boys could turn it over, but they did it at

last, and now there was no doubt where the rat had come from, for the

floor was strewn with little bits of nibbled paper, and there was a

biggish hole in the false bottom by which he had evidently gnawed his

way into the chest.

'Now, then, the fun is beginning!' exclaimed Pelham, excitedly, 'We must

get inside this false bottom; it is full of old letters. I can see that

much! Perhaps we shall find a love-letter of William the Conqueror to

Joan of Arc!'

'Oh, no, you will not!' said Nannie, wisely, 'for Joan of Arc lived many

reigns after William I. I read about her only last week.'

But neither Pelham nor George heeded Nannie's superior information, so

busy were they prizing off the somewhat thin layer of wood which formed

the false bottom of the chest.

It gave way at last, and disclosed a whole heap of letters, some nibbled

into mere powder by the busy rat and some still uninjured, and on the

top of all a yellow parchment folio bearing in large letters the words,

'_Will of George Pelham, Esquire, of Vale Place, Surrey._'

Pelham got very red as he exclaimed, excitedly, 'Surely this is the lost

will!'

'If it is, we owe it to the rat!' said George, half thinking Pelham was

joking.

'I must take it at once to Father,' said Pelham, and he ran down the

attic stairs closely followed by the no less excited George and Nannie.

'See, Father, this will! Is it right? Will you have Vale Place after

all?' said Pelham, eagerly; as he held out the papers.

Mr. Carteret took the bundle, looked at the heading, and then turned it

hastily over to see the signatures at the end.

Yes, it was duly signed and witnessed, and without doubt was the

long-sought will!

* * * * *

Why Mr. Pelham should have so carefully concealed his will was never

explained, but people from time immemorial have done odd things with

their wills, and will probably continue to do so. It was, after all, of

little consequence now where it had been found, so long as the will was

a true one, and of that no doubt was ever raised.

Before many months were over Mr. Carteret and his family were settled at

Vale Place, where the 'mysterious chest,' as Nannie always called it,

has the place of honour in the entrance hall.

S. CLARENDON.

[Illustration: "'We will see where this rat came from.'"]

[Illustration: The Death of a Deserter.]

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

II.--SIGNOR ROSSIGNOL'S PERFORMING BIRDS.

It was April, and the year 1805, when two little fellows, out for the

day from Charterhouse School, stood at the bow window of a large house

on Ludgate Hill, London, waiting for the return of their uncle from his

country house.

'Here he comes!' said the lads, as a portly figure came round the

corner, and the next minute he was in the room, exclaiming, in his

cheery way, 'Well, lads, glad to see you! What must we do this

afternoon? Is it to be the Tower of London, or the river, or the

Monument? Anything you choose will suit me.'

'Then, sir,' said the elder boy, eagerly, 'do let us go and see the

performing birds. All our fellows are talking about them.'

'To be sure we will! I, too, have heard about this Signor Rossignol, as

he calls himself, and we will have a bit of dinner, and start off at

once to Charing Cross.'

The 'bit of dinner' proved to be a very ample meal, to which our

schoolboys did full justice, for school meals a hundred years ago were

far from satisfying, and a dinner like this one was not a thing to be

hurried over. However, there must come a time when even hungry

schoolboys can eat no more, and at last, when even another fig seemed an

impossibility, a start was made for the birds. They arrived at the Hall

in good time, and had excellent seats, just facing the stage.

When the curtain drew up, it disclosed a long table, on which were

placed a dozen cages, each containing a little bird. Their 'tutor,' as

Signor Rossignol styled himself, stood at the head of the table, and,

after a low bow to the audience, he began: 'Behold my little family of

birds! They have all the true military instinct, and are ready, as you

will see, to do all in their power to defend this land of freedom.'

Loud and prolonged cheers greeted this speech, for the Battle of

Trafalgar had not yet taken place, and the dread of a sudden landing of

the French 'tyrant' was never long out of the thoughts of any Briton.

When the cheering had ceased, Rossignol opened the cages one after

another, and each bird hopped out in a sedate way, and placed itself on

the table, waiting for orders.

'Fall in!' shouted Rossignol, in a loud military voice, and at once the

birds formed themselves into two ranks. Then their tutor fitted a little

paper helmet on to each bird's head, and fixed tiny wooden muskets under

their left wings.

Thus equipped, the birds, at the word of command from their tutor, went

through the usual exercises of soldiers amidst the applause of the

audience.

Then another bird, not previously exercised, was brought forward.

'Death of a deserter,' explained the tutor, as six birds placed

themselves three on each side of the new arrival, and solemnly conducted

him from the top to the bottom of the table, where there was a small

brass cannon, charged with a little gunpowder.

The unfortunate deserter was placed in front of this cannon, his guards

retired in an orderly way, and he was left alone to meet his fate. A

lighted match was now put into the claws of another bird, who hopped

slowly up to the cannon and discharged it. At the sound of the explosion

the deserter fell down on to the table, and lay there as if rigid in

death.

'Oh, I say! That is too bad!' said the younger boy. 'I don't think poor

birds ought to be blown from the gun like that. It's cruel, is it not,

sir?'

Before the uncle could reply came the sharp order, 'Stand!' and, behold,

the dead deserter came to life again, and hopped away to join his

friends!

The birds were now replaced in their cages, and it was the signor's turn

to occupy the stage.

First of all he gave a clever imitation of the notes of all birds,

ending up with the prolonged 'jug-jug' of the nightingale, which he did

to such perfection that you could hardly believe there was not a grove

full of those birds on the stage.

'He may well call himself "Rossignol"' (the French for nightingale),

said the boys' uncle as he gave a hearty clap to the clever performer,

'for he seems as real a nightingale as I ever listened to.'

Next Rossignol produced a fiddle without any strings to it, and going

through all the airs and graces of a real violinist, he sawed the air

with an imaginary bow, making the notes with his voice so well that you

could not imagine it was not a real violin playing. This delighted the

audience most of all, and he was encored again and again, and when the

entertainment was finished, the two boys said 'they wished they could

have it all over again!'

* * * * *

For many months Rossignol continued to draw large audiences to hear his

imitation of birds, &c., but one fatal day it was discovered that the

sounds were produced by an instrument--probably a pierced

peach-stone--which he concealed in his mouth, and after that no one

cared to hear him, and he died in great poverty a few years later.

S. CLARENDON.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 27._)

CHAPTER V.

My chief fear when I went to bed that night was that I might not wake

early the following morning, for in this event my departure would have

to be put off. I must leave Ascot House before any of the Turtons were

up, if I left at all; I was bent upon getting away from Castlemore at

the very earliest moment. In my room there were three beds, two being

unoccupied during the holidays, and there was a chest of drawers which I

shared with my companions. On the knob of one of the drawers hung the

bag in which were kept my brush and comb, and this I thought would serve

to hold the few things I intended to take with me. Not daring to get the

things ready that night, lest Mr. Turton should pay one of his

occasional visits to the bedroom when he turned out the gas, I lay down,

and in spite of the important coming event, soon fell fast asleep. When

I awoke the sun shone into the room, and getting out of bed and looking

at the watch which was to be shortly converted into money, I saw that it

was twenty minutes to six.

Losing no time over dressing, putting on the better of my two

knickerbocker suits, I removed the brush and comb from the bag, putting

in their place two pairs of stockings, a spare flannel shirt, a pair of

gum-shoes, two handkerchiefs, and a flannel cricket cap.

Having little fear that any one but the servants would be about the

house, I tightened the string of my bag, and went quietly downstairs. In

the room where we kept our hats and overcoats I put on my laced boots,

which already were somewhat thin in the soles, and my straw hat, as the

sun had been extremely hot the last few days; and then I began to think

of breakfast, because I made up my mind that it would be wise not to

attempt to dispose of my watch and chain until Castlemore had been left

some distance behind. About ten miles on the London road, although I did

not know the precise distance, stood the small town of Broughton, and

there, I thought, it might be safe to replenish my exchequer.

Consequently, having not a penny in my purse at present, I must wait

until I reached Broughton for breakfast, unless it were possible to

obtain something to eat before I left the school.

So, leaving my bag in the hat-room, I went to the kitchen, where the

cook was in the act of lighting the fire.

'Good morning, Cook,' I said.

'You are up early this morning, Master Everard,' she answered.

'I am most awfully hungry,' I continued. 'Do you think you could give me

something to eat?'

Turning her broad back to the fireplace, she stared at me from head to

foot, seeming especially to be impressed by the fact that I had put on

my boots. But if she had a suspicion of my intention, she kept it to

herself, and going to the larder, returned with a plate on which lay a

thick slice of dry bread and another of cold beef.

Thanking her, I took the bread and meat and left the plate, then,

returning to the hat-room for my bag, unbolted the front door without

making a noise and walked calmly away from the house, beginning to eat

my breakfast as soon as I reached the road. It was a beautiful summer

morning, and the birds sang in the garden trees as I walked towards the

margin of the town. Holding my bag by the long string I let it hang over

my left shoulder, and stepping out briskly soon passed the last houses

in Castlemore. Although my chief feeling was one of relief at having

left Ascot House and the Turtons behind, it was impossible to avoid a

glance back at the days which I had spent so happily with the

Windleshams. I no longer had the least doubt that Captain Knowlton had

been lost with the _Seagull_, and as I covered the first mile or two of

my long journey, I became impressed with a conviction of all the

difference his death had made to my life. Instead of Sandhurst, I could

not tell what lay before me, and yet I scarcely doubted that, whatever

it might be, the end would prove satisfactory.

I determined to lose no time over my first stage, and after walking for

three-quarters of an hour, I passed a finger-post, which conveyed the

information that Broughton lay still eight miles distant. Although I had

told myself yesterday that Mr. Turton was very unlikely to start in

pursuit, that he would be only too glad to get rid of an unremunerative

boarder, this morning seemed to make the affair look different. He might

consider that his duty compelled him to set out in search of the

runaway, so that it would be wise not to rest until the first ten miles

had been put between myself and the school.

I felt anxious to reach Broughton, in order to dispose of my watch and

chain, being already somewhat afraid that there might arise some

difficulty about its disposal. I had never attempted to sell anything

before, nor was it easy to form an opinion concerning the value of the

only things I had to barter. Still, four pounds appeared a likely sum,

or three pounds ten at the lowest, and this would surely serve to

provide food and shelter until I reached London.

Very few persons passed me by the way, but coming within sight of the

first houses of the small town, which was in reality little more than a

large village, I began to overtake and soon passed a man who I little

imagined would cross my path again. Broughton is approached by a long

decline, at the foot of which, on the right, stands a rural inn. Before

its door this morning were a couple of waggons, one laden with hay, the

other with sheep-turnips. A smock-frocked carter stood eating a chunk of

bread and fat bacon, while a fox-terrier begged for scraps. Having

walked ten miles in the hot sunshine, I was glad of any excuse to halt,

so that a few minutes after passing the man in the road, I stopped to

watch the dog.

While I stood there the man caught me up again, and he also came to a

stop, between myself and the waggons. He was quite young, probably not

more than one or two and twenty, tall and well-built, although he walked

with a slouching gait. He wore corduroy trousers fastened round the

waist by a narrow strap, and a blue shirt, with an unbuttoned jacket of

fustian. On his head was a limp-brimmed, dirty, drab felt hat, and in

his left hand he carried a red handkerchief, which apparently contained

all his possessions, and in his right a stout stick which had been

obviously cut from a hedge. His hair was extremely short and black, but

he could not have shaved for some days; his face was deeply sunburnt and

one of the most evil-looking I had ever seen. I imagined that he was

looking for a job at hay-making or harvesting, and in that case he would

have little difficulty in finding one at the present season.

Without entering the inn, he walked on towards the main street, which

contained two dozen or more of small shops, and a few minutes later I

took the same direction, soon beginning to look about for the kind of

shop I wanted. After I had passed the tramp a second time, I saw the

usual sign of a pawnbroker's, and, thinking it would look better to

remove my watch and chain before entering, I took the bar out of my

button-hole.

[Illustration: "The tramp stood outside, watching me with the greatest

intentness."]

Stopping outside the shop, I stood a few minutes gazing in at its

window, which was filled with a miscellaneous collection: teapots,

telescopes, knives, spoons, pipes, and one or two flutes and

concertinas. Presently I summoned enough resolution to enter, and going

to the counter, held out the watch and chain to the rather elderly man

behind it.

'I want to sell this watch and chain,' I said.

'Oh, you do, do you?' he answered, and opening the watch, he began to

examine the works. He looked so doubtful that I began to fear he would

refuse to buy, in which case I scarcely knew what to do, as it seemed

unlikely that I should find another such shop that day. It was already

past eleven o'clock, and after my walk I was beginning to feel hungry.

Certainly he had no right to buy the watch from a boy of my age, but I

suppose that after a little hesitation he was unable to resist the

temptation to make a bargain.

'How much do you want for it?' he asked, as he closed the lid with a

snap.

'Four pounds,' I answered, thinking that a reasonable demand.

Still holding the watch with the chain hanging down between his

fingers, he broke into a laugh which did not sound very merry.

'Four pounds!' he exclaimed. 'Think yourself lucky if you get ten

shillings. I will give you fifteen.'

It was a terrible disappointment, but at the time it did not occur to me

to doubt the man's good faith. I came to the conclusion that I had

ignorantly over-valued my property, and at least fifteen shillings would

be better than nothing.

'Very well,' I answered, and, placing the watch and chain on a shelf

behind him, the man opened a drawer under the counter. While he slowly

counted out the money in silver, I happened to glance at the window. In

a moment my eyes seemed to be riveted by those of the tramp, whose

existence I had quite forgotten. He stood outside the shop, watching me

with the greatest intentness, and suddenly I felt afraid, and wished he

had gone on his way, and left me to go mine. I spent as long a time as

possible counting the money and putting it in my knickerbockers' pocket,

but when I at last left the shop the tramp was still staring in at the

window.

Still, he took no notice of me as I walked away from the door, not even

turning his head. With money in my pocket, my appetite suddenly became

urgent, and seeing a coffee-shop a little further down the street, I

entered and sat down at a table, which sadly required scrubbing. An

untidy girl came to ask what I wanted, but when I suggested a chop--for

'chops and steaks' was painted over the window--she said I could only

have eggs and bacon.

'I will have some eggs and bacon,' I answered.

'Poached or boiled?' she asked.

'Poached, please.'

'Tea or coffee?' she suggested.

'Coffee,' I replied, and, after waiting ten minutes or longer, I was

supplied with a plate of hot eggs and bacon, a thick slice of bread, and

a cup of coffee. Not in a mood to be very particular, I ate every scrap

with the greatest relish, and altogether I could not have spent less

than three-quarters of an hour in the coffee-shop. My meal cost

eightpence, and its effect was to make me feel extremely lazy and

sleepy; but, having a long day before me, I determined to find some

shady spot and rest for an hour or two until the heat of the day had

passed. Then I would push along until I was about twenty miles from

Castlemore, when I must find a lodging for the night.

(_Continued on page 44._)

[Illustration: "The horse nearly carried the King into the French

lines."]

GEORGE II. AT DETTINGEN.

At the battle of Dettingen, George II. was on horseback, and rode

forward to reconnoitre the enemy. The horse, frightened by the

cannonading, ran away with the King, and nearly carried him into the

midst of the French lines. Fortunately, however, one of the attendants

succeeded in stopping him. An ensign seized the horse's bridle, and

enabled the King to dismount.

'Now that I am on my own legs,' said he, 'I am sure that I shall not run

away.'

The King then abandoned his horse, and fought on foot at the head of his

Hanoverian battalions. With his sword drawn and his body placed in the

attitude of a fencing-master who is about to make a lunge, he continued

to expose himself without flinching to the enemy's fire, and in bad

English, but with the utmost pluck and spirit, called to his men to come

on.

This was the last occasion upon which a sovereign of Great Britain was

under the fire of an enemy.

MY FRIEND.

Who is my friend? Not he who seeks

By flattery to sway;

Who, whether I be good or bad,

Gives me his praise alway.

Who is my friend? Not he who frowns

On me when I am wrong,

But never gives encouragement

To make me glad and strong.

Who is my friend? 'Tis he who makes

My highest good his aim;

Whose love sincere is shown alike

In praise or wholesome blame.

E. DYKE.

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

I.--'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'[1]

The scene of this story is laid at Land's End in Cornwall, or, to be

precise, to the west of the little village of Sennen Cove, and the time

chosen is toward the end of last century.

The month of the year was November, and the night was wild and

tempestuous, so that the storm beat against the little thatched cottage

in one room of which a woman was dying. Gathered about her bed was her

husband, Owen Tresilian, and their son Philip and daughter Mary. We pass

over the sad scene connected with the death of Mrs. Tresilian, just

referring to her last words to the father of her children. There had

been times in Owen's life when, finding himself without means and

without work, with want staring himself, his wife, and his family, in

the face, he had resorted to bad ways of obtaining money. He would never

have yielded to the temptation had it not been for the persuasive words

and occasionally the threats of his mates. Many of these men were

wreckers; that is to say, they deliberately placed on the coast false

lights which lured passing ships to destruction. It was from the wrecks

of the disabled vessels that they gathered up the treasures carried to

them by the waves, and it was known that one or two of the more

desperate characters among them had not hesitated to throw back into the

water the poor unfortunate creatures whom they had lured to destruction,

as they struggled to reach the shore. Owen, indeed, had never gone thus

far, but he had participated in their illicit gains, and had himself

helped to kindle the lights that were to wreck the boats. His dying

wife, whose trouble when she heard of this was very great, had made him

promise that whatever might occur after her death, he would never again

be guilty of such wicked work. He had promised her faithfully that none

should ever force him again to engage in such undertakings, and he had

added solemnly, 'They may kill me first, but I would rather starve than

do it.' Scarcely had she finished speaking to husband and children, when

wild shouts were heard outside the cottage, from the midst of the storm,

'Come on, men! come on--a wreck! a wreck!' Lights passed the little

windows, and the clatter of many feet along the path close by told the

family what manner of men were about.

The story goes on to tell how Owen, after his wife's death, his son

Philip and his daughter Mary, endeavoured to lead lives very different

from those of the greater number of their neighbours. They had come

under the influence of Wesley's teaching, and were not afraid to let it

be seen that they wished to honour God and keep His commandments. Owen's

mates, who had known him in the days when he had thought very much as

they did, left no stone unturned to show their ill-will to him and his

family now that so marked a change had taken place. There was in the

village a certain Arthur Pendrean. He was the son of old Squire

Pendrean, who had at first greatly opposed his son's wish to become a

clergyman. On one occasion, when Wesley had been preaching in the

village, and had been in danger from the rough crowd, Arthur, then but a

boy, had been so indignant at their behaviour, that he had rushed

forward with the intention of placing himself between the old man and

his rough assailants.

A few days later this story reached the Squire's ears, who, in a violent

passion, sent for his son and told him that if he ever went near the

Methodists again, he would disinherit him and turn him out of doors. A

few years later, when, between sixteen and seventeen years of age, the

youth left school, he told his father boldly that he wished to go to

Oxford, and that he intended to become a clergyman. The boy had a hard

time of it before he won the old Squire's consent, but in time leave was

given.

Arthur Pendrean had from the first taken a keen interest in the

Tresilian family, and had watched most carefully over Philip. He was

aware of the ill-will felt by the rest of the villagers towards his

charges, and made it no secret that he was one of the sternest opponents

of the evil practice of wrecking. It was well known that Arthur had set

his face against their evil designs, and that it was his determination

to have a lighthouse built, no matter at what cost, to warn off ships

from this doubly dangerous spot. The worst-disposed among the men would

have made short work of the young clergyman could they have had their

way and escaped consequences. At least, they would prevent, if it lay in

their power, the carrying out of his cherished plan, the erection of a

lighthouse. It was perhaps natural that hating the 'parson,' they should

not feel kindly disposed towards those who closely followed his advice

and over whom he so carefully watched. It was in these circumstances

that the following occurrences took place. Arthur was about to ride to

St. Sennen one Sunday morning, when his faithful old servant, Roger,

came up to him and said, 'I hear, Mr. Arthur, that a cutter with a

press-gang on board is at anchor off Sennen Cove. Sunday is a favourite

day for those chaps to land; they always find the men at home then, and

so they are easier to catch. I thought I would warn you about it, sir,

because their game is to carry off all the men and lads who are called

Methodists.'

'This is bad news,' Arthur had replied. 'I knew a press-gang was in the

neighbourhood, but never thought of their coming our way. I will gallop

down to Sennen Cove at once.'

Arrived at the Cove, Arthur found everything as usual, the cutter lying

quietly at anchor and a few men and boys sitting or lying lazily on the

beach watching her, and speculating as to the intentions of those on

board.

On Sunday afternoon we again see the young curate; we hear his stern

voice as he asks a group of six stalwart men, 'What are you doing here,

men? Take your hands off those lads at once; what right have you to drag

them away?' We see the men, furious at this repulse, falling upon Arthur

from behind and dragging him to the ground, and Philip with him. The

young clergyman, brave man that he was, was no match for six assailants

at once, and was of course unable to withstand the combined attack.

Promising Philip that he would have him released when he reached

Plymouth, for he was under seventeen, and handing him as a memento a

small Testament, and commending him to the care of God, he was obliged

to witness the rowing away of the boat that carried his young charge

every minute farther out of sight.

Philip's capture would not have been brought about had it not been for

the ill designs of the youths of his own age who were no friends to

Arthur Pendrean. The scheme for decoying him into the immediate

neighbourhood of the press-gang belonged to two of the worst characters

in the village. But we will not enter into details of their scheming. It

is enough to know that for the time being their wicked designs were

successful, and we find Philip within a very short time on board the

_Royal Sovereign_, one of the finest line-of-battle ships in Earl Howe's

fleet.

The trouble and grief of his father and little sister when they learned

what had happened was great. Owen at first refused all comfort. It was

in vain that Mr. Pendrean promised to spare no pains to bring the lad

home again: the bereaved father would not be comforted. It was in this

state of mind that he set out for Falmouth, accompanied by Arthur

Pendrean, as they thought it not improbable that the cutter might put

into this port before proceeding to Plymouth. Her crew were, however,

too wide awake, and the press-gang too anxious to secure prize-money, to

run any risk of losing those whom they had captured, and pressed for his

Majesty's navy; they therefore made straight for the fleet. How Philip

Tresilian subsequently fought in the battle of the first of June, how he

saw for the first time and understood something of the horrors of war,

are all graphically described by the author.

(_Concluded on page 42._)

FOOTNOTE:

[1] This favourite book is by James F. Cobb. (Wells Gardner, Darton, &

Co., London.)

[Illustration: "He told his son he would disinherit him and turn him out

of doors."]

[Illustration: "She was just high enough, and could light the lamps."]

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

I.--'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'

(_Concluded from page 39._)

We shall now take a peep at the lighthouse and its first watcher. 'That

will never be finished,' said one of the wreckers, when he saw the work

slowly progressing on the lonely rock at Land's End. But it was

finished. Arthur Pendrean wrote to many rich ship-owners in London and

elsewhere, and at length, by the aid of their money and the toil of

skilful workmen, a light began to burn in the Longships Lighthouse on

September 29, 1795. Those were early days of lighthouses, and experience

had hardly yet proved the risk and the danger of leaving one man alone

on a solitary rock to attend to the lights, often cut off for days, or

even weeks, from all communication with the shore. In these days things

are very different. Three men, and sometimes four, are appointed to take

charge of lighthouses, such as the Longships, Eddystone, and others.

One night a furious gale from the south-west raged along the coast; many

were the watchers at Sennen and other villages along the shore, keeping

a sharp look-out for wrecks; but whether owing to the lighthouse or to

the fact that there were not many vessels about just then, the evil

hopes of those who were longing to profit by the misfortunes of others

were frustrated. Owen felt very anxious about the lonely

lighthouse-keeper, whom he could not help thinking of as trimming his

lamps on the solitary rock with the roar of the ocean around and below

him. He knew that one who had not been there could not possibly have any

idea of the awful noise on the Longships Rock occasioned by the roaring

and the raging of the waves in the caverns underneath. We cannot stay to

describe all that Jordan, the lighthouse-keeper, in his loneliness

experienced, nor to tell how the waves, leaping above the lighthouse,

sometimes completely covered it. We see him as he walks about, now up

and now down, almost terrified by the fierce yells and shrieks which

fell upon his ears, and at last watch him, in despair, fling himself

upon his bed. Oh, that he had never been tempted to come to this

accursed, haunted rock--for haunted he felt certain it was! Like most

sailors, he was more or less superstitious, and the angry roar in the

caverns beneath sounded to him like the roar of hundreds of imprisoned

wild beasts, until, by-and-by, losing all his presence of mind, his hair

turns white in a single night with terror, and he becomes a maniac. It

was thus that Arthur Pendrean found him several days later, when,

seeing, to his great grief, that the lamps were unlit, he put out to

learn the cause in a little boat manned by Owen and one or two of his

friends. How Owen and the others failed to effect a landing on the

rock, and how the brave young clergyman made a bold leap, springing

safely upon a projecting ledge of the Longships, is all thrillingly told

in the chapter headed 'A Hazardous Voyage and a Bold Leap.'

Perhaps the most surprising part of the story is the bravery of Mary

Tresilian, Philip's little sister, who, although only a child, when she

sees that no man can be found to undertake the dangerous and difficult

work of keeping the lamps lit on the Longships, begs her father most

earnestly to himself undertake the task, and permit her to accompany

him. At first he would not hear of it, neither would Arthur Pendrean;

but the child pleaded so earnestly and fearlessly that, in the end, no

one else coming forward to undertake the duty, they yielded to her

prayers. And so we find the light burning again in the lighthouse,

thanks to the courage and unselfishness of a brave little girl.

'Trust me, I will be a match for them, somehow or other,' said Nichols,

when he knew who the new lighthouse-keepers were. 'I have an old grudge

against that Tresilian, and I mean to pay him out. As to that parson,

you all know what I think of him.'

'Well, John, there's many a chap here will be glad enough to help you,'

said Pollard.

A very exciting chapter is that entitled 'A New Conspiracy,' which tells

how Owen, coming ashore with some fish, was waylaid by a ruthless gang

of wreckers and smugglers, who tied him up as a prisoner, and would have

left him to starve had it not been for one of them with a little more

heart than the rest, who cut the cords that bound his wrists, seeing

there was no chance of his escape from the cavern into which they thrust

him, bolting and barring the gate that closed it. A more wretched

dungeon could scarcely be imagined. Dark even in brilliant noon-day,

damp and dripping with slimy sea-weed, the ground full of pools of

stagnant sea water, the air so chilly that it seemed to freeze one to

the very bones, such was the place to which these cowardly enemies

consigned the unfortunate man. And he? His thoughts were of his little

child. Truly his troubles were great; his wife was dead, his son torn

from him, and now his daughter, his only child, doomed, as he thought,

to a terrible fate, while he, her father, was a prisoner and powerless

to help her. But was he powerless? Could he not pray? It was this

thought that caused him to fall on his knees in his lonely prison and

entreat protection for her from the Father in heaven.

And Mary, what was she doing? At first, when she found that her father

did not come back, she gave way to grief. The darkness coming on and the

tempest rising, with trembling hands she tried to make a fire. Suddenly

the thought struck her that the lamps were not lit, and she determined,

brave child that she was, to light them herself. She had often watched

her father do it, and she knew how. She stood on tip-toe to reach the

lamps, but they were far, far above her. Nothing daunted, she piled one

thing above another until every article that she could lay hold of was

in use except the old Bible. Being a very reverent little girl, she

could not bear the idea of treading on the Holy Book; but, at last, when

she had reflected that her standing on the book for the purpose she had

in view, the saving of the lives of many poor sailors, could do it no

harm, she placed it reverently on the top of the pile, and above it,

that she might not tread directly on to it, a large basin. And now she

was just high enough, and found, to her great delight, that she could

light the lamps. Great was the surprise of Nichols and his companions

when they saw, as they ascended rising ground with their false light,

the bright rays of light streaming out from the Longships. For a minute

or two they could say nothing; then a volley of wicked words proceeded

from them.

'Who would have thought it? That child has managed to light the lamps,

and there they are burning as brightly as ever.'

'Who would have thought it indeed?' exclaimed Nichols. 'If it had ever

entered my head that the girl would have been up to those tricks, I'd

have rowed out in Tresilian's boat, carried her off from the lighthouse,

and locked her up with her father; and now here's all my fine plan

spoiled.'

For the beautiful ending of this attractive story, of Owen's release and

Philip's rescue from drowning by his own father, and of the punishment

that befell the wicked men who occasioned the deaths of so many brave

fellows, we can only say that our young readers should go to the book

itself, where they will find these facts all set forth in a thoroughly

interesting manner. To-day a new lighthouse stands on the Longships, and

the light shines out at an elevation of one hundred and ten feet above

high-water mark, and is visible at a distance of eighteen miles.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

II.--SOME WEAPONS OF OFFENCE.

The sting of the bee and the lancet of the gnat, although fashioned of

very different materials, bear a close likeness in their mechanism. In

each case the piercing organ is, in the first place, a gouge-like weapon

which prepares the way for more delicate lancets. But in the spider we

find a very different piece of machinery for the injection of the

poison. It is formed by a pair of peculiarly modified legs which act as

jaws, and are armed each with a powerful claw, at the tip of which, as

in the poison-fang of the viper, is a small hole. Out of this hole a

drop of poison oozes when the prey is seized, and this has the effect of

paralysing the victim. The poison is formed in a curious bag, or 'gland'

(G.L), which communicates with the claw by means of a long tube or duct.

Many people feel a remarkable repugnance or even dread for spiders.

This, in many cases at least, is due to the supposed venom in their

bite. Yet, except the famous 'Tarantula,' no spiders really inflict a

painful wound. Tales of fearsome black spiders are common enough. One of

the spiders known as 'line weavers' is reputed to have a very poisonous

bite. To test the truth of this, one authority on spiders repeatedly

allowed himself to be bitten, yet suffered no inconvenience! In the

early and barbarous days of medical practice, a spider was frequently

applied to the wrists of patients suffering from fever.

Even the virulence of the dreaded Tarantula's bite has been greatly

exaggerated. It was supposed to cause the disease known as Tarantism:

the victim was seized with a mad desire to dance. The mania, while it

lasted, was accompanied with leaping, contortions, gesticulations, and

wild cries, until finally the fit of hysteria, for such it was, wore

itself out. The methods of treatment were many and curious. One of the

most favoured was to bury the patient up to the neck! But the dulcet

strains of music were believed to be the most powerful of all cures, and

certain peculiar tunes came to be regarded as especially effective, and

hence became known as Tarantella!

Parts of India now desert are said to have been deprived of their

inhabitants through the dread caused by certain huge spiders known as

the Galeodes. Their bite is without doubt extremely painful, and may

cause violent headache, fainting fits, or even temporary paralysis.

Camels and sheep are sometimes so severely bitten by these spiders that

death results.

Occasionally the spider catches a Tartar, for wasps and bees now and

again get entangled in the web spread for more helpless victims. Rushing

out in a blind fury, the spider closes with his captive, and then

follows a fight to the death. Sometimes the spider wins, but as often as

not the sting of his would-be victim is thrust home with deadly effect,

for the soft and pulpy body of the spider offers a target not easily

missed.

* * * * *

There is a saying that we should 'eat to live,' but the dragon-flies

seem to have reversed this rule, for they appear almost to 'live to

eat,' their appetites being enormous. This is especially true of the

larval or infantile stages of growth, and the manner of capturing their

prey is peculiar.

Readers of _Chatterbox_, who combine a love of natural history with a

fondness for boating, have probably many a time watched the gauze-winged

dragon-fly hawking for flies. But how many have realised that, below the

surface of the stream, the coming generation of dragon-flies was waging

a precisely similar war--a war, too, even more relentless? The

full-fledged dragon-fly cannot bring himself to venture out, even to

eat, unless the sun be shining; but the budding dragon-fly has not yet

learnt to be so particular, and hunts incessantly, be the weather fine

or wet. The apparatus by which his prey is captured cannot, however, be

easily described. The mouth of an insect is made up of many separate

parts, and that which in other insects forms the 'under-lip,' is in the

young dragon-fly peculiarly modified to form what is known as the

'mask.' This remarkable piece of apparatus may be compared to a pair of

nippers mounted on a jointed and freely movable handle. When not in use

these nippers are kept folded up close under the head; but as soon as

prey comes within reach, the nippers flash out, and the victim is seized

and brought to the powerful jaws, where it is rapidly torn to pieces.

The weapons of offence of the spider and dragon-fly larva differ in one

important particular from those of the bee and the water-bug, and

similar insects: the former are used for the capture of victims intended

as food, whilst the latter are employed, in the case of the bee, for

attack or defence; and in the case of the water-bug for robbing the

animal or plant of a small and quite insignificant quantity of its

blood, or sap, as the case may be.

W. P. PYCRAFT, A.L.S., F.Z.S.

[Illustration:

1. Young Dragon-Fly and "Mask" (magnified).

2. Dragon-fly.

3. Poison Gland of Spider (much magnified).

4. Spider and Bee Fighting.]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 38._)

Thoughts of the ill-favoured tramp had once or twice come into my head

while I ate my eggs and bacon, but, perhaps as one result of the meal, I

felt very little doubt that he had by this time got some distance ahead,

while the rest which I had determined to take would allow him to leave

me still further behind. On coming into the street again, however, I

took the precaution to look to the right and left, and rejoiced to see

no sign of the man. The houses of Broughton soon grew farther and

farther apart, but I had to walk a mile or more without seeing any

tempting resting-place. The sun was very hot, and my legs were beginning

to ache, when, at the foot of a slight hill, I saw that the road was

edged on each side by a thick wood, whose shade looked particularly

inviting. As soon as I reached the shade, I found that I was not alone,

for sitting in the road were two men wearing wire spectacles and

breaking stones with a hammer. They paid not the slightest attention to

me, while, for my part, I felt rather glad of their presence. The shade

made the spot seem more lonely than the road I had as yet traversed, so

that I stepped into the wood on my right with a pleasant feeling of

security. A few yards from the road I lay down at the foot of a large

beech-tree, and resting my head on my bag, after listening for a few

minutes to the ring of the hammers in the road, I must have fallen

asleep. On reopening my eyes I instinctively felt for my watch, and when

I realised that I should never see it again, it seemed that I had lost a

familiar friend. The sun now shone lower in the sky, and it must in any

case be time that I continued my journey.

Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I walked towards the road, when what

was my dismay to see the tramp, who I imagined had long left me behind,

seated by the roadside, smoking a very short, black pipe and gazing

silently at the stone-breakers. Although he took no notice of my

presence, I now began to wonder whether he had deliberately followed me

from Broughton, or whether his presence in this shady part of the road

was merely a chance coincidence. It was quite possible that he had

hidden himself while I was in the coffee-shop, watched me from its door,

and set forth in my wake. If this were the case, his purpose seemed

scarcely doubtful, for he had certainly seen me receive the money for my

watch and chain.

[Illustration: "His left hand gripped the collar of my jacket."]

Still, it was not possible to stay where I was all day, so reluctantly

turning my back on the stone-breakers, I walked on, trying to hope that,

after all, the tramp might be perfectly harmless in spite of his evil

appearance. Though strongly tempted to look behind and ascertain whether

he was following or not, I warned myself that it would be wiser to

appear to take no notice, till, at last, when the stone-breakers must

have been half a mile to the rear, I looked back, and saw, to my horror,

that the tramp was still dogging my steps.

CHAPTER VI.

Half panic-stricken for the moment, I quickened my pace; but when I

looked behind again ten minutes later, it appeared that the tramp had

lessened the distance between us.

It now began to seem like a nightmare. There was no prospect of getting

away from my pursuer. If I hastened, he walked faster, and I no longer

felt the least doubt that his intention was to rob me. Although the road

was little frequented, it was by no means deserted. An occasional

bicyclist would pass, or a waggon, or a dog-cart, while here and there

stood farm-houses and cottages by the way-side.

I believed that the tramp would dog my steps until dark, and that in the

meantime he would not allow me out of his sight. Yet, until the present,

I had no actual cause for complaint, and when I met a policeman, there

seemed no excuse for referring to the tramp's existence. Feeling bound

to speak to the policeman, however, I stopped to inquire the time, and

he eyed me curiously as he took out his watch. My clothes were by this

time covered with dust, and no doubt I appeared a disreputable figure.

'Five past five,' said the policeman. I must have slept in the wood

longer than I had thought.

'Thank you,' I answered, and he passed on, greatly to my regret.

The finger-posts told me that a place named Polehampton lay ahead, but I

would not inquire the distance, and so tell the policeman that I did not

know much about my destination. But when I fancied he must be close to

the tramp, I looked back, just in time to see them exchange a nod in

passing.

Every time I looked behind after this, my pursuer appeared to be gaining,

although he took care not to overtake me. He could easily have done so

had he wished, because I was becoming extremely tired, the more, no

doubt, because of the fear which oppressed me. As this gained strength,

I did the worst thing possible--playing, as it were, into the tramp's

hands if his purpose was what I suspected. But this walk along the

straight, open road as evening fell became gradually more and more

unbearable. I even began to ask myself whether it could be actually a

nightmare, and I should presently awake to find myself in bed at Ascot

House, scarcely knowing which would be preferable.

Seeing a stile leading to a field-path on my right, I suddenly determined

to climb over it, and though I had no notion whither it lead, to take to

my heels, regardless of everything but the chance of leaving the tramp

behind. In a second I was over, and, doubling my fists, began to run.

There were some cattle in the field, and the path appeared to end at

another stile, beyond which was a plantation of chestnut-trees. To the

left, beyond a hedge, lay a large plot of waste ground; to the right, a

dense wood, where I could hear some pigeons cooing.

I did not stay to look back until I reached the farther stile, a good

deal out of breath, and then, to my intense relief, I saw nobody in the

path. I persuaded myself that the tramp must have reached the first

stile before now, and that, as there was no sign of him, he had gone on

his way. Perhaps, I thought, as I climbed over the second stile, I had

wronged the man after all, and had simply been the prey of my own

timidity. Resting on the top of the stile a moment, I began to look

around. In front was a narrow path through the chestnut plantation, and

it must lead somewhere, though I knew not where. But I determined to

follow it, thus making a slight divergence from the main road, and

finding a way back to it to-morrow. Meantime, I might come to a village,

where it would be possible to obtain some supper and a bed. So,

rejoicing to have shaken off my nightmare, I sprang to the ground on the

other side of the stile, when immediately I felt a hand on my collar,

and saw the dark eyes of the tramp once more peering into my own.

He had, of course, dived into the wood when he saw me climb over the

first stile, and, cutting off the corner, had been coolly awaiting my

arrival. On the whole, I think that being in his grasp was almost

preferable to the feeling that he was dogging my steps. His left hand

gripped the collar of my jacket and flannel shirt, and instantly I began

to wriggle, twisting my leg about his own in an attempt to bring him to

the ground; but the man was of enormous strength, and, freeing himself,

he shook me as a terrier shakes a rat, until I felt there was little

breath left in my body.

Yet I did not give in without another struggle. I knew that he would

take every penny I possessed, and that there was nothing else on which

to raise any money. I was still nearly ninety miles from London, and

already ready for another meal. I butted my head into his stomach, I

struck out madly with my fists, I writhed and kicked, until, raising his

right arm, he brought down his fist on my head, and after that I knew

nothing for some time.

When I regained consciousness, I lay in the plantation about two yards

from the path, just where I had been flung, I suppose. My head and body

seemed to ache all over, but, on attempting to rise to my feet, I found

no difficulty, beyond a slight giddiness. My bag had disappeared, my

knickerbocker pocket, which had contained my total capital of fourteen

shillings and eightpence, was sticking out empty, and, of course, there

was no sign of the tramp. Walking to the stile, I found that my left

ankle pained me, although not very severely; I could also see in the

lessening light that my clothes were considerably torn.

So hopeless appeared the outlook that I confess I rested my arms on the

top of the stile, buried my face on them and sobbed, until the

increasing darkness warned me that crying would not provide a bed for

the night. A bed for the night! But how could I obtain a bed without

money? Still, it was not practicable to remain where I was, while I

thought it would be better to take my chance through the plantation than

to return to the road, where I might even meet the tramp again.

Certainly, whichever direction I followed, I had no wish to walk very

far. I had never felt quite so worn out in my life, as I continued my

way through the plantation and a field beyond, the gate of which opened

into a pleasant country lane. Here I turned to the right, as the main

road lay to the left, and I had not walked many yards before I reached a

pretty farm-house, standing well back, with a barn on its left, in which

some cows were lowing. The sky was by this time of a dark blue, and one

small star twinkled. I could not help looking rather longingly at the

cosy house, and, while I looked, a lamp was carried into one of the

front rooms and a red blind was drawn down. However, it was no use

lingering there, so I walked on beside a hedge, fragrant with

honeysuckle, past one or two fields, until I came to a black gate with

something shadowy behind it. Stopping by the gate, I saw that the object

in the field was part of a haystack, one side being cut into a kind of

terrace. Four black calves came to the gate, but they turned tail and

trotted away again as I put my leg over the top rail, for I at once made

up my mind that there would be no better place to sleep than the

haystack. The night was fine and hot, and my body ached to such a degree

that I felt I could sleep anywhere.

(_Continued on page 54._)

TAKE CARE OF THE DAYS.

The little days come, one by one,

And smile into our face;

Each hath its dawn and set of sun,

Each hath its little place.

Then scorn them not, but use them well,

Treat each one as a friend;

Neglect them not! We cannot tell

How soon our days may end.

Heed not the years! Make _every day_

With love and labour fair;

The years, then, as they roll away,

Will need no further care.

E. D.

THE CAPTAIN'S TURN FIRST.

The captain of a merchant ship, on being appointed to a new vessel,

heard that his crew had a very bad name for the use of oaths. He

determined to put an end to bad language on his ship, and, knowing how

hard it would be to do so by the mere exercise of authority, thought of

a novel plan which was entirely successful. He summoned the men and

addressed them thus:

'I want to ask you all a favour, and I know that British sailors will

hardly refuse a favour to their new captain. It is my duty to take the

lead in everything, and especially in one thing. Now, will you grant me

my favour?'

'Aye, aye, sir,' said the men, not knowing what he would ask.

'It is this, then. I want to take the lead in swearing, and to use the

first oath on board this ship, before any of you begin to swear.'

The men were at first surprised at the strange request, but they soon

recovered and gave the captain a rousing cheer. Needless to say, the

captain's oath was never uttered, and so the men had no excuse for

swearing.

SAVED BY TWENTY GUINEAS.

Thanks to his quickness of brain and fleetness of foot, M. de B----, a

French Royalist officer, was able to use a well-known device and so

effect an escape from imminent death.

On a certain memorable morning, sixty-nine brave soldiers were executed

by the Republicans. The story of these deaths, and of one remarkable

escape, is related by a fellow-prisoner who witnessed the scene.

At nine o'clock in the morning the prisoners were startled by the

entrance of a Republican officer, who held a piece of paper in his hand,

and was attended by an escort of about twenty soldiers. As he came in he

announced:

'Citizens! you are to accompany me. Those whose names I shall call will

not return to this place. As I read out the roll, let each one named

range himself on the right-hand side.'

The men obeyed this order in silence; no one knew what it meant, and all

feared the worst. Only two names were excepted from the roll; the other

prisoners, seventy in number, stood in line, awaiting their unknown

fate.

'The word was given to march,' says the narrator, 'and the whole

seventy-two of us, guarded by a large number of Republican soldiers,

filed out from the gloomy gaol. We were taken to the seashore, where a

halt was made; then the officer in charge read the death-sentence,

adding, as he turned to us--the two whose names were excepted from the

fatal list--these words:

'"These others will not be sentenced until further evidence has been

heard, but they will be present at the execution of those condemned."

'The unhappy men were then and there shot, one by one. This work of

horror went on for an hour, and we, whose time had not yet come, were

forced to stand by, fully expecting that the same fate would shortly be

our own.

'Sixty-nine had fallen, and at last came the turn of De B----. The four

men told off to shoot him said, "We are extremely sorry to do this, but

it is the law, and we cannot help ourselves; and now, if you have any

money about you, please bestow it upon us."

'A happy thought flashed through the Royalist's brain. "I have twenty

guineas," he replied calmly, "but I do not desire to cause any jealousy

amongst you. I will therefore fling down the coins, and let each one get

what he can."

'With a dexterous movement of his hand he sent the golden coins spinning

in all directions. The soldiers, in their greedy eagerness, forgot the

prisoner for a moment, and scrambled for the money; this was what M. de

B---- had reckoned on. As he was an excellent runner, taking to his

heels, he promptly fled, got safely away, and was never recaptured.'

[Illustration: "The soldiers forgot the prisoner, and scrambled for the

money."]

[Illustration: "'Fight against my country! Not for the ransom of a

king!'"]

THE ADMIRAL AND THE FISHERMAN.

M. de Tourville, a French Admiral who lived in the beginning of King

William the Third's reign, proposed to make a descent on the English

coast, and, as his intention was to land somewhere in Sussex, he sent

for a fisherman, a native of that county, who had been taken prisoner by

one of his ships, in hopes of obtaining some useful information

concerning the state of the Government. He asked the fisherman to whom

his countrymen were most attached, to King James or to the Prince of

Orange, styled King William.

The poor man, confounded by these questions, made the Admiral this

reply: 'I have never heard of the gentlemen you mention; they may be

very good lords for anything I know; they never did me any harm, and so

God bless them both. As for the Government, how should I know anything

about it, since I can neither read nor write? All I have to do is to

take care of my boat and my nets, and sell my fish.'

'Then, since you are indifferent to both parties,' said the Admiral,

'and are a good mariner, you can have no objection to serve on board my

ship.'

'I fight against my country!' answered the fisherman, with great vigour.

'No, not for the ransom of a king!'

W. Y.

GOOD-NIGHT, GOOD-DAY!

We got up to welcome the swallows

This morning as soon as the sun;

Then over the hills and the hollows

We went for a beautiful run.

The daisies were ready to meet us--

All over the meadows they grew;

But now we must say:

'Good-night, O good-day!

We've been very happy with you.'

We sang with the busy bees humming

O'er blossoms too bright to forget,

And when the soft breezes were coming

We saw the grass bow as they met.

Oh, may all the hearts that have known you

Now beat with a pleasure like ours,

And cheerfully say:

'Good-night, O good-day!

And thank you for sunshine and flowers.'

JOHN LEA.

WHALEBONE.

Many thrilling stories have been written about the dangers of

whale-fishing. The perils and hardships of whaling expeditions are

braved in order that we may be supplied principally with two

things--whale-oil and whalebone. If you can learn what whalebone is, and

what is its use, you will know a good deal about the habits of the whale

itself.

The substance which we call whalebone is not true bone. It would be much

more correct to call it whales' teeth, as it occupies the same position

as teeth, and, in a measure, serves the same purpose. Moreover, the

whale has a skeleton of true bones underlying its flesh, and serving as

a framework for its huge, bulky body. These bones are very light and

porous, and this is a great advantage to the whale, which spends most of

its time floating upon the surface of the water without having to make

much effort.

There are numerous kinds of whales, and they do not all yield the

substance which we call whalebone. The sperm whale, or cachalot, has

teeth in its lower jaw, and no whalebone whatever. The Greenland whale,

on the other hand, which is the one most sought after for its oil, has

no teeth, but abundance of whalebone, which hangs from the sides of its

upper jaw.

In order to get some idea of what this whalebone is like as it hangs in

the whale's mouth, we must try to picture what the whale itself is like.

The largest of them grow to something like sixty feet in length. The

head is unusually large, and forms about one-third of the whole body,

and the inside of the mouth is about as large as a ship's cabin or a

very small room. The strips of whalebone, which reach from the upper jaw

to the lower one, must, therefore, be very large. The largest strips,

which hang in the middle of the jaws, are rather like large planks,

being from ten to fifteen feet long, and about twelve inches across at

their widest part. They are thinner than planks, however, and perhaps we

might better compare them to long and broad saw-blades. There are

altogether about three hundred of these whalebone planks or blades in

the whale's mouth. They are set transversely--that is to say, one narrow

edge of each piece touches the tongue, while the other edge lies against

the cheek or lip. They lie so close together that from the middle of the

edge of one blade to the middle of the edge of the next the distance is

less than an inch, and yet there is a space between them. The whole set

extends like a huge grate round the whale's mouth, the bars of whalebone

being long in the middle of the sides of the jaws, and growing shorter

near the back and front.

Whalebone is very fibrous or stringy, and it splits very readily. The

lower ends of the pieces in the whale's mouth are split and frayed into

stiff bristles, and the inner edges are frayed in the same way, while

the outer edges are made smooth, so that they do not hurt the inside of

the animal's lips. The roof of the whale's mouth is covered with smaller

pieces of whalebone hanging down like bristled quills. Many of these are

only a few inches long, but they make the whole of the upper part of the

whale's mouth rough and bristly.

The creature's tongue is an enormous one, often measuring six yards long

and three yards wide. Its throat, however, is so small that sailors

often say a herring would choke it. What can be the use of such a large

mouth and tongue, and such large bars of whalebone to a creature which

has so small a throat?

On the surface of the Arctic Sea, where the whale lives, there are

swarms of living creatures. Some of these are jelly-fish, like those

which are often left upon the sea-shore when the tide goes out. But one

of the commonest of these lowly animals is a little soft-bodied

creature about an inch and a half long, which moves along through the

water with the help of two organs like wings or paddles. It is called

the _Clio borealis_, and it is very rarely seen near the shore. It is

upon these creatures that the whale feeds. Opening its mouth wide, it

rushes through the sea, and takes in a crowd of these soft-bodied

animals, along with the water in which they are swimming. Closing its

mouth, it drives out the water through its plates of whalebone, and the

little creatures are caught in the bristles as in a net. Its great

tongue is lifted up, and crushes them all into soft pulp, which is

easily swallowed, even down the whale's small throat.

Thus every part of the whale's mouth is altered to suit its strange mode

of feeding. The hard teeth, which would be of no use for biting small

pulpy animals, are done away with, and a new growth of whalebone

appears, which is of the utmost service in catching the whale its food.

Whalebone has been used for many purposes. It is split up into little

pieces, and used for light frameworks, which are required to be stiff,

but, at the same time, elastic. It used to be used for the ribs of

umbrellas and for ladies' hoops. It was also split very small and used

for the bristles of brushes. But it is now becoming scarce, and other

substances are generally used in its place.

W. A. ATKINSON.

SAVED BY THE ENEMY.

The following story of the Crimean War, told by the Russian author,

Turgenieff, is well authenticated.

A young Russian Lieutenant, named Sergius Ivanovitch, was one cold night

with an attacking party whose object was to drive a body of French

soldiers from their position in front of the Russian lines. Wishing to

be as free from hindrances as possible, this young lieutenant did not

take his military cloak.

The French proved to be well posted on the edge of a wood. At the end of

a desperate fight, the Russians were forced to retreat, leaving behind

them their dead and wounded. Among the latter was Sergius Ivanovitch.

How he now longed for his cloak! He suffered even more from the cold

than from his wound. Although a bullet was in his leg, he knew that the

exposure, rather than the wound, would be the death of him. With many a

shiver and groan, he was trying to examine his leg, when he heard some

one say in French:

'You had better leave it alone. Be patient, and disturb your wound as

little as possible.'

The man who thus spoke was a veteran French captain, who lay close by,

more severely injured than Sergius.

'You are right, no doubt,' said the Russian; 'but I shall die of cold

before morning.'

Then the Frenchman blamed him for coming out in the snow without his

cloak. 'I have learned by experience,' said he, 'never to go out without

mine. This time, however, it will not save me, for I am mortally

wounded.'

'Your people will fetch you presently.'

'No, my dear enemy, I shall not last until help arrives. It is all over

with me, for the shot has gone deep. Here! take my cloak. Wrap yourself

up in it and sleep. One can sleep anywhere at your age.'

The young Russian protested in vain. He felt the cloak laid upon him,

and its warmth sent him to sleep.

When he awoke in the morning, the French captain lay dead at his side.

The Russian never forgot this generous act of one whom the policy of his

nation had made his enemy.

E. D.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

II.--FINGAL'S CAVE, STAFFA.

While we shall have to consider some of the most wonderful caverns of

other lands, we must not forget that Great Britain can boast of perhaps

the most beautiful cave in the world. As we are a nation of sailors, it

seems fitting that our marvellous cavern should rise directly from the

sea, and that its pavement should be the mighty ocean. It is claimed as

the most beautiful because it has the advantage of light to exhibit its

wonders, as well as the endless variety of the dancing waves to

illuminate its dark pillars with a never-ending flash of gems, as the

waters dash against its walls in storms, or lap lovingly round them in

the summer sunlight.

Fingal's Cave is one of many fringing the cliffs of the little island of

Staffa, off the coast of Mull, in Scotland. These caves are all formed

of what learned people call basalt, which means rocks moulded by the

action of fire. Basalt contains a good deal of an opaque glassy

substance, and its colour may be pale blue, dark blue, grey, brown, or

black. This rock has a special faculty for building columns with

(usually) six sides, but the form varies as much as the colour. These

pillars are divided at fairly equal distances into lengths, just as

stone pillars in a cathedral are generally built, and, wonderful to say,

the joints, when closely examined, are found to be of the cup-and-ball

pattern, on which our own bones are put into their sockets.

Basalt is usually hard and tough, and it is supposed, though with no

certainty, that the regularity of the columns is the result of the

contraction of the rock in cooling after undergoing great heat.

The name Staffa is a Scandinavian word meaning 'Pillar Island,' and no

doubt its wonders have been known from very remote times. It is quite

near the island of Iona, one of the earliest settlements of the

Christian missionaries from Ireland.

[Illustration: Fingal's Cave Staffa.]

A little distance from the shore is the tiny island of Bouchallie, or

the Herdsman, which is entirely composed of basaltic rocks of great

beauty; and from this islet a colonnade of pillars leads to the entrance

of Fingal's Cave. The mouth of the cave is forty-two feet wide, the roof

is fifty-six feet above, and the length of the cavern is two hundred and

twenty-seven feet.

All down the sides pillars line the walls, and from above hang the ends

of pendant columns. Below is the clear blue water, where even at low

tide there is a depth of eighteen feet.

Sir Walter Scott was so impressed with this marvel of Nature, that he

wrote:

'Where, as to shame the temples decked

By skill of earthly architect,

Nature herself it seemed would raise

A Minster to her Maker's praise.'

Certainly no service that human tongues could utter could surpass in

impressiveness the strains raised to the glory of the Creator by the

waves as they enter this temple of His own building, and toss aloft

their offerings of glistening water and snowy foam.

Fingal, the hero from whom the cave takes its name, was a mighty man of

renown in the legendary days of both Scotland and Ireland. He figures in

the poems of Ossian, as well as in Gaelic ballads as Fion or Fion na

Gael, and no other lore has ever been so dear to the peasants of these

countries as the record of the marvellous deeds of Fingal.

Another remarkable cave in Staffa is 'Clam-shell Cave,' which is of

immense size. It is really a huge fissure in the cliff, of which one

side is wonderfully like the ribs of a ship or the markings on a

clam-shell. This appearance is the result of immense pillars of basalt

crossing the rock in even lines.

A rough iron stairway has been put up the cliff to enable visitors to

look into the cave from above.

The 'Boat Cave' is smaller than that of Fingal, but the basaltic

formation is even more regular: this cavern runs for one hundred and

fifty feet, and is about twelve feet broad.

Indeed the whole coast of Staffa is studded with caves, into some of

which a boat can enter when the water is smooth, but this is not of very

frequent occurrence on this storm-beaten coast.

HELENA HEATH.

[Illustration: The Teal.]

THE TEAL.

What is the Teal? It is a bird once plentiful in many parts of Britain

from which it has now vanished, owing to the draining of marshes and the

cultivation of coast-lands, for it loves watery places. Being a notable

species of the duck tribe, it is a prize to the hunter of wild-fowl. Not

only is the bird thought a delicacy, but when the hunter comes upon a

party of them he can generally manage to secure several. It is a shy

bird, avoiding the abodes of mankind and large ponds or rivers. What it

likes is a still, rushy pool, or some sluggish brook overhung with

vegetation. About the South of England it is seldom observed except in

winter; occasionally it keeps company with other wild ducks when the

weather is severe. Should one of them be alarmed by the approach of a

possible enemy, while it is on a brook, it usually flies up and skims

just above the water for some distance, when it will quietly settle near

the bank, or it may drop into the water and swim away rapidly.

In their appearance the male and female birds are very different. The

male teal is particularly handsome; the head is chestnut brown, having a

glossy patch on each side; the neck and back are black, pencilled with

grey; the wings exhibit a green spot, set in velvety black, and

underneath, the colours are black and buff. But his female companion has

no bright tints; she is attired in dull black and grey, which is an

advantage to her, helping to her concealment at the period of nesting.

About July the old teals moult, and, losing for a time their quill

feathers, they are unable to fly, though able to walk and swim. Thus

deprived of their fine feathers, the male birds are less handsome, and

resemble the females till spring comes. Often in September and October

teals assemble to migrate, flocks of them flying hundreds of miles to

some winter resort, which they quit when the wonderful instinct given

them by Providence tells them to journey elsewhere to make their nests.

Teals do not like to place the nest flat on the earth, and it is

generally put on the ground rather above the marshes or streamlets, a

hollow being scraped under a small bush. One or other of the parents

lines the nest, perhaps with heather, or perhaps with fragments of

grass. Eight, nine, or ten creamy-white eggs are laid, and then the

hen-bird plucks from her body the soft down underlying the feathers,

which is put round the eggs, making a soft bed for the young when

hatched. They soon swim and run well, following their mother about as

she goes insect-hunting.

J. R. S. C.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 47._)

The haystack seemed to be cut exactly for my purpose, and, mounting step

by step, I found a terrace more than sufficiently large to allow me to

lie at full length. The scent was warm and sweet, and when I had said my

prayers, I lay staring up at the sky, watching as the stars came out one

by one. For a while, sleep would not visit me, although my head went

round and round, as it were, and I seemed to be conscious of nothing but

the tramp pursuing me along the white, dusty road. Yet I must have

fallen asleep before long, because I was suddenly awakened by the

barking of a dog.

'Heel, Tiger,' said a man's voice. 'Good dog, heel!' I still heard the

dog growl in a painfully threatening manner, then the man's voice again.

It was a somewhat rough voice, yet with a kindly note in it. 'Now,' it

said, 'whoever you are, I advise you to show yourself. I don't want to

hurt you, but if you don't show up in another minute, I shall set my dog

on to you.'

As it was, I felt in mortal dread lest Tiger should spring at me during

my descent; still, I rose to my feet, feeling still a little giddy and

confused, climbed down to the foot of the haystack, and walked a little

timidly towards the gate, where I could distinctly see the tall,

stoutly-built figure of a middle-aged man in the light of the rising

moon.

'What were you doing there?' he demanded.

'I was only asleep,' I answered.

'Think my hayrick is a proper place to sleep on?'

'I had nowhere else,' I cried.

'Well,' he said, 'come along with me, and we will have a better look at

you.'

As I walked by his side, with Tiger, a large retriever, sniffing

suspiciously at my heels, I realised that we were going in the direction

of the cosy-looking farm-house. The possibility of being offered a

comfortable bed, with a chance of taking off my clothes, and of

something to eat, seemed delightful, and, before we came within sight of

the red blind again, I had lost all fear of my companion, although he

had not opened his lips during our short walk.

He came to a standstill in front of a five-barred gate beyond the barn,

in which I could hear the cows chewing. 'Now, then,' he said, and,

without any second bidding, I entered the farmyard. 'This way,' he

continued, and the next minute he was tapping the door of the house with

his stick. It was opened by a short woman, who wore a white apron over a

dark dress, and had one of the ugliest and pleasantest faces I have ever

seen.

'Who is that?' she asked, stepping back in surprise on seeing that the

farmer was not alone.

'I went to see if the calves were all right,' was the answer, 'and the

youngster was asleep on the rick. Tiger found him out--didn't you,

Tiger?'

'Well,' said the woman, 'he looks as if something to eat would do him

good, anyhow.'

'Take him to the kitchen, Eliza,' cried the farmer, and, opening a door

to the left of the passage, she bade me enter and sit down; whereupon I

suppose I must have again fallen asleep, for I was conscious of nothing

farther until I opened my eyes, and saw Eliza in the act of placing a

tray on the deal table; on the tray I rejoiced to see a large pork chop,

a cup of hot cocoa, and a thick slice of bread.

CHAPTER VII.

My spirits seemed to rise with every mouthful of food, and I felt that I

had at last reached a haven after all the unfortunate turmoils of this

first day. Although the evening was hot, the kitchen fire seemed only to

add to the sense of comfort, and although there were no looking-glasses,

there were many things so bright that I could easily have seen my face

in them.

Eliza, who was Mr. Baker's housekeeper, watched me with evident

enjoyment, and before the plate was empty she rose to replenish it. I

felt thankful that Providence had guided me to Mr. Baker's door, and

devoutly hoped that I should not be turned away that night. I realised

instinctively that these were the sort of people who would not turn a

dog from their door if he needed succour, and by the time I had finished

my meat, and had begun to eat a large portion of apple tart with a great

many cloves in it, it appeared certain that there was shelter for one

night, at least. At last I finished the last piece of thick and rather

heavy piecrust, and sat waiting to see what would happen next.

'Now,' said Eliza, 'I should think the next thing ought to be to clean

yourself.'

'I should like it immensely,' I answered.

So she led me to a wash-house behind the kitchen, and brought a large

bowl of enamelled iron, filling it with very hot water. A cake of yellow

soap and a jack-towel were provided, and taking off my jacket and

waistcoat, I enjoyed a thoroughly good wash.

'Let me see what I can do with those,' said Eliza, taking my jacket and

waistcoat, and when she brought them back as I dried my hands they

certainly looked a little less dusty. She lent me a hard brush to brush

my knickerbockers, stockings, and boots, and although there were several

rents in my jacket, I began to feel something like a respectable member

of society again.

'Now,' cried Eliza, regarding me with evident approval, 'suppose you

come and see Mr. Baker.'

She led me to the room where I had seen her, earlier in the evening,

draw down the red blind, and he was seated in an arm-chair with a wooden

pipe in his mouth.

'Sit down,' he said, and nothing loth, for my legs still ached

painfully, I took a chair by the door. 'Now,' he continued, 'how did you

get yourself into such a state, and how is it you are wandering about

the country alone?'

'I ran away,' I answered, and Mr. Baker looked towards the door, which

Eliza had left half open.

'Eliza,' he exclaimed with a kind of chuckle, which seemed to confirm

the assurance that I had found a sympathetic listener--'Eliza,' he

shouted, 'the youngster's run away.'

'Has he, though?' said Eliza, coming to the threshold, where she

remained standing.

'From school?' he asked, and sliding down farther into his chair,

evidently prepared to enjoy my story, while Eliza stood in the doorway

with her arms folded. I told it from the beginning. Every now and then

Eliza would interrupt with an expression of sympathy, and Mr. Baker

slapped his knee when I told him how I had thrown the hair-brush at

Augustus. When I came to the end, having described the day's adventures,

the sale of my watch and chain, with the theft of the fifteen shillings

by the tramp, Mr. Baker shook his head, and looked into Eliza's

pleasant, plain face.

'Now,' he said, 'the question is what's to be done with the youngster?'

'Supposing you got to London,' she suggested, turning to me, 'what did

you think of doing?'

'I know I could do something,' I answered confidently.

'Still,' said Mr. Baker, 'you have not done much good for yourself

to-day now, have you?'

'No,' I was compelled to admit, 'not to-day.'

'And you have no money left?' cried Eliza.

'When I get to London I am going to find some work to do,' I assured

her; but she shook her head, and smiled a little sadly.

'Come to think of it,' said Mr. Baker, 'this Turton is about your only

friend.'

'I don't call him a friend,' I answered.

'Anyhow,' exclaimed Eliza, 'it is too late to do anything to-night.'

'I suppose you can make the boy up a bed somewhere?' said Mr. Baker.

'If you ask my opinion,' she replied, 'the sooner he's inside it the

better.'

'Yes; and directly after breakfast to-morrow morning,' he said, 'I shall

drive the youngster back to Castlemore.'

'Not to Mr. Turton's!' I cried.

'What else do you think I can do with you?' he asked, as Eliza went away

to prepare my bed.

'I would sooner do anything--anything,' I said, 'than go back.'

'I dare say you would,' he answered. 'Only you see there is nothing else

to be done. I can't say I believe in boys running away, but still you

seem to have been badly treated, and if you had a home, I don't say that

in the circumstances I would not see you to it safe and sound. But you

have not; and the consequence is that it is my duty to take you back.

And,' he added, solemnly, 'however severely he treats you it won't be

half so bad as what you would meet with if I let you go your own way.'

I could find nothing to answer. With all his kindness, Mr. Baker seemed

to mean what he said, and I realised that a remonstrance would be only

waste of words. Besides, I am afraid I was become cunning in my efforts

at self-preservation, and if I said nothing, I certainly thought the

more. My sleepiness seemed to have left me, and all my wits were at

work. If I could prevent him, I determined that Mr. Baker should not

take me back to Ascot House, although as yet I had not the remotest

notion how to hinder his purpose.

One thing appeared certain. He was only to be defeated by strategy, and

not by force. As I looked at his large fist resting on his arm-chair, I

knew that if I attempted to resist I should be as powerless in his arms

as I had been in those of the tramp. Presently Eliza re-entered the room

to say the bed was ready, and when I arose Mr. Baker held out his arm to

shake hands, causing me to feel not a little shamefaced. My friend

seemed to have become an enemy. He had treated me kindly, and, indeed,

still intended to do what he considered best for me, while my chief aim

was to oppose him. But to have said right out that I would not go back

to Castlemore would have defeated my own ends, so that I put my hand in

his, received a cordial shake, and then followed Eliza upstairs. She

carried a candle, which she set down on the washing-stand, and I saw

that I was in a small room, extremely cool and clean, with one window,

in front of which stood a muslin-covered dressing-table.

'Now tumble in quick,' she cried, 'and I will come to take the candle.'

(_Continued on page 58._)

[Illustration: "I felt in mortal dread lest Tiger should spring at me

during my descent."]

[Illustration: "The other passengers thought him mad."]

A NOVEL RAIN PROTECTOR.

One day, some years ago, a number of people were travelling in Ireland

by coach. The day turned wet, and threatened to continue so till night.

The moment the coach stopped, one of the outside passengers, who was

without an umbrella, rushed into an ironmonger's shop and came out with

a grid-iron in his hand. All the other outside passengers thought he was

mad, but he wrapped himself in a large cloak, which covered his cap and

most of his face and came down to his feet, and seated himself on his

gridiron in the middle of his seat. In a couple of hours it was seen

what he meant.

While the other passengers were sitting in pools of water from the

dripping of the umbrellas, he was sitting high and dry above the seat on

his gridiron; all the water ran under it, and when they got to their

destination, the man on the gridiron was as dry as a bone, whilst the

other outside passengers were soaked to the skin.

W. YARWOOD.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

3.--PIED CITIES.

1. S, B, T, U, R, C, A, E, H.

2. N, O, U, E, R.

3. R, W, I, B, N, S, U, K, C.

4. E, T, U, A, B, S, P, D.

5. G, I, N, T, O, A, S, A.

6. C, O, F, A, S, S, A, N, N, C, I, R.

7. N, A, B, S, E, E, R.

8. G, U, P, E, R, A.

9. A, P, A, S, O, V, L, R, A, I.

10. T, E, N, S, A, N.

C. J. B.

4.--GEOGRAPHICAL ENIGMA.

To gently walk, to move with ease;

An edge, or margin, if you please:

Combine the two, and you will find

The home of persons great in mind.

A spot of northern English ground

Near which a mighty poet found

A still retreat: a teacher sage,

And lady honoured in her age,

Were dwellers in this district too,

And all its wondrous beauties knew.

C. J. B.

[_Answers on page 98._]

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 30.

1.--_Honduras._

1. Hymettus.

2. Otranto.

3. Newlyn.

4. Donnybrook.

5. Ujiji.

6. Roanoke.

7. Assam.

8. Shanghai.

2.--_Hiawatha._

1. Taw.

2. Haw.

3. Hat.

4. Whit.

5. Thaw.

6. Haha.

7. What.

8. Wit.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 55._)

I hurried out of my clothes as soon as Eliza had closed my bedroom door,

although I did not turn into the inviting bed until I had bathed my

feet, which were already slightly blistered. Then I lay down, having a

difficult task to keep my eyes open until she came to take away the

candle. To my surprise, Eliza bent over the pillow and kissed my

forehead, thus making me feel more guilty than ever. It seemed a poor

way to repay the kindness I had met with at her hands and Mr. Baker's,

to run away during the night, although unless I did this it appeared

certain that I should be taken back to Turton's the first thing after

breakfast the next morning. Concerning such a calamity I felt desperate,

and I believe there were few things I would not have done to secure

freedom.

It was not that I feared any tremendous punishment, for I had never

known Mr. Turton raise his hand to a boy, and my treatment could

scarcely be worse than that which I had met with to-day. But it was the

idea of the shame and degradation of being hauled back, of the jeers of

Augustus, and his telling the other fellows on their return. Indeed, I

was incapable of reasoning; I simply felt that any fate would be

preferable to a return to Castlemore, and the only alternative seemed to

be flight for the second time.

At present I could not tell whether even this would be practicable,

although at the best I perceived that there would be many difficulties

to overcome--Tiger not being the least. I had no idea whether Mr. Baker

gave him the run of the premises at night, although this appeared

extremely probable, or whether he was on the chain, and, if so, where.

Whatever I did must be under cover of darkness, and the nights were

short at this season. I knew that a farmer's household would be early

risers, and that in fact there was little time to spare.

As I lay in bed, I could hear voices downstairs, and guessed that my own

affairs were under discussion. I remembered a tale I had read of some

travellers who were lost on a mountain, and in spite of their terrible

weariness, feared to lie down in the snow, knowing that if they once

fell asleep they would never again awaken in this world. My case seemed

rather like theirs, although I lay in a comfortable feather bed. How

delightful it was, how cool and fresh the linen sheets, how willingly I

could have closed my tired eyes and fallen asleep! But in that case I

feared that I should be lost. I certainly could not feel sure of waking

before daylight; indeed, I felt I could sleep for a week, whereas, long

before dawn, I had to put a considerable distance between myself and Mr.

Baker's farm.

Afraid of closing my eyes in spite of myself, I sat up in bed, anxiously

waiting for the voices to cease, for until it became safe to open my

window, and ascertain what was underneath it, I could not tell even

whether escape were possible. The window was the only hope! The house

was so small that I could not imagine myself opening the door, going

downstairs, and finding a way out without disturbing its inmates. If the

window was not too high, and the ground was fairly clear beneath it, I

might be able to get away, but otherwise there seemed no alternative to

an ignominious return to Castlemore to-morrow morning.

At last the voices became silent. I heard a key turned and bolts shot

home into their sockets, heavy footsteps on the stairs, the shutting of

first one door, then of another, followed by total silence. Getting out

of bed about a quarter of an hour later, I walked about the room, and

going to the washstand, sluiced my face in the basin to make myself more

wakeful. Again I sat on the bed for what seemed a long time, until a

clock downstairs struck the hour of midnight. Now, I thought, Mr. Baker

and Eliza must be asleep, and groping for my clothes, I began to dress

with all possible speed. As I rose from lacing my boots I trod on a

loose board, which creaked so loudly that I felt certain it must be

heard throughout the house. Lest any one should be aroused, I got

quickly into bed again, dressed as I was, but although I lay there some

time I heard no sound. Creeping cautiously across the room, I moved the

dressing-table, and then, with the utmost care, drew up the green cotton

blind. The moon shone brightly, almost at the full, but this might be

either an advantage or a drawback. At least, it served to show my

surroundings, and, before opening the window, I stared through the panes

for some minutes. The house consisted of only one story above the ground

floor, and the rooms were by no means lofty. My window overlooked what

was evidently a fair-sized kitchen-garden, surrounded by a low hedge,

beyond which I could see nothing but fields.

Now, if it happened that Tiger was chained, and I could succeed in

reaching the garden, I determined to give up for the present every

thought of gaining the road to London or anywhere else. I would simply

get through the hedge at the earliest moment lest any one should detect

me in the bright moonlight, then make a straight dash across country. By

this means it promised to be far easier to avoid pursuit than if I

followed any kind of road. Being fully dressed, with the exception of a

hat, which did not seem to matter, I cautiously pushed up the lower half

of the window and leaned forward to survey the ground. Immediately below

me lay a bed about two feet wide, with flowers growing in it and one or

two standard roses. I saw that the distance would not be too great to

drop, and, anxious to lose no more time, I climbed out to the sill,

crouching there a minute with alarming thoughts of Tiger. But all was

perfectly still; one or two birds began to rustle in the leaves of the

ivy which seemed to cover the back of the house, that was all, until

turning round on the narrow sill, I heard the jangling of a chain.

Peering forth once more, however, I could see no sign of a kennel, so

that it seemed probable that Tiger was secured at the side of the house

or in the front. Placing my hands on the sill, I gradually lowered

myself until I hung by the fingers, then the next moment I dropped all

of a heap, but without making much noise, on to the bed, the only damage

being a scratch on the left cheek from a thorn on one of the standard

roses.

Finding my feet at once, I made for the hedge, scrambling through it as

Tiger began to give tongue. Turning to the left on the other side, I ran

with all my might until I floundered into a wet ditch. Over a second

hedge I scrambled, across a meadow with sleeping cows and calves, which

rose at my approach, looking rather ghostly as they crowded together in

a bunch. I clambered over gates, floundered into other ditches, and

presently found myself entering the completer darkness of a wood, on the

other side of which came a park, then more fields, until I began to

pant, and to think that Mr. Baker's farm was sufficiently far behind for

safety.

How long I had been running I have no idea, but the moon was fast

sinking towards the horizon, and, before it disappeared altogether, it

seemed advisable to find a place where I might secure some much-needed

sleep. In a large field I espied a wooden shelter--intended, no doubt,

for cattle--and open at one side. This being empty I entered, and was

fortunate enough to find a goodly heap of dry clover in a corner.

Spreading this out over the ground, without more ado I threw myself,

just as I was, at full length upon it, too weary to think or to do

anything but fall at once asleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

I must have slept for many hours in the shed, for, when I opened my

eyes, the sun was high in the sky. I think it must have been past ten

o'clock, and it took some minutes before I could succeed in determining

which of my recent experiences were real, and which the result of

dreams. Little by little I began to put together the circumstances,

which had occurred since yesterday morning, in their proper order, and

my cheeks tingled with shame as I tried to imagine the feelings of Mr.

Baker and Eliza when they discovered my flight. They had treated me with

genuine kindness, and it must appear that I had repaid them with the

basest ingratitude; while yet I cannot pretend to have repented of my

flight from the farm-house, for I knew that, in similar circumstances, I

should act in the same way.

At first I felt tempted to lie down and go to sleep again, but this

might be to run no little risk. It was impossible to decide whether I

was still on Mr. Baker's land or not, for, although I had covered some

miles last night, there was no proof that I had run in a straight line,

and it seemed quite likely that I had described something resembling a

circle.

So I rose and stood gazing down at my legs, which now bore no traces of

the brush which Eliza had lent me after supper. My boots were completely

coated with mud as the result of the ditches into which I had floundered

in my headlong flight, my stockings were splashed, and even my

knickerbockers were freely covered with dry mud.

On stepping out from the shelter of the hut, the sun shining full in my

eyes reminded me that I had not put on my hat, and, entering again, I

looked about for it for a few seconds before remembering that it had,

of course, been left behind at the farm-house.

[Illustration: "The first person I saw that morning was a young man,

mending a puncture."]

As I crossed the field, the situation seemed peculiarly depressing, and

it was impossible not to contrast it with my circumstances at the same

hour yesterday. It was one consolation that nobody could rob me to-day,

for I had not a penny in my pocket. Every one of my limbs seemed to have

a separate ache, and although I had not been accustomed to very

luxurious fare of late, I felt a great longing for breakfast.

Although my confidence in the good fortune awaiting me in London had

been somewhat shaken since I left Castlemore, I still determined to set

my face in that direction. Where else could I go unless I returned to

Mr. Turton? An unthinkable proposition. Making my way towards a black

five-barred gate, I rejoiced to see a lane on the other side of it,

and, without a notion of my locality, I thought it better to turn to the

left. The lane, a mere cart-track, led to a wider road, prettily

undulated, and, for half a mile or so, entirely deserted. The first

person I saw that morning (it must have been about half-past eleven) was

a young man of about three-and-twenty years of age, engaged in mending a

puncture in his bicycle-tyre. The machine was turned wheels upwards,

while he stood pressing the punctured portion of the collapsed tyre

between two pennies. From curiosity, and the desire, perhaps, to be near

some one for a few minutes, I stopped, while he chalked the patch,

stooped to replace the outer covering, and then, turning the bicycle

right way up again, took off the pump.

(_Continued on page 69._)

[Illustration: "One bolder than the rest stabbed it with a pitchfork."]

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

II.--M. CHARLES AND HIS PARIS BALLOON.

News, like sound, travels fast; and the applause which greeted the

ascent of the Montgolfier balloon at Annonay had hardly ceased when it

seemed to reach the ears of the people in Paris, and put the whole town

in quite a flutter of excitement. Some of those who had been present at

the great experiment wrote an account of it to their friends in Paris,

who at once began to make arrangements for inviting the Montgolfiers to

send up another balloon from the capital. But these arrangements took

too long to satisfy the impatience of the people of Paris, and they were

better pleased when M. de Saint-Fond opened a subscription to pay

expenses for a separate experiment.

No one in all France had heard of the event at Annonay with more

interest and delight than a certain M. James Alexander Cæsar Charles, a

young and clever scientist who took great pleasure in showing people the

wonderful things he had discovered. When Franklin brought lightning out

of the clouds with a kite, M. Charles followed the road thus pointed out

to him, and soon found new wonders which he had a great talent for

explaining. Thus, though he might not be a great original discoverer, he

was quick to see in what direction truth lay, and was able to lead those

who were less learned than himself. What wonder, then, that the people

of Paris were full of expectation when they heard that M. Charles had

put away his electrical studies to devote his attention to balloons?

Sufficient money having been collected he set to work with the

assistance of two brothers named Robert, and constructed an 'envelope'

of silk, which, when filled, would make a balloon twelve feet two inches

in diameter. This was very small when compared with the giant of

Annonay, but the gas that M. Charles was going to use would make it

thirteen times stronger. 'You see,' said he, 'the air that the

Montgolfiers use is twice as light as the atmosphere. I shall use

inflammable gas' (as hydrogen was then called), 'which is fourteen times

lighter; though to retain this it will be necessary to paint the silk

with rubber dissolved in turpentine.'

But if the gentlemen who sat around the platform at Annonay had gathered

to see this baby balloon inflated they would have grown very weary, for

it took nearly four days. Every morning outside Charles's house a notice

was hung up to inform the eager crowds how the wonderful little giant

was growing; and at last it became necessary for mounted police to

protect his door, so great was the crush. Then, on the twenty-sixth of

August, though the balloon was not quite full, it was decided to carry

it to the Champs de Mars, the open space from which the ascent was to

be made. There the filling could be completed. But as not even a king,

travelling in state, would be likely to draw such excited throngs as

this balloon, arrangements were made for moving the silk bag in the

middle of the night. First, all the tools which would be required at the

launching were sent in advance; then, at two o'clock in the morning, the

procession set out. A strong body of mounted soldiers accompanied the

waggon on which the half-filled balloon was placed, while in front of it

marched a body of men carrying torches. The journey was only two miles

long, yet in that short distance the cavalcade was greeted with enough

applause to satisfy the most ambitious. All vehicles encountered _en

route_ were drawn aside, and the drivers doffed their caps as they

watched it pass. As the balloon swayed solemnly from side to side, an

imaginative on-looker might have fancied that it was acknowledging these

respectful salutations.

In due course the scene of action was safely reached and the filling

process continued. As the gas had to be made from sulphuric acid and

iron filings, it naturally took some time, but when the clocks of Paris

were striking five on the evening of August 27th, 1783, Charles's

cloud-cruiser was ready for the voyage. The bells had hardly done

chiming when a cannon-shot was heard. It was the signal for departure.

The thousands of spectators heard it with a thrill of interest, and as

its echoes reverberated over Paris, the watchers of the high towers of

Notre Dame, and the military school, directed their telescopes to the

Champs de Mars. One of the guests was Stephen Montgolfier, for though

Charles might add improvements to others' inventions, he always

acknowledged to whom the first honour belonged.

In spite of the heavy rain that was falling, the balloon shot into the

air with great rapidity, and in the space of a minute or two disappeared

behind a cloud. The moment it vanished another cannon was fired as

though in farewell, but the watchers (richly dressed gentlemen and fine

ladies) regardless of the weather, continued to keep their eyes upon the

clouds, and were surprised to see it once more, far above them, sailing

in the direction of Gonesse, fifteen miles away. Here in a field it

settled, three-quarters of an hour after leaving Paris, and--met its

doom. The country people, imagining it to be a large and unknown bird,

approached in fear, until one, bolder than the rest, stabbed it with a

pitchfork, when the sighing sound, made by the out-rushing gas, only

confirmed their conviction that it was endowed with life. In vain did

the village _curé_ try to dissuade them, and when at last the silk bag

lay flat and 'lifeless' on the ground, they tied it to a horse's tail

and set him galloping through the field. With wild excitement they

followed in chase, till hardly a shred of poor M. Charles's

carefully-built balloon remained to be trodden on.

When the country folk were so ignorant as this, we can hardly be

surprised to read that the Government soon found it advisable to make

Montgolfier's discovery widely known, so as to allay 'the terror which

it might otherwise excite among the people.'

JOHN LEA.

MY GARDEN CONCERT.

I hear a splendid concert in my garden every day,

When the breezes find by grove and lawn some instrument to play;

They shake the shiny laurel with the clatter of the 'bones,'

And from the lofty sycamore draw deeper 'cello tones,

And giving thus the signal that the concert should begin,

The brook beside the pebbled path strikes up its mandoline.

Then all the garden wakes to sound, for not a bird is mute:

The robin pipes the piccolo; the blackbird plays the flute;

While high upon a cedar-top a thrush with bubbling throat

Lifts up to this accompaniment her clear soprano note.

Then by-and-by there softly sounds, beside some flowering tree

The oboe of the dancing gnat, the cornet of the bee.

Such tiny notes--and yet with ease their cadence I can trace,

While over-head some passing rook puts in his noisy bass,

Or from a green and shady copse, a daisied field away,

I hear the jarring discords of a magpie and a jay.

The Wind conducts the orchestra, and as he beats the time

The flood of music sinks and swells in melody sublime;

Till, when the darkness deepens and the sun sets in the West,

They all put up their instruments and settle down to rest;

And when I seek my slumber, like the daisy or the bird,

My rest is all the better for the concert I have heard.

THE LEGEND OF HELFENSTEIN.

A German version of an old story.

In former times there ruled at Olmütz, in Moravia, a Duke who allowed

himself, when in anger, to do many cruel things. One day, Bruno, his

falconer, came trembling before his master and announced to him that the

finest of the falcons was dead. When the Duke heard this, he flew into a

passion, and commanded his servants to chastise the man severely. Bruno,

however, succeeded in escaping the intended punishment, and hid himself

in the thick forest which extends from Olmütz to the Oder valley. There

he lived by hunting, and occupied himself with charcoal-burning.

It happened one day that as Bruno, armed with bow and arrow and battle-axe,

was going through the forest, he suddenly heard the well-known hunting-cry

of the Duke. He quickly hid himself behind an oak-tree, in order that

his master should not discover him, and saw, to his horror, that his

master was pursued by a wild bison. The Duke would have lost his life,

if Bruno, with his battle-axe, had not courageously attacked the furious

animal and given it a mortal wound. Deeply touched, the Duke thanked the

deliverer of his life for his proved fidelity, and bade him ask any

favour he pleased.

Bruno did so. He asked to be allowed to possess as much land as he could

encircle with the skin of the dead bison. Smilingly, the Duke promised

to grant the request.

The falconer began to cut the skin into small strips, and with them

encircled the whole hill upon which he had saved his prince's life. The

Duke was highly pleased with this proof of Bruno's cleverness as well as

courage, made him into a knight, and put him in a position of honour at

his court. Bruno became dearer to his master every day, and rendered him

many and great services. In later times he built a castle on the hill,

which, in memory of the Duke's deliverance, he called Helfenstein.

W. Y.

CHASED BY SEAGULLS.

Seagulls are a very distinct tribe of birds, mostly lovers of the sea,

yet from time to time showing themselves inland. They look larger than

they really are, owing to their having a quantity of down and feathers,

the wings being also long and the head large. They are equipped with a

strong and straight bill, by means of which they devour a great variety

of food. They will occasionally go out to sea hundreds of miles from

land, but they are not welcome sights to the mariner, for he usually

regards them as signs that bad weather is approaching. The most familiar

species is the common seagull, white and grey, with greenish legs.

One of the peculiarities of the seagull is its habit of dashing in

parties after any object that attracts its notice. This now and then

furnishes amusement to men and boys who are strolling along the Thames

banks or bridges. Supplying themselves with bits of bread or fragments

of meat, they fling these upon the river, and watch the birds eagerly

pursue the food.

Seagulls will also give chase to birds of other species they may come

across. Not long ago the Cunard steamer _Campania_, from New York, was

nearly due south of Nova Scotia, when the look-out observed a bird close

at hand flying rapidly. In fact, it went faster than the ship, which was

then moving twenty-four statute miles an hour. A great number of

seagulls were chasing the fugitive, but could not make enough speed to

catch it. At length the bird settled upon the deck, wearied, and proved

to be a fine specimen of the snowy owl.

The snowy owl is a species chiefly found in the Arctic Circle,

especially about Greenland and Iceland. It is a hardy bird, and has its

nest among the rocks. The bill is hooked like a hawk's, having round the

base a few stiff feathers. Its plumage is snowy white touched with some

brown.

J. R. S. C.

[Illustration: "A great number of seagulls were chasing the fugitive."]

[Illustration: HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS.]

[Illustration: "'You shall go,' said the captain, 'if I lose every

passenger.'"]

THE CAPTAIN AND THE INVALID.

A fine instance of moral courage occurred not long ago at a small

seaport. The captain of a little passenger-boat, a tall, sun-browned

man, stood on his craft superintending the labours of his men, when the

boat train came in, and about twelve minutes after, a party of

half-a-dozen gentlemen came along, and, deliberately walking up to the

captain, thus addressed him:--

'Sir, we wish to go by this boat, but our further progress to-day

depends upon you. In the train we have just left there is a sick man,

whose presence is extremely disagreeable to us. We have been chosen as a

committee by the passengers, to ask that you will deny this man a

passage on your boat; if he goes, we remain here.'

By this time others had come from the train.

'Gentlemen,' said the captain, 'I have heard the passengers through your

committee. Has the invalid any representatives here? I wish to hear both

sides of the question.'

To this unexpected inquiry there was not a single answer. Without a

pause, the captain crossed to the car, and, entering, beheld a poor,

emaciated, worn-out creature, who was obviously very weak and ill.

The man's head was bowed in his hands, and he was weeping. The captain

advanced and spoke kindly to him.

'Oh, sir,' said the invalid, looking up, his face lit up with hope and

expectation, 'are you the captain, and will you take me? The passengers

shun me, and are so unkind. You see, sir, I am dying; but if I can live

to see my mother, I shall die happy. She lives at B----, sir, and my

journey is more than half performed. I am a poor printer, and the only

child of her in whose arms I would wish to die.'

'You shall go,' said the captain, 'if I lose every passenger for the

trip.'

By this time the whole crowd of passengers were grouped around the

gangway, with their baggage piled on the pier, waiting for the decision

of the captain, before engaging their passage.

A moment more, and that decision was made known, for they saw him coming

from the cars with the sick man cradled in his strong arms. Pushing

directly through the crowd with his burden, he ordered a mattress to be

put in the cabin, where he laid the invalid with all the care of a

parent.

Then, scarcely deigning to cast a look at the astonished crowd, he

called loudly to his men: 'Let go!'

But a new feeling seemed to possess the passengers, that of shame and

contrition at their own inhumanity. With a common impulse each seized

his own baggage, and went in a shamefaced way on board the boat.

In a short time a message was sent to the captain, asking his presence

in the cabin. He went, and one of the passengers, speaking for the rest,

with faltering voice told the rough captain that he had taught them a

lesson--that they felt humble before him, and they asked his

forgiveness.

W. Y.

BOUQUETS.

Buttercups and daisies,

Violets and May,

Pimpernels and cowslips,

Make a sweet bouquet.

Not a rose among them;

Nought the garden yields.

Yet a lot of beauty

Taken from the fields,

Gathered in the sunshine,

Through the happy hours--

What a sweet bouquet, dears,

Made of simple flowers!

Patience and forgiveness,

Kindness to the weak;

Willing in our labour

All the happy week;

No exalted actions

Striving after praise,

Yet a lot of beauty

From life's lowly ways,

Gathered through the day, dear,

By the heart that heeds--

What a sweet bouquet, dear!

Made of simple deeds.

J. L.

McLEOD OF CLERE.

Founded on Fact.

The moonlight lay in soft brilliance over the land of Burmah. Its rays

pierced the small slit windows in the cell of the fanatic An-we-lota,

and lighted up the fierce faces of the dacoits and desperate men, who

from time to time stealthily entered, until a close-packed band had

collected. Near and far a message had reached these malcontents that an

attack would be made on some of the British outposts scattered here and

there over the newly conquered territory, and held by English officers

and a brave force of Sikhs and Pathans.

'We are as nothing,' said An-we-lota; 'these Ingalay' (Englishmen) 'have

taken our country, and are now setting up their camps everywhere among

us, for these men to spy on us. They say the glorious King Theebaw is

dead. Know we not well that he will come again and reign over us? I am

myself possessed of magic power. I have swallowed the all-powerful

mercury, which makes me proof against bullet and steel, which turn to

water as they touch me. Have I not also the coins of invulnerability

bound in the flesh and blood of my arm?' and the fanatic stripped up the

sleeve of his yellow robe and showed his bare, skinny upper arm, where

the edges of buried coins were visible in deep cuts. 'I am king as well

as priest; I am the Prince Setkia Muntna, who was drowned in the

Irrawaddy seventy years ago. I have come to life again--behold, I am

he.'

Dusky hands were raised in salutation, and one evil-looking warrior

stepped forward: 'I am also proof against bullets. Was I not Theebaw's

chief "Boh"?' (head warrior). 'I am ready to lead any expedition against

these robbing English. See, we are all armed.'

The moonlight flashed on the murderous-looking 'dah' knives raised for

an instant from the folds of the garments of the assembled men.

'Our first attack,' said An-we-lota, 'shall be on the Sardu Station. Our

scout, Al Met, has brought word that much of their force has been called

away to quell the Wahs. Our attack shall be swift and sure, and with our

band here we shall outnumber them, and exterminate the whole while they

are sleeping. When shall we start?'

'No time like the present,' was the cry, and the dahs flew out again and

were uplifted.

In a few minutes the cell was emptied, and the stealthy march began, by

rock and jungle and secret paths, to the doomed outpost station.

The hours passed, and the early morning light showed pale on the blazing

huts of Sardu Fort, and on dead and dying scattered about. Where the

dead were thickest lay a young English officer gasping, 'Inez, my

darling, we shall meet again soon, and our little son----'

Close at hand lay the fanatic, An-we-lota, dead, his magic coins and

mercury-fed body no proof against British steel.

From the distance there came the tread of a returning force--too

late!--and in the deepest shades of the jungle a native woman, with

horror-stricken face, pressed forward through tangle and thorn, with a

living, wailing bundle clasped close to her breast.

How many days she spent in weary wandering over well-nigh a hundred

miles of jungle and plain, helped by log-boat up strange waters, ever

heading for the homes of her people, the Karens--a bourne she was never

to reach--who can say?

* * * * *

It was early morning. The first faint streaks of dawn were chasing the

night shadows from hill and valley. Early risers in a little jungle

village far distant from Fort Sardu shivered as they rose from their

sleeping-places, and pushing aside the curiously woven mats, hung from

the eaves of the sloping roofs, descended to the waking world outside.

The native dogs howled hideously as they were unceremoniously driven

from the still smouldering embers of last night's fires.

Maung Yet, one of the first astir, twisted the folds of his waist-cloth

closer round him, and looked forth upon the morning. The rising sun was

turning into gold and bronze the ripening paddy fields close at hand,

glorifying the reed roofs of the native huts under the feathery palms,

and gilding the distant belt of jungle, stretching away to the horizon.

The huts of the Tounghi tribe were raised breast-high on stout posts, as

protection against wild beasts and snakes. Many dark-skinned natives

moving around in busy preparation showed that the labours of the day

would be beginning early.

It was the time of the Burmese harvest, and the first of the ripe paddy

fields would be gathered in that day. Already might be heard the hoarse

voice of crows, and the screams of hundreds of bright-hued parrakeets,

descending for their feast on the precious grain. At the sound, many of

the village youths ran up quickly, and with cries and rude bird-clappers

scared the birds away, only to set to work again at some more distant

spot.

Many and various were the sounds echoing around Maung Yet, and ever and

anon he seemed to distinguish from among them a sound like a human cry.

Once more it came, and Maung stood keenly listening. Yes, a cry for

help, certainly, and a dog's strange, shrill bark, too--and both from

the far-off jungle. Maung Yet trembled. Was it the cry, perchance, of

some robber luring him to destruction, or was it really a

fellow-creature's cry for help?

The Burman, like all his race, was very superstitious, and avoided the

jungle as being haunted; but his heart was kind. Arming himself with his

primitive sickle, he beckoned to Lan Wee, his young brother, who was

squatting on the ground eating a huge mass of rice, and set off at full

speed towards the spot whence the cries proceeded, attracted onward

against his will by the voice of misery. The youth followed him closely,

his eyes wide open with fear, as they neared the dreaded jungle. In its

dark shadows who could say what dangers lurked? They pressed on,

however, through trails of prickly foliage, clinging undergrowth, and

fallen timber, which lay like so many traps for unwary feet. The cry had

sunk to a moan, but the dog's whine was shriller and more urgent as they

neared the end of their quest.

Both Burmen were tattooed over breast and shoulders with a glorious

blazonry of red--a decoration performed with religious rites as a

protection against 'evil spirits.' Few Burmen would face the jungle

unless thus fortified. Maung felt a few qualms even in spite of his

tattoo, but invoking the 'aing-sohn' (the good spirits), he and his

young companion, breathless and panting, struggled on, and came to what

they sought at last.

Half resting against a fallen tree-trunk lay an apparently dead native

woman, reduced to almost a skeleton. Her bare feet told of long, rough

journeying, and from wrist to elbow of the left arm was a half-healed

wound, such as Maung Yet knew well the keen 'dah' could leave. From her

neck was slung a baby, and standing fiercely on guard, a lean, whitish

dog.

With the curious canine instinct, divining rightly friend or foe, the

dog allowed the approach of the two Burmen. Maung knelt and raised the

prostrate woman; the weak head fell heavily on his shoulder, then

stirred uneasily, the eyes opened, and the dying lips tried again and

again to find utterance. Broken words at last whispered faintly over and

over again, 'Bébé Ingalay--Mah Kloo! Thakin Missee Bébé!' Then the

wasted hands tried to remove the baby. Maung understood, and signed to

the youth to lift it from her neck. The movement woke the child, and it

uttered a thin cry. The sound roused the flickering life of the dying

woman for an instant; with a last movement she lightly touched the wee

dark head, smiled faintly, and died.

[Illustration: "Maung and his young companion came to what they sought

at last."]

A shallow grave was hastily dug. A pouch in the tattered garments

contained a few coins of money and a curious small gold cross. Maung Yet

touched his tattoo anxiously as he took the latter: it must be, he

thought, some strange charm. Then he placed the coins in the mouth of

the dead woman, in the belief that this provided ferry-hire over the

death river, and he and Lan Wee lifted the woman into the grave. Then,

with all speed, the two Burmen left the hated jungle, carrying the tiny

infant, the lean dog following closely.

(_Continued on page 78._)

[Illustration: "She looked a little suspiciously at my muddy legs."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 61._)

The cyclist was a good-looking, short, but well-built man, clad in a

light, home-spun suit, with knickerbockers and a Panama hat. On the

frame of his bicycle was an ordinary mackintosh haversack, and, strapped

behind the saddle, a paint-box, a folding sketching-stool, and a

good-sized sketching-block. Fixing the pump, he knelt down to inflate

the tyre; but the pump was rather small, the sun was hot (as I felt,

having no hat), and the man seemed soon to weary of his job. He had

glanced once or twice in my direction, and now he rose, blew out his

cheeks, and cried: "Hi, boy! do you want to earn a copper?"

'Rather!' I answered, thinking of breakfast.

'Just pump up this tyre for me, then,' he said; and, going down on my

knees by the roadside, I began to pump with a will, while he took out a

pipe and began to fill it. 'Think that's all right?' he asked, as I rose

to my feet.

'It feels pretty hard,' I answered.

'Well, here's twopence for you,' he cried.

'Thanks, awfully,' I said, putting out my hand.

Holding his machine, on the point of wheeling it into the middle of the

road, he paused, staring into my face.

'Where are you bound for?' he inquired.

'London,' I replied. 'Can you tell me which is the road?'

He stared again for what seemed a long time, and it was evident that I

caused him a little perplexity.

'Of course,' he muttered, half to himself; 'it must be the holidays just

now.'

'They began last month,' I answered.

'Yet I am sure you are running away,' he cried.

Somewhat alarmed, in consequence of my recent experiences, I thought it

time to get on my way.

'Don't be in a hurry,' he said. 'I think you and I ought to have a

little talk.'

'I want to get along,' I retorted.

'Where to?'

'To get some breakfast,' I replied.

'Hungry, eh?' he asked.

'A little.'

With that he looked at his watch; then, saying that it was nearly

twelve, he took from a side pocket of his jacket a tin case, packed with

tempting-looking sandwiches.

'Just put yourself outside those,' he said, handing me the tin.

'But--but,' I suggested with an effort, 'won't you want them?'

'I am all right,' he said, with a laugh; 'you needn't bother about me.

Sit down and start.'

Needing no further persuasion, I sat down on the grass by the way-side,

and steadily emptied the sandwich tin. Before this was accomplished,

however, he produced a flask, pouring some of its contents into a small

cup which fitted on to one end. It seemed to put fresh life into me.

'Feel better?' he inquired, as he replaced the flask in his pocket.

'Ever so much,' I answered.

'Well, then, suppose you tell me all about yourself.'

'I would much rather not,' I insisted.

'Why?'

'Because you--you might try to take me back!'

'Think for a moment, and don't be stupid,' he said. 'How can I take you

back if you don't tell me where you have come from? Besides, you would

be as much as I could carry with my bike, you know. So fire away,' he

added, and I sat on the grass and once more told my story from the

beginning, except that this time I omitted to mention Mr. Turton's name

or address.

'When you reach London,' he asked after I had become silent, 'what are

you going to do?'

'Other fellows have been able to do things,' I answered.

'But, you know,' he said, with a kind sort of smile, 'you have not even

got a cat.'

'I believe I shall be all right if only I get there,' I persisted. 'If

you would not mind telling me the way to the main road.'

'Well,' he said, 'all roads lead to London.'

'Any one will do for me,' I answered, and upon that he wheeled his

machine into the middle of the road.

'Ever ridden on a step?' he asked.

'Rather!'

'Then get up behind me, only don't upset my baggage.'

He mounted as he spoke, and in a second I was standing on the step

behind him. In spite of the circumstances, I thoroughly enjoyed that

eight miles ride, and felt sincerely sorry when it ended. Now we coasted

down a hill, now we both dismounted to walk up one, and, after one such

walk, my companion stopped, unfastened his haversack, and took out a

cloth cap.

'Think you could wear that?' he asked, and, trying it on, I found it was

only slightly too big.

'Thank you most awfully,' I said as we rode on again, and then we did

not stop until we reached four cross-roads. Seeing the word

'Polehampton' on a finger-post, I perceived that I had returned to the

road from Castlemore to London, which I had left to cross the fields in

my futile endeavour to avoid the tramp. It was true that I had made a

fairly wide circuit, for my new friend told me I should still have five

miles to walk to Polehampton.

'I am immensely obliged to you for the lift and--and everything,' I

said, as he seemed to be on the point of starting. I felt extremely

reluctant to part from him.

'That is all right,' he answered, thrusting his hand in his

knickerbocker pocket. 'This may help you on your way.' He put something

into my hand as he pressed it, then, without another word, mounted his

bicycle and rode away. Opening my hand, I found five two-shilling

pieces. For the next few yards I did not see things very clearly, for I

felt too thankful.

After looking back once or twice until he was out of sight, I set out in

a business-like manner to walk the five miles to Polehampton. The events

of the morning had filled me with fresh courage, and now that my face

was once set towards London, earlier hopes began to reawaken. I should

have liked to know my companion's name, to keep in my memory with that

of Mr. Baker and Eliza, but I never saw or heard of him again. Still, I

have not forgotten him or the good turn he did me, and I wish that this

story might come into his hands to show that I am not ungrateful.

Having passed through so much in a short time, I was inclined to expect

every mile to bring forth its own peculiar adventure, but Polehampton

came into sight without any remarkable occurrence. I scarcely enjoyed

the walk, as my legs ached more than ever, and I rested many times by

the roadside.

To-day being Friday, I determined, on the strength of my ten shillings,

to look for a cheap temperance hotel, or some place of the kind, and

make a bargain with the proprietor to stay over Saturday and Sunday.

This would give me time to rest and make myself a little more

presentable, because, in my present muddy condition, I knew that it

would be impossible to obtain any kind of work.

For that was what I intended to do. Instead of hoping to reach London in

six days, as at first, I would try to earn a little money by the way,

because I perceived that it would be no use entering in such a condition

as I was at present.

Polehampton appeared to be even a smaller place than Broughton, and by

no stretch of imagination could it be described as a town. Still, it

felt pleasant to see a few people about; and noticing a clean-looking

whitewashed cottage, with a few bottles of sweets and ginger-beer in the

window, I entered, sitting down on an empty box while a white-haired,

round-backed old woman opened a bottle of ginger-beer, and a spaniel

came from a back room and began to lick my hands. Having paid my penny,

I sat sipping the ginger-beer, when it occurred to me that it would be a

capital place to lodge, if only the old woman would take me.

'I say,' I exclaimed, 'do you know where I could get a lodging?'

She looked a little suspiciously at my muddy legs.

'For yourself?' she inquired.

'Yes.'

'How long for?'

'Till Monday morning,' I answered. 'You see, I want to know how much it

would cost for a bed and food until then.'

'That is three nights,' she said, thoughtfully. 'There is a small room I

might make up a bed in, on the floor, if that would suit you, and there

will be a joint of pork for Sunday.'

'To-day's only Friday,' I hinted.

'There is a bit of cheese and a bit of bacon,' she explained. 'Till

Monday morning, you say? I should not think five shillings would hurt

you.'

So I gave her five shillings, thus leaving only five and a penny in my

pocket; but so sorely at that moment did I feel the need of rest that I

did not hesitate. The old woman--Mrs. Riddles--lived alone with her old

brown spaniel. There was a room behind the shop, which served the

purpose of a kitchen, a sitting-room, and a wash-house. In one corner

stood a step-ladder, leading to one bedroom and a kind of cupboard,

without either window or fireplace, or any furniture but one bottomless

chair. This I discovered was intended for my own use, and, indeed, so

long as I might lie down in it, I cared about little else.

After an early supper, consisting of bread, some very fat cold streaky

bacon, and cheese, Mrs. Riddles put a sofa-cushion, a pillow, two thin

blankets, and a sheet on the cupboard floor, and advising me to leave

the door open for the sake of air, retired to her own room. It was a

vastly different kind of bed from that which had been given to me by

Eliza at Mr. Baker's farmhouse, but at least it did not prevent me from

sleeping the moment my head touched the pillow. I did not reopen my eyes

until Mrs. Riddles brought me a can of cold water and a basin, with soap

and a towel, on Saturday morning.

'It is seven o'clock,' she said, 'and breakfast is ready when you are.'

For Mrs. Riddles' credit I must confess that I have seldom enjoyed a

breakfast more. It consisted of dry bread, oatmeal porridge, and coffee.

Oddly enough, the coffee was delicious, and the porridge was equally

good, so that, thoroughly refreshed by a long night's sleep and an ample

breakfast, I brushed my knickerbockers, cleaned my boots, and went forth

into the main street of Polehampton feeling fit for anything that might

happen.

(_Continued on page 74._)

THE GENEROUS BAKERS!

A deputation of a guild of bakers once presented themselves before the

chief magistrate, asking for permission to raise the price of bread,

which in those days was regulated by the corporation. When the time came

for leaving, one of the deputies dexterously left upon the table a bag

containing six hundred pounds in money. Some days afterwards they came

again, fully believing that the purse had pleaded very powerfully for

them. But the magistrate said to them, 'Gentlemen, I have weighed your

reasons in the scales of justice, and have not found them of sufficient

weight. It has not seemed just to me to make an entire town suffer by an

advance so ill-understood. Besides, I have had distributed between the

two hospitals in the town the money which you left me, not doubting that

you would wish it to be put to such a use. I also believe that, being

rich enough to make similar alms, you cannot be losing in your trade as

you say.'

W. YARWOOD.

AFFECTIONATE EAGLES.

A True Anecdote.

A man working on a farm one day saw an eagle fluttering over the

barn-yard, no doubt meaning sooner or later to swoop down in search of

prey. He determined to save his chickens, and fetching a gun, fired at

the would-be robber. But he only succeeded in hurting its wing. Instead

of falling to the ground it flapped about in the air in a helpless sort

of way, uttering loud cries of pain.

The man was just going to fire again when he noticed another eagle

coming up in the distance. It was evidently the mate of the one he had

wounded, for it came straight to its rescue. Seeing that the first eagle

could not fly away itself, the new-comer seized its wounded mate with

its beak and claws, and, half carrying it, helped it to fly slowly away

to the mountain-side, where it put it down, as it thought, in a safe

place. For a whole week the men on the farm saw it, day after day,

carrying food to the disabled bird. It would have been quite easy for

them to have killed both the eagles during this time; but the farmer

forbade his men to molest them in any way, because he was so pleased at

the affection and courage the one had shown on behalf of the other.

After a time the wounded eagle got well, and they both flew away.

[Illustration: "The eagle seized its wounded mate with its beak and

claws."]

[Illustration: "Wootton stood quite upright on the pinnacle of the

steeple."]

STEEPLE-CLIMBERS.

Cleverness or skill in doing some particular thing has been noticed to

recur in families, and steeple-climbing is one example, we are told. At

Nottingham there was a family named Wootton, members of which had for

centuries the reputation of being daring steeple-climbers, not for

adventure, but in the way of business. Such persons were also called

steeplejacks, and they were paid liberally for their exploits, as they

deserved to be.

Robert Wootton, who lived in the time of King George III., was famous

for repairing steeples and spires without using a scaffold; he did his

work by the help of ladders, hooks, and ropes. When he repaired St.

Peter's spire, Nottingham, in 1789, having finished his work, he beat a

drum at its top, thousands of people looking on. Another of the Woottons

undertook the perilous task of ascending the spire of St. Mary's,

Manchester, which was very lofty. By a tremendous wind the ball and

cross had been bent down, and looked dangerous. This steeple-climber

raised ladders one after the other, assisted by blocks and ropes, and

secured each in succession to the stonework with clamps. When he got

near the top of the spire the work became more difficult, and the

spectators anxiously watched him as he fixed the last ladder. Having

accomplished this feat, Wootton stepped from the ladder on to the crown

or pinnacle of the steeple, and stood quite upright, with his hands

free. Then he raised a cheer, which was responded to by the crowds

below. More extraordinary still, one of these steeple-climbers is said

to have performed the feat of standing upon his head on a steeple's top;

but there is some doubt about the story.

J. R. S. C.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 71._)

CHAPTER IX.

It was agreeable to think that I had nothing to do, and with my hands in

my pockets I turned to the right, strolling towards the railway station,

a few yards from which was a level crossing. The station yard and

booking office stood on the left, and before the entrance were one or

two old-fashioned-looking cabs; one in particular I noticed, having a

body like a small stage-coach and yellow wheels.

As I hung about the doorway it was alarming to realise that in spite of

my two days' journeying, and of all the accompanying dangers, I might

take a ticket and reach Castlemore in little over half an hour, and that

consequently any one else could travel from Castlemore to Polehampton in

the same short time. But it was easy to persuade myself that nobody

would feel the least desire to travel a yard on my account, although I

denied myself the pleasure of going on to the platform. Leaving the

station yard, I turned towards Mrs. Riddles' cottage again, and passing

this came to a standstill in front of a few shops on the opposite side

of the way. One was a butcher's; next to the butcher's was a grocer's,

and in its window I saw a card:

'ACTIVE LAD WANTED.'

I read, and as I stood gazing at the card, a short, red-haired man came

to the door, rubbing his hands and looking smilingly about him.

'Do you want a berth?' he asked, after he had eyed me once or twice.

'I don't know,' I answered.

'A stranger here?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Ah, well,' he answered, 'even if you wanted a job, I could not take you

without a character. But Mr. Raikes, at the Home Farm down the road,

would take any one this morning. He has got his large field of hay down,

and it will probably rain before Monday. If he does not get it carried

to-night, as likely as not half will be spoilt.'

With that he re-entered his shop, while I strolled on at first aimlessly

down the street.

I began to wonder how far it was to the Home Farm. A day's hay-making

seemed to be a kind of play, and if one could be paid for such

amusement, so much the better. For now that I had paid Mrs. Riddles I

had only five shillings, and when once I started again they would not go

very far. I had sufficient forethought to return to the cottage and ask

for some luncheon to put in my pocket; then, armed with a slice of bread

and a chunk of the fat bacon from which I had supped the previous night,

I set out for the farm.

There was a large field adjoining the road, with an open gate. At the

farther end, two carts were being loaded, but nearer the road, several

men and women were busily making the rows of hay into cocks. Close at

hand stood a tall, sparely built farmer with a cane in his hand and a

fox-terrier by his side. He seemed to be trying to hurry everybody

along, and there was an air of bustle and haste about the whole scene.

Although the sun shone hotly, threatening clouds were coming up, and it

would require a hard day's work to get all the hay carried by nightfall.

'Here, youngster!' he cried, as soon as he saw me, 'do you want a job?'

'Yes, please,' I answered.

'Fire away then. You will find a fork against the hedge. Go and join

those men,' and he pointed to the haymakers with his cane. Taking the

fork, I ran across the field and set to work with a will. But the sun

shone fiercely, and when twelve o'clock came I would gladly have lain

down in the shade of the hedge. The moment we had finished dinner the

farmer urged us to work again, and so we kept at it through the

afternoon, until the last load was carried at seven o'clock and we all

drew round the farmer for our money. He gave me a shilling for my day's

work, and I confess I walked back rather proudly to Mrs. Riddles'

cottage, feeling that I had made a beginning and earned my first

shilling.

There was no difficulty about sleeping that night. The bells were

ringing for service while I dressed the next morning. Having made my

appearance as decent as possible, I walked across some fields to a small

church. On the way home to dinner I noticed a stream which looked

extremely tempting. Mrs. Riddles had spread a clean but much-darned

tablecloth, and the roast pork was ready. During the meal, the rain,

which had been threatening since yesterday, began to fall, but when it

ceased at half-past three I borrowed a towel, and ran across the damp

fields to the river and soon plunged in.

The swim was delightful, and having partly dressed again, I sat on the

bank and washed my socks, which I carried home in my hands. On the whole

it was a good day, although the wet which set in again towards the

evening made me anxious about to-morrow. If the rain continued, all my

plans would be upset. I had determined to sleep out of doors for the

next night or two, thus eking out my money, but I could not very well

sleep without shelter unless it were fine and dry.

Unfortunately, Monday proved to be a drizzling morning, so that instead

of setting forth as I had intended before eight, I hung about the door

of the cottage, hoping the weather might improve. Towards ten o'clock,

the rain began to cease, and looking inside the back room I said

'good-bye' to Mrs. Riddles, who inquired in which direction I was going.

'To London,' I answered, and this was the first sign of curiosity she

had betrayed concerning either myself or my destination. She was a very

old woman and somewhat deaf, treating my presence entirely as a matter

of course.

However, I bade her good-bye, and was on the point of stepping from the

shop into the small front garden, when instinctively I sprang back and

shut the door.

To my horror I had seen Mr. Turton and Augustus walking along the middle

of the road, each carrying an umbrella; Mr. Turton had an anxious

expression on his pale, bearded face. As I crouched, peeping between the

bottles of sweets in the window, I saw them pass the gate and come to a

standstill. They had the manner of persons on the look-out for some one,

and it seemed impossible to doubt that the some one was myself.

I confess that I felt surprised. Why should Mr. Turton want me back at

Castlemore, unless, indeed, for the sake of taking revenge for my

flight? At least, I could conceive no other reason, and while feeling

deeply thankful for my narrow escape, I determined to spare no effort to

make this effectual. That Mr. Turton should have hit upon my precise

locality did not appear very remarkable.

These thoughts passed through my mind in far less time than it takes to

set them down on paper. I remembered that my friend on the bicycle had

said that all roads led to London, and now the idea occurred that the

best way to evade Mr. Turton and yet to attain my purpose, would be to

make a dash across to some other main road, keeping almost paralled with

my pursuers.

After appearing to hesitate in the middle of the road, only a few yards

from my hiding-place, Augustus and his father approached the door of the

opposite butcher's shop, presumably with the intention of inquiring

whether a boy of my description had been seen in the place. I regretted

now my short conversation with the grocer, who had nodded to me in a

friendly way as I came home from church on Sunday, and no doubt had seen

me enter Mrs. Riddles' cottage.

If he directed Mr. Turton thither, I was lost, unless I could succeed in

leaving Polehampton before the Turtons came out again. Now, close to the

station yard was a lane, which led I knew not whither, but at least it

could be reached without passing the opposite shops. Opening the door,

as Mr. Turton left the butcher's and entered the grocer's, while his

back and his son's were towards me, I made a dash through the garden,

turned to my right, nor looked behind until I had reached the other side

of the street. Then to my alarm I saw Mrs. Riddles standing at her door,

which I had just left, while Mr. Turton and Augustus were hurrying

across the roadway towards her. Fortunately they seemed too excited to

look about them, so that I guessed that the grocer had set them on my

track.

Taking to my heels I sped down the lane, soon leaving the few cottages

behind and finding myself between low hedges with wheat growing on one

hand and sheep-turnips on the other. A short distance ahead, I saw a

butcher's cart on the point of leaving a cottage door.

'Are you going straight on?' I cried to the boy, only a little older

than myself, who was driving.

'What if I am?' he demanded.

'You might give me a lift, that's all.'

'Oh yes, I dare say!' he answered.

'I will give you sixpence,' I said.

'Up you jump,' he exclaimed, and the next instant I was seated by his

side, clinging to an iron railing on the top of the cart.

'How far are you going?' I inquired.

'Only to Hincham--about two miles,' he answered. 'I have got to fetch a

calf.'

Two miles would be better than no start at all, for I felt certain that

Mr. Turton would follow me. Mrs. Riddles had seen the direction I had

taken, and he might hire one of the railway-station cabs to overtake me.

Fortunately, the butcher's boy drove at a smart pace--faster, I thought,

than any cab; but when we reached Hincham and I paid his sixpence and

alighted, I scarcely knew what to do.

My experience on leaving the road for the fields on the first day had

not been encouraging, so without much notion of where I was going, I

determined to push along the lane for some distance, keeping a frequent

look-out in the rear. Turning at intervals to look back along the

straight, level lane, I walked on for a few miles, while the rain

continued to hold off and the sun came out again. Stopping once more to

make certain there was no pursuit, I saw to my dismay a vehicle rapidly

approaching.

Recognising it as the queer-looking fly I had noticed on Saturday in the

railway-station yard, I felt no doubt that it contained Mr. Turton and

Augustus. The driver turned and stooped down towards the off-side

window, as if to speak to them, while the next instant, a head being

thrust out, he pointed in my direction with his whip.

[Illustration: 'To my horror I had seen Mr. Turton and Augustus.']

Now what was I to do? It seemed that although they might be able to see

that I was a boy, the distance was too great to enable Mr. Turton to

recognise me, with any certainty, as his runaway pupil. Fortunately, the

lane began to wind to the right a few yards ahead, and taking to my

heels, I was soon out of sight of the occupants of the cab.

A few yards further still, the lane bent again, and more sharply, so,

seizing the opportunity, I climbed over a gate on the left into a large

meadow, which contained a great many sheep and cattle.

(_Continued on page 85._)

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

III.--HOW BUTTERFLIES, FLIES, AND SNAILS FEED.

When we come to examine the methods by which the more lowly creatures

take up their food, we cannot but feel astonished at the marvellous

number of contrivances by which this is done. To bring home this fact,

let us compare the methods of feeding of two of our commonest insects

with those adopted by another and very different group of animals--the

Mollusca, taking the common snail as an example.

By the butterflies and moths the food is taken in a liquid form--honey

procured from flowers--by means of a most marvellously complex 'tongue'

or 'proboscis.' This organ, when not in use, is coiled up so as to be

out of harm's way, but when the creature desires to feed it can be

extended with wonderful rapidity. Its length is astonishing: in many

cases, as in some of the hawk-moths, it attains a length of four to five

times that of the body, and in some species it may be as long as ten

inches! The general shape of this tongue you will see in the figure

marked A, which shows what the tongue is like when seen under the

microscope.

[Illustration: Fig. A.--Tongue of Butterfly (greatly magnified).]

Carefully examined by the aid of a microscope, this tongue will be found

to be made up of two separate tubes lying side by side, and, as each

tube is grooved along its inner side, it follows that when the two

separate halves are brought together, a third tube lying between the two

outer ones is formed. So closely do these two halves fit when closed

that this middle tube is perfectly air-tight. This union is secured by

a number of hairy projections which interlock, much as one's clasped

fingers interlock. Only the middle tube is used for the passage of the

honey, the side tubes being used, as some think, for breathing purposes,

while others hold that they serve to help in pumping up the fluids into

the mouth. By this interlocking contrivance the tube can easily be

opened and cleaned, should the passage become blocked by solid

particles.

Delicate as this wonderful 'tongue' appears to be, it is in some cases

capable of inflicting wounds on the tissues of the food plants. A

species of moth, for instance, causes considerable damage to crops of

oranges by inserting its trunk through the peel so as to suck the juices

of the enclosed pulp. The sucking action is performed by means of a

small bag inside the head, the size of which can be alternately

increased and decreased by the action of muscles, thus causing a pumping

action.

[Illustration: Fig. B.--Fly's Tongue (greatly magnified).]

It will probably surprise many readers of _Chatterbox_ to learn that

this wonderful tongue is by no means always found in butterflies, for

there are many species which have no mouth, and take no food whatever

after they emerge from the chrysalis stage. They simply live long enough

to lay their eggs, and then die!

[Illustration: Fig. C.--Common Fly.]

The tongue of the fly is every bit as wonderful as that of the

butterfly. Strictly speaking, perhaps it ought not to be called either a

tongue or a proboscis, for it is really a spout-like mouth bent upon

itself, and furnished at its end with a curious pair of flaps or lobes.

You may get an idea of what it is like if you imagine the spout of a

teapot to turn downwards at first instead of upwards, and then picture

the spout turned sharply forwards near its middle. The body of the

teapot corresponds to the fly's head; the end of the spout would

correspond to the mouth of the fly. On each side of this mouth there

will be found in the fly a pair of ear-shaped flaps or lobes, and these

play a very important part. Each flap or lobe (see fig. B), where it

joins the mouth, contains a long tube, and this tube gives off, along

its outer side, about thirty smaller tubes, which are open below. Now,

when the 'tongue,' as it is called, is extended, as in feeding, a

copious flow of saliva is sent down the long tubular mouth into the tube

of each flap, and when this is full the liquid escapes into the smaller

tubes, and as these are open below, it flows out, of course, on to the

food. Let us imagine this to be sugar. The saliva meets the sugar, and

the syrup which is of course formed is then drawn up along the same

channel as that by which the saliva came down. New surfaces for the

saliva to work upon are constantly exposed by means of some fifty or

sixty exceedingly tiny 'teeth,' which, by the aid of the microscope,

will be found at the opening of the mouth, just where the tube-bearing

flaps join it. The two rod-shaped, hairy organs at the base of the

'tongue,' in the illustration, are organs of touch, and not part of the

'tongue' proper.

(_Concluded at page 109._)

THE ELEPHANT AND THE CROCODILE.

A Fable.

An Elephant and a Crocodile were once standing beside a river. They were

disputing as to which was the better animal.

'Look at my strength,' said the Elephant. 'I can tear up a tree, roots

and all, with my trunk.'

'Ah! but quantity is not quality, and your skin is not nearly so tough

as mine,' replied the Crocodile, 'for neither spear, arrow, nor sword

can pierce it.'

Just as they were coming to blows, a Lion happened to pass.

'Heyday, sirs!' said His Majesty, going up to them, 'let me know the

cause of your quarrel.'

'Will you kindly tell us which is the better animal?' cried both at

once.

'Certainly,' said the Lion. 'Do you see that soldier's steel helmet on

yonder wall?' pointing at the same time across the river.

'Yes!' replied the beasts.

'Well, then,' continued the Lion, 'go and fetch it, and bring it to me,

and I shall be able then to decide between you.'

Upon hearing this, off they started. The Crocodile, being used to the

water, reached the opposite bank of the river first, and was not long in

standing beside the wall.

Here he waited till the Elephant came up. The latter, seeing at a glance

how matters stood, extended his long trunk, and reached the helmet quite

easily.

They then made their way together back again across the river. The

Elephant, anxious to keep up with the Crocodile in the water, forgot

that he was carrying the helmet on his back, and a sudden lurch caused

the prize to slip off and sink to the bottom. The Crocodile noticed the

accident, so down he dived, and brought it up in his capacious mouth.

They then returned, and the Crocodile laid the helmet at the Lion's

feet. His Majesty took up the helmet, and addressing the Elephant,

said:--

'You, on account of your size and trunk, were able to reach the prize on

the wall but, having lost it, you were unable to recover it. And you,'

said the Lion, turning to the Crocodile, 'although unable to reach the

helmet, were able to dive for it and save it. You are both wise and

clever in your respective ways. Neither is better than the other.'

MORAL: Every one has his special use in the world.

H. BERKELEY SCORE.

McLEOD OF CLERE.

(_Continued from page 68._)

There was much excitement in the Tounghi huts when the story was told,

and Maung Yet's wife took possession of the 'Bébé Ingalay.' Much talking

and gesticulation, too, among the mothers of the tribe over the white

skin of the little stranger. Frail and weak, he seemed at first inclined

to slip away from his adventurous life, but Mah Soh had a big motherly

heart under her dark skin, and loved Bébé with a great love, and tended

him with all the care she knew.

Thus, in spite of strange food and surroundings, the little one throve.

His dark eyes took in the brightness of sunshine and moonrays, he slept

on his red sleeping-mat under the shade of gorgeous blossoms, waking to

the sound of water and the scream of red and green parrakeets, and his

tiny hands were raised, with coos of excitement, to catch these

bright-hued creatures flitting from branch to branch above him. There he

heard the cries of the boys as they goaded the lazy oxen to pull the

clumsy carts faster as they came laden from the steaming paddy fields.

Bébé learned to love even the pye-dogs which congregated under the huts,

and would let him touch them. He loved Mah Soh the best, of course, but

almost as much his own white dog, who guarded Bébé jealously, and gave

alarm if any evil threatened him. Bébé soon learnt to twist his tiny

fingers in the dog's metal collar to keep him near.

When the rice was all gathered, the paddy boats were laden and shipped

down the river to the market at Rangoon. Then quieter days began, and

Mah Soh, dressed in her best on gala days, would stand at the hut door

and chat to the neighbours in their curious musical language.

'How could the Bébé Ingalay have got into the jungle?' 'It was the woman

who had died who had brought him there.' 'Did she not call herself Mah

Kloo, and had not Maung thought she was a Karen woman?' 'Yes, that was

so, but Bébé could not have been her child; had she not said he was

Ingalay?' 'It must have been sad for a "Mem" or a "Thakin Ingalay" to

lose him.'

Ah, it was hard to understand, and there was the queer charm the woman

had, but it and Bébé had brought good fortune--never had Maung Yet

gathered in a better harvest. And the little subject of all this talk,

dressed like a Burmese baby in Mah Soh's arms, heard all, and understood

nothing, not knowing how all-important it was to him.

The rainy season was unusually severe that year, and came all too soon;

then fever broke out in the jungle villages--it came to Maung Yet's

house, and Mah Soh was one of the first to die. Bébé cried, and when no

one knew, he crawled to her. They took him away when they found him

there; he lay hot and restless on his sleeping-mat, for he too had taken

the fever. Maung Yet was a sad man that day, and he and his fellows

talked much of the trouble. They said the evil spirits must be angry,

and some dread thing would happen if the white baby died. Had they not

tied round its neck the metal charm, and it had worked no cure yet? Then

one told of a camp of white men, Thakins (captains) and native soldiers,

who had raised many tents and huts by the big lake: would it not be wise

to take Bébé to them?

Maung Yet resolved to do so; they would start at moonrise. Wrapped in

cloth and skins tenderly by the women, Bébé was placed in the tappa (a

Burmese basket of creel-shape), and slung over Maung's shoulder. They

paced rapidly through the night, he and his fellows, until at sunrise

they saw the shining of Lake Ownwi, and later the sentries and huts of a

camp, and knew that their wandering was nearly ended.

II.

It was the first day of the summer term, at Oakwood Preparatory School,

and the head master, Dr. Rayne, was interviewing in his study various

parents bringing new boys, all of the latter more or less subdued by so

august a presence.

A ring had heralded a fresh arrival, and the butler announced 'Captain

Ferrers.' A middle-aged man, bronzed and tall, and followed by a dark,

handsome boy some ten years old, entered, and was warmly greeted by Dr.

Rayne, who, grasping him by both hands, exclaimed: 'Welcome back to

England, Ferrers! It is good to see you again. I got your note, and am

most interested--this is your little charge, of course--glad to see you,

my little man.'

'Yes, this is Paul. I have been telling him a lot about my old days

here, and how I was one of your first boys. I have to hurry away to-day,

and would like a few words with you first. Paul could perhaps----'

'I will give him into my daughter's hands. New boys are her special

function. Come with me,' and a kind arm was passed round the boy's

shoulders.

'Shall I see you again?' The child's big, dark eyes were turned

wistfully to Captain Ferrers.

'Oh, yes, dear boy, and you can show your dog to Miss Rayne; it is

waiting outside.'

'Now for our chat,' said Dr. Rayne, returning. 'I want to hear all you

can tell me about this child. He is a fine boy truly.'

'And a fine character, too, proud and passionate, but affectionate and

honourable to a degree; among natives he has often helped me by his

fearless truth and sense of right. It is more than nine years since he

came to me. I was at the time newly arrived at Fort Caidman, one of the

stations in the Shan Highlands on the China-Burmese frontier. As you

know, my men are all Sikhs and Pathans, and only I and my

fellow-officers were British. One morning early, my man came to me

saying that some natives wished to speak to me. I went directly. I

found they were Tounghis, a friendly people a long way from my station.

The spokesman carried a tappa (a native carrying-basket) over his back,

and in it, wrapped in a blanket, a child apparently about a year old,

dying, as far as I could see. It was brown with exposure, and its cheeks

and eyes bright with fever. I took it for a native infant, but the man

assured me by an interpreter that it was white. His story was rather

involved, but I gathered that he had received the child from a dying

woman in the jungle--a "Karen" he called her. It was moons ago, and how

the woman had got it he did not know--she had said "Bébé" and "Ingalay"

and had died. Yes, she had said "Mah Kloo," which must have been her

name. These Burmese women generally have the prefix "Mah," and so this

was little clue. They call anything white "Ingalay" (English) as a rule,

so that also is no guide. I thought possibly the child might be

half-caste, but feel sure now he is pure European, more suggestive of

Spanish or Italian blood, I think. However, I am going from my story. I

hesitated what to do, but the man was in such trouble, and so insistent,

repeating over and over the necessity of propitiating the "good spirit,"

that I called my wife, and she decided we must take the little waif, or

it would die in the basket.

'For many days it seemed only just alive. My wife was doctor and nurse,

however, and we managed to pull him through, and in a few months he was

a beautiful walking and talking boy, the pet of the whole station; and

while my wife lived, he was her bright, happy shadow; his black head,

with a curious white lock (possibly from some bad cut), was always

cuddled close against her shoulder, and how she loved him! But she died

some months ago, and I gave up my outpost work for a time, with a year's

leave, and have come to England until my next billet is fixed. We named

the boy "Paul" after myself, and have given him the surname which was

with difficulty made out on the brass collar of a dog which came with

him--the name of "Fife," presumably that of its former master. I seemed

to gather from the man that the dog had been found with the child, but

cannot be sure. It is a breed I do not know. Inquiries and

advertisements were of no avail--no white child seemed to be inquired

for, and we had so little to go upon, as you see. And now he must be

educated, and there is no one else in the world I can turn to so surely,

or leave him with so thankfully, as you, Dr. Rayne.'

Dr. Rayne thanked him for his confidence, and they went back to see Paul

again. Mary Rayne, the Doctor's bright-faced daughter, was making

friends with little Paul, who sat on the floor, his arms round his dog's

neck. The Captain stooped, and lifting the boy, kissed him tenderly.

'Good-bye, dear old man; you will be happy, I know, and get a clever

boy, besides lots of football and cricket. I will take care of "Boh,"

and we will have no end of a good time in the holidays.' As Captain

Ferrers spoke he slipped a thin chain into the dog's collar, and led him

away. Pressed against the window a little lonely boy, with clenched

hands, trying to keep back the tears that would come, watched those he

loved best disappearing down the long drive.

(_Continued on page 82._)

[Illustration: "'I will take care of Boh.'"]

[Illustration: "'Boh! Boh!' the clear voice shouted."]

McLEOD OF CLERE.

(_Continued from page 79._)

'Hullo, new kid, what's your name?'

'Paul Fife,' said the newcomer, who had just been left by Dr. Rayne in

the school playground, where boys of all sorts and sizes, from ten to

fourteen, were congregated, newly arrived from home and holidays, and

while they waited for the tea-bell, were inspecting the 'new boys.'

'Oh, "Paul," what a jolly name. "Paul Pry," "Poll parrot," "Polly put

the kettle on." Well, Polly, and where do you come from?'

'Let him alone, Briggs,' said the school captain (a pleasant-faced, tall

boy). 'Dr. Rayne asked me to look after him a bit. I say, though, young

'un, call yourself "Fife," that's quite enough; we don't have Christian

names here, you know.'

'Well, Christy, you needn't punch my head, I don't want to harm the

infant,' cried Briggs. 'He can tell me where he comes from,

anyhow--can't you, new kid?'

'I lived at Fort Caidman, in the Shan States--Burmah, you know.'

'And what can you do, play football and cricket?'

'No, I have not really played them, but I want to. There were no white

boys besides me, but I can shoot, and ride, and row, and fence, and

throw darts.'

A group of boys had gathered round--little Paul tried not to feel shy.

'Where did you row?' asked one; 'was there a river?'

'Not near, but there was a big lake like a sea--the Inthas live there.

They are called lake-dwellers, and their huts stand on the top of the

water--Uncle Ferrers took me to their huts sometimes. The Inthas row so

funnily, partly with their legs. They can row, oh, so fast, and fish,

and hold an umbrella, all at the same time!'

'Oh, I say, that must be a cram, anyhow. Tell the infant he must not

tell lies, Christy.'

'I don't, and I won't tell you things if you say that,' and the child

drew himself up haughtily and turned away, clenching his small brown

fists.

'It is a shame, you chaps,' said Christy. 'I know he has come from some

queer place in Burmah.'

'Did you see his hair?' said Fane. 'It's as black as a coal, and just in

one place is a white streak--he is a regular magpie. Hurrah! there's the

tea-bell.'

'Oh, I have heard my mother say some one she knew had a lock of white

hair--it looks rather jolly,' rejoined Christy. 'I say, little piebald,

don't mind our ragging. I'm awfully hungry, and I dare say you are.

There is cold beef always for tea first night of term--worth having, I

can tell you. Come along with me, and I will show you where to sit.'

* * * * *

Paul soon began to feel more at home as a small unit in the hundred boys

at Oakwood.

'Wonderful at mathematics and no idea of classics' (was the verdict of

the masters), 'but can talk Gramouki and Pushtan dialects like a

native.'

'No good at football and cricket, but promises well,' said the boys,

'and can climb and jump anything, and use his fists, too.'

Ten days had passed, and Dr. Rayne, at work in his library, was

disturbed by a knock, and the matron entered.

'I am sorry to interrupt you, sir, but it is about that new little boy,

Paul Fife. I cannot get him to eat his dinner properly; he seems hungry

at first, and then leaves off--later, I look at his plate and it is

cleared. I find from some of the boys that he puts the greater part of

the meat in his pocket, and, I suppose, throws it away. I thought I had

better come to you.'

'Certainly; send Fife to me.'

A timid step, and the small boy came shyly in.

'Come here, little man,' the Doctor called, pleasantly. 'I want to talk

to you. You are not too big to get on my knee. No, I thought not. You

see, you are one of my little boys now, and we all want to be as happy

as possible. You are very thin; do they give you enough to eat?'

'Oh, yes, sir,' the child pressed his hands nervously together.

'And you like what you get, I hope. We have not Burmese and Indian

cooks, you know.'

'Yes, I like it all, thank you.'

'And yet Miss Owen tells me you do not eat your dinner, but pocket it--I

hope you don't waste and throw away good food, Paul.'

'No, sir--indeed, no,' the boy looked up earnestly.

'Then see that it doesn't happen again, for I don't want to punish you.'

'Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do?' and to the astonishment of the

doctor, the child covered his face, and his whole body shook with sobs.

'Control yourself, dear boy. No, I cannot allow such crying, you will

make yourself ill. That is better. Now tell me anything in confidence,

and I will see what can be done.'

With an effort Paul gradually quieted, and then said: 'Yes, I will tell

you; please--please, I didn't mean to be naughty, but I do love Boh so

much. It is my dog; you saw him, and Uncle Ferrers took him away. I

don't know how he got loose, but several days ago he came running up to

me in the cricket field--he was so thin, and his ear was torn--I was

eating my lunch bun, and I gave him all I had left. He just gobbled it.

When some of the fellows came up, I sent Boh off, and he ran into the

wood, but each day I whistle, when I can get by myself, and he comes; he

is thinner than ever, so now I eat only part of my dinner even if I am

hungry, but I save nearly all the meat for Boh. He is the oldest friend

I have, for Uncle Ferrers says he came with me. He looks often as though

he could speak and tell me whose little boy I used to be. Please, sir, I

can do quite well with half a dinner, if he may have the other.'

Dr. Rayne stroked the smooth, dark head, deeply touched by the boy's

story. 'There,' he said, 'come with me, and let us see about this dog.'

So hand in hand child and master passed through the big school

buildings, and out towards the breeze-swept cricket ground.

'It is a curious name for your dog,' said the Doctor; 'how do you spell

it, B-e-a-u?'

'Oh, no, sir, B-o-h--it is Burmese. It means "head warrior" or chief

fighting-man. Uncle Ferrers' Sikhs and Pathan soldiers called him that,

because whenever he fought with the pye-dogs or other dogs, Boh always

won. May I call Boh now?' (for they had reached the high ridge near the

wood).

'Yes; I only hope he is still there.'

'Boh! Boh!' the clear voice shouted, and then followed endearing words

of Eastern dialect. A few seconds, and a joyful bark announced the

delighted animal, who leapt up rapturously, his paws on the shoulders of

his little master. The boy's eyes shone as he raised them to Dr. Rayne,

fearlessly, but the voice trembled as he urged: 'If I might just see him

now and then, we should neither of us mind so much.'

'You shall, I will see to it. Now, bring Boh round to the stables, and

John shall find him a kennel and a good dinner. There, there, I didn't

want so many thanks, dear boy; I wish I had thought of it before. Now,

off to your form master, and I shall expect no more complaints from Miss

Owen.'

So Boh also became a member of Oakwood, and a letter was dispatched at

once to Captain Ferrers relieving his mind as to the missing dog, who

had found his way through so many miles of unknown country safe to his

happy owner.

(_Concluded on page 90._)

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

III.--THE MAMMOTH CAVE.

In the State of Kentucky, in the United States, not far from Louisville,

is a table-land formed of limestone, perforated with holes like a

sponge, down which rain rushes with great force. Far below run rivers,

and there are also still, deep lakes partially fed by the water from

above; and, as might have been expected, here also are the most

wonderful caverns in the world. It is said that to explore all the halls

and galleries communicating with each other, and connected with the

Mammoth Cave alone, it would be necessary to walk or climb one hundred

and fifty miles. This may well be believed when we hear that the cave

contains fifty-seven domes, eleven lakes, seven rivers, eight cataracts,

and two hundred and fifty-six avenues, besides thirty-two pits or

abysses, and a Gothic church.

The great Mammoth Dome is over four hundred feet high, and light comes

in from above through holes which, at such a height, look like stars

shining in a dark sky. One of the chief lakes is called the Dead Sea,

from its stillness and gloom, and when light is flashed over it from

above it is wonderfully impressive, with its surrounding fringe of

gleaming stalactites.

A terrible abyss is known as the Bottomless Pit, the depths of which

have never been sounded. On one of its sides rises a huge

crystallisation in the form of a spinning chair, which gleams out from

the surrounding blackness, and is called the Devil's Chair. This

appalling chasm is credited with various terrible tales. One is of two

young lovers who hid in the Mammoth Cave, but finding themselves

pursued, tied themselves together with the girl's girdle, and jumped

into the abyss. However misguided and foolish we may think these young

folk, we can have nothing but pity for two runaway slaves from Alabama,

who, after horrible sufferings and privations in the swamps and forests,

hoped to have found a resting-place in the great cavern. Alas for their

hopes! before long they heard the voices of their pursuers, the cracking

of their heavy whips, the baying of the bloodhounds which had tracked

them to their refuge. Further and further they retreated in the

darkness, only to hear the dreadful sounds draw nearer and nearer, until

they found that they could go no further, as they had arrived at a small

rocky platform overhanging the Bottomless Pit. Before was certain death,

though it was hidden in the horrors of mystery and darkness; behind were

the terrors of a death of protracted agony, as a warning to other

fugitive slaves! One second's hesitation, and then, as their captors

reached out to seize their prey, the despairing men leapt from the rock

into the awful pit.

One very singular cave is known as the Church, and is curiously like the

crypt of an English Cathedral, such as Gloucester or Canterbury. It is

very nearly the same size as the latter. Here stalactites and

stalagmites of colossal size have joined to form pillars, united by

Norman arches, with wonderful effect. Religious services have often been

held in this veritable 'temple not made with hands.'

Indian mummies have been met with in parts of the cavern, proving that

it was known to native tribes in past ages. The skeleton of a mastodon,

an extinct form of elephant, stands in one of the great halls, and a few

live creatures still inhabit the gloomy depths. A cave-rat as large as a

rabbit was caught, which, although it had very bright eyes, was quite

blind when taken from the cave; but after a month's experience of

daylight it gradually began to make use of its eyes. Various kinds of

eyeless fish and crabs live in the dark waters, and a live frog was seen

wearing an unhappy expression of countenance.

The slow rate at which stalagmites grow has been tested in this cavern

by a lantern which was dropped in 1812 and found cemented to the floor

in 1843, since which its upward progress has been carefully watched. The

Mammoth Cave contains immense quantities of nitre. During the great

American Civil War, most of that used was found here, and as gunpowder

contains two-thirds of nitre to all its other ingredients, these caverns

were of great value to the nation. The Mammoth Cave is now private

property, belonging to Dr. John Crogan, who gave ten thousand dollars

for it.

HELENA HEATH.

[Illustration: The Mammoth Cave Kentucky]

[Illustration: "'I don't remember seeing a boy.'"]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 76._)

CHAPTER X.

Beyond the meadow lay a field of wheat, tall and yellow, although not

yet quite ripe for the sickle. Stooping until my hands almost touched

the ground, I ran as fast as possible under the shelter of the friendly

hedge, until, reaching the cornfield, I scrambled through another hedge,

and lay down on my face amidst the wheat.

But still it was impossible to feel in the slightest degree safe, the

road being only a few yards distant, while I distinctly heard the sound

of approaching wheels. If it had not been for the bend in the lane, I

should scarcely have been able to delay capture many minutes, and even

as it was, I lay quaking while I wondered whether Mr. Turton would be

able to see me from the road.

The cab passed my hiding-place, however, so that I began to hope it

might not be going to stop, until on the point of rising, I heard the

horse pulled up, heard the door opened, and recognised Mr. Turton's

voice as he told Augustus to alight.

'The boy must be hiding somewhere hereabouts,' he exclaimed.

'He might easily have got into that wood,' said Augustus, and I

regretted that in my haste I had not taken to the wood on the other side

of the road.

While Augustus and his father must have gone to inspect the woods, I

heard the sound of an approaching motor-car, and guessed that it had

stopped close to the cab on the other side of the hedge.

I lay on my face with the thick wheat growing high all around, my eyes

raised to the hedge, above which I could see the top of a man's straw

hat. I supposed that his motor-car had broken down, but at any rate, his

companion alighted and came on to the raised path, so that I could see

her hat and face.

She looked about my own age, although she must have been unusually tall.

Young as she was, she wore a thick veil, which she had turned back under

the brim of her white hat. A quantity of fair hair hung loose, and she

had dark, rather mischievous, but friendly-looking eyes.

The next moment I heard Mr. Turton and Augustus returning from the wood,

to inquire whether the driver of the motor-car had seen any one

answering to my description. For the car had been coming to meet the

cab, as if the driver were making for Polehampton.

'A boy of about fifteen,' said Mr. Turton, as they all drew nearer to

the hedge. 'I saw him--I am almost certain it was he--about this spot.

Then I lost him in the bend of the lane, and I thought it was possible

that you might have seen him running to meet you.'

'I don't remember seeing a boy,' was the answer; 'but then, this

wretched car is enough to occupy all my attention. Did you see a boy,

Jacintha?' he added.

'No, Uncle,' she answered, and I thought what a strange name it was--one

which I certainly had not heard before. 'Has he run away from school?'

she asked, with obvious interest, the next moment.

'Yes,' said Mr. Turton, while I could imagine Augustus's snigger; 'he

has caused me an immense deal of trouble, and I am extremely anxious to

take him back with me--extremely anxious.'

While I lay in the wheat, able to see the tops of their heads as they

moved closer to the hedge, it did not seem altogether improbable that

Mr. Turton would gain his wish; and while he was still discussing me

with the driver of the motor-car, whom 'Jacintha' had addressed as

'Uncle,' the girl came quite close to the hedge, turning to look at the

ripening corn. As my eyes were upraised, they looked straight into

hers, which seemed to hold them as if I were fascinated.

Now, I thought, everything is over with me! I had not realised that I

could be so easily seen by any one looking down into the field from the

higher path. Jacintha was evidently startled; she stepped abruptly

backwards, as I supposed, to tell Mr. Turton that she had found the

object of his search. I was already making up my mind how to act. Mr.

Turton was unlikely to be a very swift runner, while I knew that I could

give Augustus a pretty good start. The moment Jacintha came back to the

hedge to point out my hiding-place I determined to rise from the ground,

dart towards the adjoining field where the sheep were pastured, and

taking a line across country, at the worst I would lead them all a good

chase before I gave in.

A second later, though it seemed a long second in my suspense, Jacintha

returned to the hedge and again looked down into my upturned face.

Gradually her lips parted in a smile, and then my heart began to thump

against my ribs, for I knew that she was not going to betray me. As I

smiled back in my relief, she nodded her head ever so slightly, and

turning, walked away from the hedge.

'Why don't you drive on to Barton?' she cried, raising her voice, I

supposed, for my especial benefit.

'Barton? How far is that?' asked Mr. Turton.

'Five miles, isn't it, Uncle?' she answered.

'Five and a half,' he said. 'You keep bearing to your right.'

'But,' suggested Augustus, 'I feel certain Everard disappeared about

here.'

'Is that his name?' asked Jacintha.

'Yes, Jack Everard.'

'Perhaps he has gone down through a trap-door,' said Jacintha with a

laugh, and Augustus sniggered in return. How I wished there had only

been Augustus to deal with, with perhaps Jacintha to look on during the

process. But it would not have been his boots that I should have

blacked!

'Uncle!' cried Jacintha, 'do you remember the steep lane we passed on

our left?--that would be on your right,' she added, evidently turning to

Mr. Turton.

'What about it?' he asked.

'There was a finger-post which said "Pathway to Barton." If they were to

take that path don't you think they would get to Barton more quickly?'

'Why, yes, of course,' was the answer.

'Then,' said Mr. Turton, 'if we follow the road, we might be able to

intercept the boy. I am very much obliged to this young lady. But in

case you should see him after all,' he continued, 'allow me to give you

this card. If you could manage to detain him while you communicate with

me at Castlemore you would confer the greatest favour.'

I could not catch the answer, but a few minutes later, I heard the

cab-door shut and knew that Mr. Turton and Augustus, thanks to Jacintha,

had been driven off in the direction of Barton, five and a half miles

distant. So that they would have eleven miles to drive before they

returned to this spot, leaving me at least two hours (reckoning for the

search at Barton and so forth) to make good my escape.

In the meantime the motor-car still continued to make strange noises,

and every now and then its owner gave vent to curious exclamations.

'Don't you think,' suggested Jacintha, 'it would be best to try to get

as far as the farrier's we passed opposite the footpath to Barton?'

'Upon my word, I almost think it would!' was the answer. 'Come, suppose

you take your seat.'

'Oh!' cried Jacintha, 'but if you don't mind I think I would sooner

walk--it is not far, you know.'

So a few moments later the motor-car made stranger noises than ever and

moved away, evidently with difficulty, and when it had gone a little

distance Jacintha came to the hedge again.

'It's all right now,' she cried, and rising I came to the edge of the

field.

'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said.

'What made you run away?' she asked eagerly.

'I was not going to stand all that,' I answered.

'All what?' she asked.

'I don't think I had better stay,' I said. 'Because they might change

their minds and come back.'

But Jacintha shook her head.

'I don't think they will,' she answered. 'Because I heard him tell the

driver to go to Barton. What shall you do?' she asked.

'I shall go to the left as they have gone to the right.'

'I wish we could give you a lift,' she cried.

'Where are you going?' I inquired.

'You see,' she explained, 'I really live in London, only I am staying

now with my uncle and aunt--I always come to stay with them in the

summer.'

'Do you live near here?'

'Why,' she returned, 'we have come miles and miles this morning. My

uncle has just bought a motor-car--a beauty. We started quite

early--soon after seven, and it began to rain just before, so my aunt

wouldn't come. We were going to Polehampton, and we have broken down

lots of times, though we get along splendidly in between.'

'I slept at Polehampton last night,' I said.

'Where are you going?' she asked.

'To London.'

'Why didn't you take the train?' inquired Jacintha.

'You see I had no money,' I explained. 'I sold my watch and chain, but a

tramp robbed me.'

'Where do your people live in London?' she asked.

'I have no people.'

'Oh, I am sorry!' she exclaimed. 'What are you going to do?'

'Well,' I said, 'I don't quite know till I get there.'

Jacintha's face grew very solemn.

'I wish I could tell Uncle,' she said. 'You know he is most awfully

nice, only I am afraid he might put you in the motor-car and drive after

the cab--we could catch it easily if we tried.'

'Yes, of course,' I answered.

'Uncle will be wondering why I am so long,' she continued. 'I expect we

shall go straight back now the motor-car has gone wrong.'

'Where to?' I inquired, from sheer curiosity to learn as much about her

as possible.

'Uncle lives at Colebrook Park,' she answered.

'Where is that?'

'About a mile this side of Hazleton,' she said, on the point of going

away. 'I do hope those people won't catch you,' she continued, 'and that

you will reach London all right, though it doesn't seem much use if you

haven't got any people. I never knew any one who had run away before,'

she added, regarding me with evident interest, and with that to my great

regret Jacintha walked away.

'Thank you ever so much,' I cried, and then in order to see the last of

her, I came round into the road, standing on the path watching until a

bend took her out of sight. Even then I did not at once set out on my

journey, but, having taken the precaution to bring some bread and cheese

in my pocket, I sat down to eat it, near the spot where Jacintha had

recently stood, when I saw something shining on the path.

Taking it in my hand, I found that it was a heart-shaped locket, which

doubtless belonged to Jacintha. I imagined that she had worn it

suspended from a chain round her neck, that it had caught in one of the

twigs of the hedge and been broken off when she started back in

astonishment on first seeing me lying amidst the corn.

Ignoring any possible risk from her uncle, I now thought only of

returning the locket, and accordingly set forth at a run, nor stopped

until I reached the farrier's shop, opposite the footpath to Barton.

Then I saw, to my extreme disappointment, no sign of a motor-car before

the door.

(_Continued on page 94._)

A STORY OF STANLEY.

Sir H. M. Stanley, the famous African explorer, once had a strange and

unpleasant experience, from which he was saved by his presence of mind

and readiness of resource. He was travelling in Africa, and had to stay

some time at a village. The people here were extremely ignorant and

superstitious and quite unused to the ways of white men. After a time

some of them noticed him making entries in his note book--for this was

new country to him, and it was important that he should remember what he

saw--and not understanding what he was doing they jumped to the

conclusion that he was bewitching them in some mysterious way. This

report spread all over the village, and a crowd of about five hundred

savages collected, and threatened to kill the explorer at once unless he

destroyed the book. Stanley was, naturally, very unwilling to give up

all the notes which had cost him so much trouble and danger to collect,

but on the other hand it would be very much worse to lose his life.

Suddenly he had a bright idea. He happened to have with him a volume of

Shakespeare's plays: he thought that in all probability the savages

would not know one book from another, so he offered it to them instead

of his note-book. The natives were quite taken in. They accepted the

Shakespeare, and, amid much rejoicing, burnt it to ashes, thus breaking,

as they thought, the spell that Stanley had cast upon them.

[Illustration: "They burnt the Shakespeare, breaking the spell."]

[Illustration: "He deliberately lighted a cigar with a scrap of the

burning rope."]

THE CAPTAIN'S CIGAR.

The ship was on fire! The boats were lowered, and were quickly filled by

the terrified passengers and crew. Amid the general excitement, the

captain alone remained cool and collected, and when the time came for

him to follow the others, he did a very curious thing. Before descending

the ladder into the boat, he shouted to his sailors, 'Hold on for a

minute!' Then he drew a cigar from his pocket, and deliberately lighted

it with a scrap of the burning rope which lay close by. This done, he

went down steadily and slowly, and ordered his men to push off.

One of the passengers asked him afterwards, 'How could you stop at such

a moment to light a cigar?'

'Because,' replied the captain, 'it seemed to me that unless I did

something to divert the minds of the people in the boat, there would

probably be a panic. Then the boat would have been upset, for, as you

know, it was over-crowded. My seemingly strange act attracted your

attention. Watching me, you forgot your fright and your own danger for

the moment, and so we got off in safety.'

Apparent folly is sometimes wisdom in disguise.

E. D.

THE PUFF-ADDER.

The Puff-adder is the most common, as well as the most deadly, of

African snakes. It is generally about four feet long; the evil-looking

head is broad and flat, while the body, which is as thick as a man's

arm, tapers very suddenly towards the tail. The puff-adder is of a

uniform brown colour, checked with bars of darker brown and white. It is

slow and torpid in all its movements, and is peculiarly dangerous from

its habit of lying half buried in the sandy track, not caring to move

out of the way of passers-by, as other snakes generally do; still, if

not molested or trodden upon, it does not attack man. If any unfortunate

creature, however, should be bitten by this reptile, death occurs in a

few hours. When irritated or alarmed, this snake has the power of

swelling out the whole body, from which fact it derives its popular

name.

McLEOD OF CLERE.

(_Concluded from page 83._)

III.

It was Sports day at Oakwood School, a glorious 18th of June. Guests

were gathering from near and far, and every lodging and primitive inn in

the neighbouring villages was reaping a harvest from the invasion of

relatives and friends of boys past and present. On the school tower, a

landmark for miles, the house flag and the Union Jack floated proudly.

The hundred boys looked a goodly sight below, clad alike in white with

varying racing colours in broad sashes and ties.

It was Paul Fife's third term, and he had just been welcoming Captain

Ferrers. 'I must go directly,' said the boy; 'I am in the sack race for

boys under twelve. I must tie Boh up first, or he will come rushing

after me and spoil my chance.'

Alert and active, Paul hurried off, and Captain Ferrers joined Dr.

Rayne.

'So glad you think we are taking care of him,' said the Doctor. 'He is a

favourite with us all; not quite a typical English boy yet, though. I am

glad to see so many "old boys" here to-day, and parents too. Bless me,

there's General McLeod of Clere; I have not seen him for years. It must

bring back many sad memories: his son was here years ago, a splendid

fellow--his death was a terrible blow,' and Dr. Rayne went off to speak

to his old friend.

The bell rang for the sack race, and there was a general movement to the

starting-post, where the eight small boys in for the final were

standing, each tied up to the neck in his sack, ready for the start. The

old General was keenly interested, and was standing immediately behind

Paul.

The master starter yielded to the request, 'May we have our caps off?'

and uncovered one after the other each little competitor's head. General

McLeod made a hurried exclamation as the dark head before him was bared.

Paul heard him, but had no time to look round, for with an 'Are you

ready?--are you ready?--off!' the boys were started. Blundering,

tumbling, struggling up again, they rounded the opposite post, and came

hopping in, Paul an easy first. As he touched the winning tape, his

uplifted face beaming with pride, the old General turned white to the

lips, and stretching out his trembling hand he laid it on the head of

the laughing boy, and gasped uncertainly, 'Miguel Sarreco!'

* * * * *

There was very earnest talk in the Head Master's study that night,

between Dr. Rayne and the General and Captain Ferrers, glad of a quiet

hour at last.

'If I might suggest it,' said Dr. Rayne, 'you should tell your story

first, General; it may throw light on small things, which otherwise may

escape my friend Ferrers's notice and remembrance of all concerning this

poor little child.'

'I quite agree with you, and will reserve my story until after,' and

Captain Ferrers sat down, listening eagerly while the General began.

'I must go back many years. My wife, as you know, Rayne, was of

Portuguese descent, an ancestor of hers having married a señora in

Lisbon, after the Peninsular war. She (my wife) inherited a little

property there, and in some business connected with it I had met, at

different times, a far distant connection of hers, Don Manuel Sarreco,

with whom I became fast friends. About fifteen years ago I received an

urgent message to go to him at once. I travelled day and night, only to

find him dying--he had been mortally wounded in a duel. He knew me, and

urged on me his last request, to take his two children and bring them up

as my own in England. I hesitated, but his entreaties and the love I had

for him prevailed, and I took on myself the charge. The eldest was a

beautiful girl of seventeen, Miguel two years younger. They were

wonderfully alike, only in the boy's case the raven black hair had a

lock of white on one side, the "Sarreco streak," as it was proudly

called, which appeared in the family generation after generation. I

brought the children home with certain of their most cherished

possessions, some fine riding-horses, and a pair of curious dogs of

Andalusian breed.

'My son, Hugh (as you know) had joined the army, and having helped in

the final subjugation of Burmah, was then stationed at Mandalay, in

command of native troops. I sent the boy Miguel to Harton, and Inez

rapidly picked up English at home. Two years later Hugh returned, as he

had obtained a year's leave. To make a long story short, he fell in love

with Inez, and they were married before he returned to Burmah.

'I ought to mention that, some months before, the addition of two fine

puppies of the Andalusian stock had become the pride of our kennels:

they were born the day of the wedding of the Princess Louise with the

Duke of Fife, and were unanimously christened "Fife" and "Louise." The

dog I saw to-day was the same breed. When Hugh and Inez went away, Fife

was an important part of the luggage. We went to see them on board,

waving good-byes as the vessel steamed away, and I never saw them

again.'

The General's voice faltered and failed, but soon he resumed: 'You may

perhaps remember the sad bathing accident at Harton School, of which no

one quite knew the end. Miguel Sarreco was one of the two boys drowned;

his dog, Louise, had apparently tried to save him, for their bodies were

washed in together some hours after the accident. The boy had been the

only young one left with us at Clere: he was the darling of us all.

Judge, therefore, the shock I felt to-day when a face like his looked

into mine, and his own dog apparently jumped as formerly round him.

'Inez was so shocked by the news that a change from Mandalay was

suggested, and Hugh obtained the command of Fort Sardu, one of the

outpost stations in the Shan States. The Dacoit attack on this fort you

will remember. We were just rejoicing over a letter from Hugh, telling

of the birth of a little son, when we were stunned by the ghastly news

of the massacre of every living soul at Fort Sardu.

'I travelled out to Burmah at once, hoping against hope. But all had

perished. A sentry near the jungle alone was living, sorely wounded.

When questioned, he was delirious, but just before he died he had

quieted, and said that Pahna, the Karen woman, had got away into the

jungle, but her arm was wounded, and as she went he heard the wailing of

a child, and a dog with burning hair had rushed out from one of the huts

after her. No one could say if it was truth or delirium, but every

inquiry was made. No such woman had been heard of, nor had she returned

to any of the Karen encampments, so if she had got away she must have

died in the jungle, they said. The body of an infant had been seen among

the dead at the fort and buried with the others, so that the sentry's

tale seemed but a myth.

'Many months later, a letter, delayed some while, reached me from my

boy. It had been written the day after the child's birth apparently. I

have it here. After some private matter he says: "Our little son is a

fine fellow, very dark, and his thick black hair has the 'Sarreco

streak' very visible, which Inez is absurdly delighted at. The English

nurse has jungle fever, and is kept away, but Pahna, the Karen woman, is

a splendid substitute: she is the wife of my faithful native servant.

Pahna is devoted to 'Bébé Ingalay.' Her English is curious; Inez she

usually called 'Missee Sahib,' but now she has got to 'Missee Mahkloo,'

'Thakin Mahkloo' meaning me--her nearest rendering of McLeod." You

start, Captain Ferrers?'

'Yes; I will say why presently--please go on,' said Captain Ferrers. 'I

cannot say how interested I am.'

'The letter goes on,' resumed the General: '"Inez hung the Ragged Cross,

the 'Sarreco badge,' round the baby's neck for a few moments to dub him

true 'Sarreco.' Pahna looks on it as a charm especially his own, and

hangs it over his cot. 'Fife' watches the little one jealously, so he is

well protected."

'That is practically all,' said the General, folding the thin letter

reverently with hands that trembled; 'but I feel surer and surer--my

heart tells me that the little boy Paul Fife must be my own flesh and

blood. He is Miguel Sarreco's very image: the same haughty poise of the

head, and lean, sinewy body; but when he speaks, the voice is my son's,

and the curve of the lips his also.'

'I think I can help you,' said Captain Ferrers, rising. 'I have here in

my pocket-book the exact description of the finding the dying woman and

the child in the jungle as given me by the Tounghi, "Maung Yet"--he is

still to be found, I believe, if more is required. Her dying words over

and over were as you see: "Thakin Ingalay--Bébé--Mah Kloo." He took the

last to be the woman's own name, and impressed me with the same idea.

But it must be meant for Macleod. This alone, coupled with the white

lock of hair, is almost proof-positive. But still further, the dog was

there, and on his brass collar (which I removed at once, not to risk

losing it) was the word "Fife," the name of his owner, we thought, and

so we called the child Fife too. Last, but not least, I believe I have

in safe keeping the veritable "Sarreco badge" you mention, a curious

kind of gold cross, fastened to a thin gold chain. Maung Yet gave it to

me as a charm found on the dead woman. I may add that these Karen women

are wonderfully faithful; probably both husband and her own infant were

slain early in the fight, and she had alone been able to take away the

English baby, and had carried him all those weary miles, saving him only

to die herself. The hardships endured are terrible to think of.'

There was a pause--the old General's head was bowed over his clasped

hands. Then he rose to his full height and said: 'It is quite enough to

assure me of what I felt sure of before. I thank God for all His mercy!

and now I should just like to kiss my little grandson before I go. I

will be here again early to-morrow.'

Captain Ferrers and Dr. Rayne, both frequent visitors at Clere, assert

that the General grows younger. It may well be so, for the dark clouds

of sorrow have lifted, and the sun shines for him with the laughter of a

happy child. He can look hopefully forward now to life's evening. He is

not the last of the McLeods.

MARTIA.

[Illustration: "They came hopping in, Paul an easy first."]

THE STARTLED HARES.

Four hares were at dinner one day--

The sweetest of herbage was theirs--

And as they all nibbled away

They seemed to be rid of their cares;

For the grass was so green and the sky was so blue,

They had plenty to eat and nothing to do.

The sun shone so brightly that day,

They did not think danger was near;

The hunters and dogs were away,

There was nothing around to cause fear.

When, alas! from the sky there dropped with a plump,

A something which made their poor hearts give a jump.

[Illustration:

"After all, I will wait--

I must hurry off home, it is getting quite late!"]

Poor Fred was knocked backward at once,

And Charlie fell flat on the ground,

While Peter stretched out his long legs

And fled without making a sound;

But Tom, who was boastful, cried, 'Stop! Don't you see,

It is only a kite from its string broken free!

'Just let me catch hold of that boy,

I'll give him a box on the ear--

I'll teach him to fly his old kite

Beside us, to cause us such fear....

Why, there _is_ the boy! After all, I will wait--

I must hurry off home, it is getting quite late!'

Then off with a rush went brave Tom,

His heart beating loud with dismay;

While Charlie, and Peter, and Fred

Cried, 'Isn't Tom valiant to-day?'

And the boy shook with laughter to see Tom in flight,

For he knew that fine words never drive away fright!

D. B. M.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 87._)

CHAPTER XI.

The blacksmith, a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a leather apron,

stood at the door with a hammer in his right hand, his shop being a kind

of barn beneath a tall elm-tree, directly opposite the narrow lane, with

a board signifying that it was a footpath to Barton. It was exactly the

place I should have selected in order to get away from the main road had

I known of its existence.

'Has the motor-car gone?' I inquired, stopping in front of the

blacksmith's.

'Don't see much sign of it, do you?' he answered, rather gruffly.

'How long ago did it start?' I asked.

'About a quarter of an hour,' said the smith, and I saw that it would be

useless to think of following it in the hope of overtaking Jacintha.

Perhaps it was just as well, as she had suggested that her uncle might

take me forcibly back to Mr. Turton, whose eagerness to bring me once

more to Castlemore still furnished matter for surprise.

But still, even if I ran some risk, I was determined to lose no time in

returning the locket to its owner, who had certainly done me a good

turn. My direction, which a little while ago had appeared uncertain, was

now decided for me, and henceforth, instead of directing my steps

towards London, I aimed at reaching Hazleton, whence the journey could

be continued with greater safety from pursuit.

'Can you tell me how far it is to Hazleton?' I asked before moving on

from the smithy.

'Jim,' cried the blacksmith, turning towards a man who was hammering a

horse-shoe, 'here's the champion walker wants to know how far to

Hazleton.'

'About thirty miles,' said Jim.

'Which is the way?' I demanded.

'Bear to your left till you come to the main road,' said the smith,

'then take the left again.'

Having thanked the man, I walked on, still looking sharply out for Mr.

Turton's cab, until I came to a small village with a green, on which a

few boys were playing cricket. Here there were two forked roads, and

after staying five minutes to watch the game, I followed that to the

left. I took the precaution to place the locket in my empty watch-pocket

for greater safety, and as I left the village behind, I took out all the

money in my possession--four shillings and sevenpence--and counted it,

although I knew perfectly well what it amounted to. Even if the weather

remained fine, which appeared extremely doubtful, I could not hope to

reach Hazleton in less than two days, and then I must hang about the

entrance to Colebrook Park until I succeeded in seeing Jacintha alone.

As to what was to happen after that, I did not trouble myself; Hazleton

had now become my fixed destination, and by securing a free bed in the

open air for two nights, I reckoned it would be possible to fare well on

the way.

Now that I had set my back towards Barton, I felt perfectly safe from

Mr. Turton, and the road became so hilly and beautiful, with woods and

undulating fields on each hand, that it soon began to engage all my

attention. Villages came close together, and, indeed, the only drawback

that afternoon was the lowering sky, which certainly foreboded a bad

night.

At about five o'clock I passed through a kind of model village, with

some quaint cottages and a few nourishing shops, in one of whose windows

I saw some extremely tempting-looking small pork pies. Having eaten only

bread and cheese for dinner, I was beginning to feel ravenously hungry,

so, entering the shop, I inquired the price.

'Twopence each,' said the girl behind the counter, 'fresh made this

morning.'

'I will have one,' I answered, when it occurred to me that if I was

going to sleep out of doors, it might be wise to buy two, keeping one in

reserve for supper. Then I asked for a glass of milk, and as there was a

penny change out of sixpence, I bought a large cake of chocolate.

On leaving the shop, the sky looked blacker and more threatening than

ever, and I wondered whether Jacintha and her uncle had arrived home

yet. Eating one of the pork pies as I walked on, I followed it by half

the cake of chocolate, and then the rain began, with large drops, which

made me dread a thunder-storm.

After a little while the rain ceased, however, and quickening my steps,

I began to think I should be driven to pay for a night's lodging after

all. Presently I came to a kind of open moor, covered with bracken,

bramble, and brilliant patches of heath. A rabbit scampered across the

road, but there was no one to be seen, although a railway ran close at

hand through a cutting on the right. I could see the tops of the

signal-posts and hear the rush of passing trains now and then. When I

had walked a mile or more across the moor, the rain began again with

flashes of vivid lightning and long rolls of thunder. I turned up my

collar and buttoned my jacket, which was soon nearly wet through, and at

last stood up in the wet bracken under a beech-tree. A more vivid flash

of lightning, however, reminded me that I had heard of the danger of

standing beneath trees in storms; so, plunging into the deluge again, I

followed the road up a steep hill, in the hope of seeing a village, or

some kind of shelter, from the crest.

But the only human habitation in sight was a solitary house, which

looked curious enough amidst those lonely surroundings. It stood at the

corner of a cross-road still several hundred yards distant, a

new-looking house, built of red bricks, with a tiled roof, with a garden

and railings in front. Determined to find shelter somewhere, I set off

down the hill at a run, and, as I drew near the house, rejoiced to see

that it was apparently empty. By the iron railings stood a black board,

announcing that it was to be let unfurnished, while the wisps of straw

about the path seemed to show that the tenants had but recently forsaken

it, because of its lonely situation, no doubt. Opening the gate, I went

up the stone steps and stood beneath a small porch before its front

door, where at least I was out of the rain, which now poured down in

torrents. On each side of the small porch was a shelf, evidently

intended to support flower-pots, and underneath one of the shelves I saw

an old sack.

This I picked up and examined, and finding that it was not very dirty, I

thought there could be no harm in taking possession of it, for if the

rain continued, the sack would serve the purpose of a cape to protect my

shoulders. Placing it round them at once, I stood gazing at the rain,

while the evening gradually darkened. The thunder sounded as if it were

exactly overhead, and the lightning seemed to dance around me. Presently

I began to wonder how to pass the night, since it would be madness to

leave this shelter in the deluge, while yet I could not very comfortably

remain where I was.

It must have been between seven and eight o'clock when a happy thought

occurred. How idiotic to feel doubtful where to sleep when here was a

whole house apparently at my disposal! It could not injure anybody if I

made it a shelter for myself for the night, whereas it would be an

immense boon to have a roof over one's head until the rain

ceased--although it looked as if it never would leave off.

Drawing the sack over my head, I came forth from my shelter and

inspected the front of the house, only to find that every window was

securely fastened. Going round to the side gate of lattice-work, I found

it unlocked, however, and made my way at once to the back garden. There,

by great good fortune, was a window with the bottom pane broken, and

having enlarged the hole, I was able to put in a hand and push back the

fastener, so that to open the window and effect an entrance was the work

of a few seconds.

Having shut the window, I looked about, and saw that I stood in a kind

of breakfast-room, entirely empty; but on going to the adjoining

kitchen, there was a heap of shavings and paper by a packing-case in one

corner, and on this I determined to make a bed. The rain still pelted,

the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed, while the interior of the

house seemed dismal and oppressive, I confess to a feeling of timidity

which I had not experienced since I left Castlemore--such as, indeed, I

had scarcely been conscious of in my life before. The evening was

already dark, and the night promised to be absolutely black. When I went

to the kitchen door and looked out into the stone-floored passage, I

could scarcely see my hand before me, and there was no means of

obtaining a light.

Returning to the kitchen, I shut the door, and, making the most of the

still remaining light, I began to prepare my bed for the night, but as I

turned the shavings a mouse ran over my hand, and for the moment I felt

so startled that I walked to the farther side of the room.

There I began to persuade myself that there was no danger to be feared

from a mouse, and presently, returning to the corner, I shook out the

shavings and pieces of paper until they somewhat resembled the shape of

a bed. A few minutes later, however, it seemed to become suddenly black,

save when the flashes of lightning lighted the room, for, of course, the

windows were without blinds. Sitting down on the bed, I determined to

eat my supper and try to sleep, not caring how early I woke, so long as

it was daylight. I congratulated myself on the possession of the second

pork-pie and the chocolate, and lest the morning should prove as wet as

the night, I only ate half of my provender, although I could very

readily have dispatched the whole.

Then, having taken off my boots and spread the sack out to dry, I said

my prayers and lay down at full length; but, instead of falling asleep

at once, my thoughts turned to the past, and I seemed to live over again

every interview I had ever had with Captain Knowlton. When I remembered

his cheerful personality, it seemed impossible to realise that he could

be dead, and yet by this time I had not the slightest hope of ever

seeing him again. I tried to dwell on Mr. Bosanquet's encouraging words,

but it was useless to-night as I lay watching the lightning; and,

oppressed by grief at Captain Knowlton's loss, I could not keep back a

few tears. Then I must have fallen asleep, for, I know not how much

later, although the kitchen was still in total blackness, I found myself

sitting up, and thinking for the moment that I was back in my room with

Smythe and the other fellows at Mr. Turton's. Before I had quite

realised the actual surroundings, I grew cold from head to foot, with

that uncomfortable sensation called goose-flesh, as if every individual

hair were standing on end. My teeth began to chatter as I strained my

ears to listen.

There could be no doubt about it. I could distinctly hear a low, pitiful

weeping apparently just above my head. That the sounds came from some

human being in intense distress I entertained no doubt whatever, and

yet, inconsistently enough, I felt frightened out of my wits. Rising, I

felt my way by the empty dresser to the door, and there stood listening.

Still the melancholy sound continued; such a dismal wailing as I had

never heard before. How I longed for the day to break, or even for the

lightning, which had now ceased, although in unison with the sounds of

continuous weeping I heard the rain beating against the window-panes.

Afraid to open the door, feeling that I would gladly endure any penalty

in exchange for a box of matches, I did not make the least attempt to go

to sleep again, but stood close to the kitchen window on the look-out

for the first sign of dawn. Never had time seemed to pass so slowly. The

sounds of mice in one corner made me shudder, and for once in my life I

was thoroughly and shamefully terrified.

The first shade of grey on the ceiling caused a feeling of intense

relief, and I began to upbraid myself for timidity. As the light gained

brightness, courage returned, and when at last it was day, although

nothing could have appeared much more dismal than the outlook from the

window, I determined to pull myself together and to make a tour of

inspection.

(_Continued on page 102._)

[Illustration: Alone in the Empty House.]

[Illustration: The Best Beginning]

THE BEST BEGINNING.

Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, was not only an excellent ruler and

fine general, but deeply religious.

On one occasion, at the beginning of a great war, he landed his troops

in Germany. Directly he landed in the early morning, after giving some

necessary orders to some of his officers, he retired a few paces from

them and knelt down to pray. He noticed that this action on his part

appeared to surprise some of his men; whereupon he said, 'The man who

has finished his prayers has done one half of his daily work.'

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

5.--ARITHMOGRAPH.

A word of ten letters; a woman's name.

1.--4, 8, 7, 10. A great river.

2.--7, 1, 3, 4. Not fat.

3.--7, 8, 10, 5, 6. A vassal, or the lord to whom he is bound.

4.--2, 1, 3, 7. Young meat.

5.--2, 8, 7, 10. Very bad.

6.--9, 3, 8, 7. A horny substance; and a small, pointed piece of metal.

7.--5, 6, 4, 10, 2, 3. A city in Switzerland.

8.--9, 3, 2, 10. The body of a church.

9.--5, 3, 8, 9.--Something obtained.

C. J. B.

[_Answer on page 130._]

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 58.

3.--1. Bucharest.

2. Rouen.

3. Brunswick.

4. Budapest.

5. Santiago.

6. San Francisco.

7. Benares.

8. Prague

9. Valparaiso.

10. Nantes.

4.--Amble-side, in the Lake District, near which place lived Wordsworth,

Dr. Arnold, and Harriet Martineau.

THE INDIAN'S CONSCIENCE.

An Indian once asked his neighbour for some tobacco. The neighbour put

his hand in his pocket and gave him a handful. The next morning the

Indian came again, and brought a quarter-dollar which he had found

between the tobacco. The neighbour was surprised at such honesty, and

asked the Indian why he had not kept the money.

'It is just like this,' he answered. 'In my heart I have a good man and

a bad man. The good man said, "The money does not belong to you; give it

back to its owner." The bad man said, "It has been given to you; it

belongs to you." The good man replied, "That is not true, and such

conduct is evil; the tobacco belongs to you, but the money belongs to

him who has given it away by mistake; you must give it back again." The

bad man answered, "Think no more about it, and do not let such a trifle

disturb you. Keep the money." I was in doubt as to which voice of my

heart I should listen to. At last I lay down in bed, but the good man

and the bad man quarrelled so all the night in my heart that I had no

peace, so I felt obliged to bring you back your money.'

THE LIME OR LINDEN.

The Lime, or Linden, is very notable amongst our trees on account of its

beauty and usefulness, and also because it will grow anywhere. It is

especially a London tree, for we see it in parks, squares, many private

gardens, and along some roads in the metropolis. But the smoke of London

seldom allows the tree to attain its full size. Often the stroller in

July, passing along a road or lane, becomes suddenly aware of a

delicious scent floating upon the summer breeze. He looks up, to find

this perfume comes from a lime, putting forth its clusters of flowers

upon their leafy branches--flowers to which, by day or night, crowds of

bees, flies, and other insects resort. About the suburbs of London the

lively sparrows often have their assemblies in lime or plane-trees; and

in most years, the London limes, towards autumn, put forth a few fresh

leaves.

The lime is a hardy tree, and flourishes even in the cold regions of

Sweden and Russia. It is supposed to have been introduced to Britain by

the Romans, who brought trees and plants into these islands from various

countries where the Roman banners had been carried. Amongst the Swiss,

this tree has been regarded as an emblem of liberty, and planted for a

memorial. From the lime, called in Sweden 'lind,' the greatest of our

early botanists took his name; it was chosen by him because a large

lime-tree overhung his father's house, and so he has always been known

as Linnæus.

'Linden' comes from the Swedish name, but 'lime' is an ignorant mistake,

which cannot be altered now. Properly, the tree belongs to the citron

family, akin to the orange and lemon, and the other name of the linden

seems at first to have been 'line,' because the bark was used for making

cord and other lines.

From 'bast,' as the inner bark is called, a great number of mats are

made in Russia, and sent all over Europe; a small quantity is also woven

in Lincolnshire and Monmouthshire. Hats and shoes have been made from

lime-bark, and the solid wood is serviceable in many ways. It has

supplied bowls, plates, sounding-boards for pianos; and some beautiful

carving--that of Gibbons, for example--has been executed in lime-wood.

It is white, but very tough when properly dried.

A handsome tree when solitary, the lime is particularly beautiful in an

avenue. There is a famous avenue of large size at Ware Park, and another

remarkable one in the Cathedral yard at Winchester.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

III.--PROFESSOR CHARLES' FIRST VOYAGE.

Notwithstanding the superior power of Professor Charles' gas balloon,

the Montgolfiers stuck to their hot air, 'for,' said they, 'see how much

cheaper it is, and how much more quickly the balloon can be

inflated--about ten minutes against three days.' So, in answer to

frequent demands, their air-ships sailed into the skies, and even the

applause of royal hands increased the uproar with which each successful

experiment was greeted.

On the morning of September 19th, 1783, the road between Paris and

Versailles was crowded to excess. The stream of carriages seemed

endless, and the eager throng pushed its way between the vehicles till

there was hardly room for horse or man to move. The windows all along

the route were full of faces, while the house-tops themselves were

invaded by sight-seers. And all this excitement was because the King had

commanded Stephen Montgolfier to send a balloon up from the gardens at

Versailles. This time, however, there were to be passengers, and as no

human being had ever breathed the upper air before, it was questioned

whether he could do so and live. The pioneers, therefore, should not be

human, and in due course a cock, a sheep, and a goose were chosen. These

were the first living passengers in the cloud-cruisers, and after a

voyage at a great height, of eight minutes in duration, they returned to

the earth in perfect health. But what bird or animal could have wondered

if, after that 19th of September, they had quacked, and crowed, and

bleated with more pride than before?

Then Montgolfier was busier still, and on November 21st, in a

fire-balloon specially decorated for such a great occasion, two

gentlemen, named Pilâtre de Rozier and D'Arlande, made the first ascent.

Of the former of these we shall have to speak again.

But as hot air, as a means of flight, has been surpassed by hydrogen

gas, we ought to give more attention here to the grand voyage made

eleven days later by Professor Charles and his skilful helper, M.

Robert. During the preparations all went well. The balloon was made and

fitted at the Tuileries, with a lovely car in the shape of a fairy's

boat, bright with blue panels and golden ornaments. But when things had

gone thus far, trouble began.

On November 29th a rumour (too soon confirmed) ran through Paris that

the King forbade the ascent to be made. At midnight Charles was aroused

from sleep and summoned to appear before a high official, who presented

him with the royal order to give up his project. We may readily believe

that after this he passed a restless night, and his trouble became

harder to bear when his enemies whispered that he himself had asked for

the order to be made because, at the last moment, his courage had failed

him. Sad to say, such whispers as these will travel as fast and far as

shouts of praise, and Professor Charles felt thoroughly depressed. But

there was some comfort in the heavy rain that fell, for no one could

expect the balloon to ascend in such weather, and before the clouds

cleared away perhaps his difficulties would clear away too.

The King, however, was deaf to all appeals; maybe he thought Professor

Charles was too valuable to France to run the risk of being killed. But

if this was the reason, there were four hundred thousand people in Paris

who did not agree with him, and when the next morning broke quite

cloudless, they gathered at the Tuileries in a somewhat impatient

manner. Who was to be obeyed, the people or the King? Well, up to the

last minute Professor Charles would not decide. The arrangements were

continued. The great balloon was moved into the open space, with a small

one, five and a half feet in diameter, beside it. This was to be sent up

first, to see if the air was sufficiently quiet. The rope which

controlled it was placed in the hand of Stephen Montgolfier, 'for,' said

Professor Charles, 'it was you who first showed us the way to the

clouds.' At a signal given, M. Montgolfier cut the rope, and for a

moment the attention of the spectators was engrossed by this little

pioneer as it rose into the blue above them.

Finally, at a quarter past one, M. Charles made up his mind to keep his

promise to the people, and disobey the King for once, and, accompanied

by M. Robert, stepped into the blue and golden car. Amid a deafening

tumult, that must have been heard at Versailles, they rose slowly into

the air. His own description of the voyage has been preserved, and as he

was a man who could describe what he felt and saw (and let all

'chatterboxes' know that this is harder than it seems), no story could

be more interesting. They rose straight up for one thousand eight

hundred feet, and then hung poised in the air. The view was entrancing,

and as the aeronauts looked down at the Tuileries and the buzzing crowd,

Professor Charles felt as though he had escaped from a swarm of wasps

ready to sting him without mercy if he failed to please them. However,

his troubles from that point of view were over, and he turned his

thoughts to the delights of his voyage. Presently they heard the report

of a cannon, which meant that the people of Paris could no longer see

them. Far below, like a silver brook, wound the river Seine, and twice

the balloon floated across it. Village after village drifted away

beneath them, till, at the end of two happy hours, they settled in a

broad meadow at Nesle, twenty-seven miles from Paris. Here they were

joined by three Englishmen who had ridden after them from Paris on

horseback. These Englishmen, together with the village clergyman, signed

Professor Charles' papers to prove that they had witnessed his descent,

while the awestruck peasants gathered round and helped to hold the

balloon.

The sun had already set, but the gas was not all gone, and so Professor

Charles went up once more, this time alone. He clapped his hands as a

signal to the peasants to let go, and ten minutes later was soaring at a

height of nine thousand feet. In that ten minutes he had passed from an

atmosphere of spring to that of winter; for although it was December

1st, it was warm weather on the earth. Perfect silence was around him,

and when he clapped his hands the noise was quite startling. As already

stated, the sun had set when he left the earth, but now he saw it again

just above the far horizon. All below was dark with shadow, and on him

and his balloon alone the sun was shining. Delighted by these new

experiences, he turned his eyes in all directions. Not a human being was

visible, not a human voice could be heard, and while he looked and

listened the sun sank out of sight once more. Professor Charles, for the

first time in his life, had seen two sunsets in one day. Perhaps he

thought that was enough, for he pulled the valve-line, and a few minutes

later alighted in a field two miles from his starting-place, and the

home of one of the Englishmen. The next morning he and Robert entered

Paris in triumph, and a few hours later, through another gate, the

balloon entered in triumph too, being escorted by bands of music and

crowds of people.

[Illustration: "M. Charles stepped into the blue and golden car, and

they rose slowly into the air."]

The kind old King evidently forgave Professor Charles for disobeying

him, for he immediately presented him with a pension, and first-class

lodgings in the Tuileries, where he continued his studies till his death

in 1823.

JOHN LEA.

[Illustration]

THE JEALOUS KITTENS.

When Jack and Tom were little kits,

No settled home had they;

But Mother found within the barn

A hamper full of hay,

And there she took her children two,

And told them what they ought to do.

She said, 'Now, darlings, make no noise,

And if you do no harm,

And learn your business, you will live

In comfort at the farm.

Just catch a mouse--for that's your trade--

And then your fortune will be made.'

Now, when the kits were left alone

They soon began to play,

For neither cats nor children can

Be busy all the day;

But as they tossed the hay about,

A little mouse came creeping out!

'Look! look!' cried Jack, with eager eyes.

'I see!' cried Tom, 'I see!

You go and seek another mouse,

And leave this mouse to me.'

'Indeed, I won't!' cried Jack at once;

'You surely take me for a dunce!

'That mouse is mine--I saw it first;

So, Tom, away you go,

And let me tackle it at once,

And lay the rascal low.'

But naughty Tom would not submit;

He said, 'It's mine--I'll capture it.'

But while they quarrelled loud and long,

They quite forgot their prey,

And when at last they made it up

Miss Mouse had slipped away--

For if you fight and disagree,

You ne'er will catch the enemy.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 95._)

CHAPTER XII.

The most probable explanation of the noise I had heard seemed to be that

the house had not after all been empty--indeed, it could not be empty!

Although the regular occupants had gone they might have left some one

behind as a caretaker, who certainly must be in the depths of despair.

Heedless of the fact that my presence might be resented, I opened the

kitchen door, crossed the stone-paved passage, and going up a few

stairs, came to a fair-sized hall. Here there were four doors, one

leading out to the porch where I had found shelter yesterday afternoon,

one to a room right at the back, and two which apparently opened

respectively into the drawing-room and dining-room.

As the front room was above the kitchen I determined to try that first,

for thence the weird sounds of the night had seemed to come. Advancing

rather nervously towards it, I gathered sufficient courage to turn the

handle, when, discovering that the door had been locked from the

outside, I began to hesitate about turning the key.

Unless somebody had been shut in by mistake, how had he or she obtained

admission? But as I stood there hesitating, I suddenly broke into a

laugh of perfect relief. The truth now seemed plain enough. I could hear

scampering feet, and an eager whine, which ended in an impatient bark.

Opening the door, I saw a small rough-coated terrier with a patch by his

tail; bounding forward he began to yelp and spring and fawn upon me,

licking my hands and showing every sign of joy and satisfaction.

I think my own pleasure was almost equal to the terrier's. It is

impossible to make any one understand the intense joy of finding a

companion after the night I had passed. Although he looked rather thin,

his condition did not suggest that he had been locked up longer than a

day or two; but picking him up in my arms while he whined and licked my

face, I carried him downstairs, and turning on the tap over the sink let

him drink as much water as he wished. Fortunately I had still half of

the pork-pie in my pocket, and it was good to see him eat it bit by bit

from my hand. It was true that my remaining small piece of chocolate

made an unsatisfactory breakfast, and that the terrier eyed me a little

reproachfully even when I ate that, but he would not leave me for an

instant, and in less than half an hour it seemed as if he had belonged

to me all my life.

'What's your name, old chap?' I asked, and he wagged his stump of a tail

as if he would have told me if he could. 'Anyhow,' I said, 'you must

have a name of some sort. What shall it be?'

It took some time to decide upon a suitable name, and then we did not

arrive at anything more original than 'Patch.' Having settled this

pressing question, I stripped to the waist and had a good wash at the

sink, drying myself as well as I could on the shavings which had served

as a bed. By this time the rain had almost ceased, and I began to think

that it might be advisable to get outside the house before I chanced to

be seen. So, having got through the window with Patch in my arms, I shut

it again and was going round to the front when I saw that the terrier

was poking his muzzle into every nook and corner, as if in search of his

lawful owner.

Still, he came to my whistle, and not forgetting the sack, I went round

to the front of the house, standing under the porch at the top of the

steps until presently the rain entirely ceased, the clouds broke, and

the sun shone in a feeble kind of way.

The first order of the day was breakfast, then to make my way to

Hazleton with the object of returning Jacintha's locket. With the sack

rolled up beneath my arm, with Patch running excitedly around me, I set

forth along the muddy road across the moor. Having left this behind and

followed a winding lane for some distance, we seemed to be approaching a

village. Passing one or two houses, we crossed over a railway bridge,

passed a dozen or more cottages, and then, at the corner of two roads, I

saw what appeared to be a kind of mixture between a temperance hotel and

a mission hall.

After the various escapades through which I had passed since leaving

Castlemore, my clothes were in a sad condition, my boots especially

being coated with mud, so that for a moment I shrank from entering the

building. Summoning courage, however, I pushed open the door and found

myself in a bare-looking room with several large illuminated texts on

the walls, and three wooden tables, at one of which a man was seated

drinking a cup of tea.

A clock over the mantelpiece showed that it was a quarter-past ten,

although I had thought it considerably later. As Patch followed me into

the room, leaving damp footmarks on the clean linoleum, a short

thin-faced woman, with fair hair drawn very tightly back, entered from

the opposite door with a wet dish in one hand and a cloth in the other.

'We can't have dogs in here!' she cried by way of greeting.

'Will it matter if I nurse him?' I asked.

'If he doesn't spoil my floor,' she answered, and as I took Patch up in

my arms she added, 'What is it you want?'

'I should like some breakfast.'

'Tea and bread and butter?' she asked.

'How much are eggs?' I inquired.

'Three-halfpence each. Tea a penny the cup, bread and butter a halfpenny

a slice.'

I made a hasty calculation in my mind, and being extremely hungry

determined to spend sixpence, though it made a rather serious inroad

into my remaining four shillings and a penny.

'I will have two boiled eggs, four slices of bread and butter, and a cup

of tea,' I answered. Soon afterwards, while I sat with Patch on my

knees, the other customer left the room. When the woman returned with my

breakfast and received the sixpence in exchange, I was agreeably

surprised by her altered manner. At first she had created an

unfavourable impression, but now as I ate she stood watching with kindly

interest, presently remarking, however, that it was beginning to rain

again.

'How far is it to Hazleton?' I asked.

'Close on twenty-six miles,' she answered.

'I was told that it was thirty yesterday,' I said, 'and I know I have

walked ten miles since.'

'Are you walking to Hazleton?' she inquired.

'Yes.'

'Well, you won't be able to get far on your way in this rain,' she

replied, and indeed it was again coming down in torrents. 'We make up

beds here,' she added. While she was speaking, a small, fair-headed

child of four or five years ran into the room, and, encouraged by the

way the woman caught him up and kissed him, I thought that I would

confide in her.

'You see,' I explained, 'I have only three and sixpence to last me to

Hazleton, and this weather I can't get along very quickly--that is the

worst of it.'

She pursed her lips as she looked into my face. 'Well,' she answered, 'I

can give you a bed for sixpence if you're not too particular. Then

there's dinner----'

'I shall not care about dinner,' I said, feeling perfectly satisfied

after two eggs and four thick slices of bread and butter, 'if I could

have some bread and cheese for supper.'

Finally, she agreed to give me some tea in the afternoon, some supper, a

bed, and a plain breakfast the following morning, for one and ninepence;

this would leave the same sum to carry me to Hazleton, beyond which my

plans did not at present extend. The woman, moreover, offered to tie

Patch up in an out-house and give him some scraps, and later in the day

she said that if I would go to bed early she would wash my shirt, which

sadly needed such attention. Altogether it seemed that I had found a

friend; and as the rain did not cease all day, I amused myself reading

such books as the place contained. At six o'clock I had supper and went

to bed, putting everything but my cap and cloth clothes outside my door,

where, after a long night's sleep, I found them nicely ironed and

folded. On coming downstairs, I borrowed some boot-brushes, so that on

Wednesday morning I set out looking far more respectable than I had

done on my arrival, in excellent spirits, with one and ninepence in my

pocket and Patch at my heels.

A short distance from the reading-room, or whatever it ought to be

called, I met a postman who told me it was only twenty-three miles to

Hazleton, although, after I had covered quite four miles more, a member

of the county police told me it was still twenty-two miles. Seeing that

it would be impossible in any event to reach Colebrook Park to-day,

although I could easily manage the distance to-morrow, I did not hurry,

but, the sun being hot, allowed Patch several rests by the way, until on

making another inquiry at about half-past five that evening, I was

informed that Hazleton was still eighteen miles distant.

Although the day had been fine, the ground was still wet, far too wet to

sleep out of doors with comfort. I had economised as much as possible,

but walking is hungry work, and now I found myself with only one and

fourpence by way of capital. The consequence was that a free lodging of

some kind must be discovered, and I looked about vainly for another

empty house.

At about six o'clock I happened to pass a farm; a good-natured-looking

man stood leaning against a gate, smoking a pipe.

'Should you mind if I were to sleep in one of those barns?' I asked.

'On the tramp?' he exclaimed.

'To Hazleton,' I said.

'Pretty near twenty miles.'

'No one seems to know exactly how far it is,' I answered, and he chuckled

as he puffed at his pipe. Then he began to eye me inquisitively, and

presently, knocking out his pipe with a good deal of deliberation, he

turned and walked away. I was beginning to feel that I had met with a

rebuff, when he looked back and told me to follow him.

'Better pick up that terrier,' he said, 'because of the chickens.'

With Patch in my arms I followed the farmer round the house to an empty

shed behind.

'You can have a shake-down here if you don't mind being locked in,' he

said; and, although I would rather not have had the key turned, I at

once consented. It was a large shed, and quite clean and fresh, but

entirely bare. When I had been there about half an hour a maid opened

the door, with a plate of cold beef and potatoes in her hand, and she

stayed talking while Patch and I shared the meal. Soon after she had

gone, taking the plate and knife and fork, the farmer came again,

followed by a man with an armful of straw.

'I shall not lock you up,' he said, 'though I have been done so often

you can't tell whom to trust and whom not. If you go to the back door

to-morrow morning, you will get some breakfast.'

I have slept in more comfortable places, but still the shed was quite as

good as anything I had a right to expect, while Patch's presence proved

the greatest comfort. He lay down close beside me, artfully taking

advantage of the straw, and when I felt very lonely--for I could not get

to sleep for some time--I put out a hand and felt his coat.

(_Continued on page 106._)

[Illustration: "'You can have a shake-down here,' said the farmer."]

[Illustration: "'The question is, where did you get the dog?'"]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 103._)

It was half-past six the next morning when I went to the farmer's back

door, where the rough-looking maid provided me with a cup of coffee and

a chunk of bread and butter, then, followed by Patch, I set out that

Thursday morning on the road to Hazleton. The weather could not have

been better, although the middle of the day promised to be excessively

hot.

As I trudged along the pleasant road, I had some wild idea of reaching

Hazleton that evening, but this was soon destroyed, for about a mile

from the farm where we had slept, I noticed that Patch was limping.

Sitting down on a heap of stones by the roadside, I looked at his near

hind paw, and saw that it was nastily cut, so that he could only walk in

great pain. I suppose he had trodden on a piece of glass in the road.

Now I realised that I was in an awkward plight. Of course, Patch must on

no account be left behind; but, on the other hand, how was I to get him

along? Tearing a piece off the edge of the sack, I frayed out some of

the thread and made a kind of bag, which I put over the wounded paw,

tying it round the leg. This took some time, and, as the job was

finished and Patch was licking my hand by way of thanks, I saw a large

van approaching from the direction of the farm, driven by one of the

fattest men I had ever seen. The cart was laden with bottles of

ginger-beer and mineral waters, but, as it passed us by, at a fair pace,

a nosebag, which was tied behind, fell off into the road.

The driver, alone in the van, was entirely unaware of his loss until,

rising from the heap of stones, I shouted to him to stop, and, picking

up the nosebag, ran after the van. Pulling up his horse, he leaned down

to take the bag, and then asked where I was going.

'To Hazleton,' I answered, as usual.

'That is about seventeen miles,' he said.

'The worst of it is,' I continued, 'my dog has cut his foot and can't

walk.'

'Like a lift, doggie?' asked the fat driver.

'We should most awfully!' I exclaimed, eagerly.

'Well, now, listen to me,' was the answer. 'My round doesn't take me as

far as Hazleton, but I am going to Watcombe, and that's ten miles short.

We shall not get there much afore evening, because you see I have to

travel a good bit out of the main road, and stop at ever so many places

on the way.'

At any rate, the proffered lift would take me within ten miles of

Colebrook Park, whereas without such help I did not see how I was to get

even so far unless I carried Patch in my arms. Besides, the drive was

tempting in itself, the only drawback being that my remaining capital of

one and fourpence would have to bear an extra strain, and, in case of

more bad weather, it would probably be exhausted before I reached my

destination. However, in a very few moments Patch and I were seated on

the top of a wooden box full of lemonade bottles, the fat driver whipped

up his horse, and we sped gaily along the country road.

CHAPTER XIII.

As I sat on the box of lemonade bottles, with a hand on Patch lest he

should show a desire to jump down from the van, I noticed that he was

sniffing curiously at the back of the driver's coat; and presently the

driver in his turn began to look with equal interest at the terrier.

'He seems to know you,' I remarked.

'Come to that,' was the answer, 'I seem to know him. Looks to me most

uncommon like Mr. Westrop's dog, he does.'

'Who is Mr. Westrop?' I inquired, holding Patch more tightly.

For a few minutes, without answering (for the fat driver was slow of

speech and spoke in a deep voice which seemed to come from the direction

of his boots), he divided his attention between the horse and the dog,

and then fixed his small eyes on my face.

'The question is,' he said slowly, 'where did you get him?'

'You see, I found him,' I replied.

'Mr. Westrop's been in a bad way about his dog,' continued the driver.

'A very bad way. What do you think about it, Sam, old chap?'

The terrier, to my sorrow, showed what he thought about it by wagging

his stumpy tail and whining with satisfaction, so that it would have

been ridiculous to attempt to persuade myself that he failed to

recognise the name of 'Sam.'

'I know most people betwixt here and Barton,' said the driver, laying

his whip gently across the horse. 'Come to that, so I ought.'

'Do you live at Barton?' I asked, thinking of Mr. Turton and Augustus,

and their wasted drive to that town.

'Just this side,' was the answer. 'That's where our factory is--half a

mile this side of Barton. And every day of every week, for fifteen years

or more, I've driven round the country with this van.'

'Are you going back to-night?' I inquired.

'Why, of course,' he exclaimed. 'Back by the straight road, after I've

done my round.'

We had already left the wider road, and as the driver spoke he pulled up

the horse at the door of a small rustic inn. Fastening his reins to a

hook on his seat, he slowly dismounted, took a box of bottles from the

van, carried it into the inn, returning after a short interval with the

same box filled by a similar number of empty bottles. Then he climbed up

to his seat again, unhooked the reins, and cried 'Gee-up' to the horse,

which at once started at a smart trot along the lane.

'Now about this dog,' he began. 'Mr. Westrop used to live at the Beacon

on Ramleigh Forest--I can remember before the house was built. He moved

out last Friday to a house near Barton, and sure enough he has lost his

terrier. Where did you find him? That's what I should like to know.'

'I don't know whether the house was called the Beacon,' I answered,

'because I didn't see any name. Patch had got locked in the

drawing-room.'

'Well, now!' cried the driver, 'who would have thought the dog was fool

enough for that! Locked in the drawing-room, were you, Sam, old chap?

And how did you get him out?'

When at some length I explained how I had been caught in the storm, and

sought shelter in the empty house, and slept in the kitchen, and had

been frightened by the ghostly noises in the middle of the night, the

driver leaned forward and laughed so uproariously that I felt afraid

lest he should fall from his seat on to the horse: and as soon as his

merriment permitted him to speak, he turned to me with his great red

face redder than ever.

'Well,' he cried, 'you are a nice young man for a small party, you are!

A nice young burglar, to be sure! Going and breaking into people's

houses, cool as you please, and stealing their dogs. Howsoever,' he

added, 'Mr. Westrop will be no end glad when I take Sam back to him

to-night.'

I clasped Patch more closely.

'You're--you are not going to take him back?' I said.

'Why, what do you think?' he demanded. 'You wouldn't go and keep a dog

that didn't belong to you!'

I am afraid I might have been tempted to keep Patch or Sam, whichever he

ought to be named, on any terms, if circumstances had permitted; and

useful as the lift on my way had appeared, I began to regret that I had

ever seen the driver or his van. But before I had time to reply we were

pulling up in front of another inn, where another box of mineral waters

was carried in, and a box of empty bottles was brought out.

'Not but what,' the driver continued, 'I am sorry to take the dog from

you, because he is just the sort you could soon grow fond of--aren't

you, Sam? But right is right,' said the driver, looking straight in

front of him, as he laid the whip on his horse.

During the next two hours we stopped at numerous inns, and I might have

been able to enjoy the drive through the country lanes, and the remarks

which the driver exchanged with almost every one we met, if it had not

been for the necessity of restoring Patch to his rightful owner. It was

impossible to pretend that the driver had not right on his side, but the

fact remained that the terrier's companionship had become very valuable,

and I would have borne a great deal rather than give him up. On the

other hand, I began to persuade myself that it would have been perhaps

difficult to keep him in London, especially if I succeeded in obtaining

work as quickly as I hoped, when necessarily I should be occupied most

of the day.

When we stopped at a more important inn at one o'clock, the driver took

from beneath his seat two plates, one covering the other, and tied up in

a clean napkin. Without a moment's hesitation, he offered to share his

meal with me, and there appeared to be quite enough rabbit-pie for two.

After dinner, as we drove on again, he became more talkative, and asked

a good many questions about myself, with the result that he soon

learned where I was going after I left Hazleton, and how much money I

had in my pockets, though I did not mention the gold locket.

'Now where did you think of sleeping to-night?' he asked, and I told him

that I intended to wait to see what might turn up in the way of shelter.

'You see,' he continued, 'I always like fair play. Fair play is a jewel.

It was you who found the dog, though you had no business to have been on

the spot, so to speak. But Mr. Westrop is pretty sure to give me a tip

for bringing Sam back, and I don't see why you should not have your

share.'

'Oh, that is all right,' I answered.

'Of course it is, because I am going to make it all right,' he said. 'I

told you I would set you down at Watcombe, ten miles from Hazleton; but

half a mile short of that my sister-in-law lets lodgings. I will speak

to her, and arrange that you shall have some supper and a bed and

breakfast, and then I think we can cry quits, eh--what do you say?'

I said that it was very kind of him, and he proved as good as his

promise. The house was not particularly tempting-looking, but, at all

events, it was far better than no place to sleep in. I climbed down from

the van, followed by Patch, from whom I was so soon to part, and

accompanied the driver into a kind of kitchen, where a tall, stout woman

in a cotton dress was busily employed as we entered. She glanced at me

once or twice while the driver carried on a whispered conversation and

handed her some money. Then she went out at a back door and returned

with a piece of rope.

'This is the only bit I can find,' she said.

'That's enough,' answered the driver, and, going down on his knees, he

whistled to Patch, who went obediently, and stood wagging his tail while

a loop was fastened round his neck. I followed when the driver led him

out at the door, lifting him into the van, and tying the end of the rope

to the rail behind his own seat. Standing on an empty box, Patch looked

down at me and whimpered, so that I climbed on to one of the wheels to

pat his coat and hold his muzzle as a last good-bye. The driver mounted

to his seat and unhooked the reins.

'Down you jump!' he cried. 'So long! be good!' and, whipping up his

horse, he drove away, while Patch began to run about on the top of the

box, and strained at the rope as if he were as sorry to leave me behind

as I was to let him go.

(_Continued on page 117._)

THE REASON WHY.

Louis XIV., King of France, was very fond of playing at chess. One day

he was having a game with one of his courtiers, and during the game made

a false move, to which his adversary respectfully called his attention.

The King, who did not easily suffer contradiction, did not wish to

acknowledge that he was wrong, and appealed to the noblemen who

surrounded the table, but none of them made any reply. Just then the

Duke de Grammont came into the room, and immediately the King saw him he

appealed to him, and wished to explain to him the subject of the

dispute, but the Duke hardly allowed him to finish.

[Illustration: "'Your Majesty is certainly wrong.'"]

'Your Majesty is certainly wrong,' he said, with a firmness of tone

which astonished the King, and caused him to frown.

'How do you know that I am wrong, Monsieur le Duc?' replied the King;

'you have not even given me time to explain to you what the question

was.'

'I know undoubtedly,' replied the Duke of Grammont, 'for all these

gentlemen, whom your Majesty was consulting at the moment I arrived,

only replied by their silence. They would every one have hastened to

take your part if your Majesty had been right.'

The King was struck with the sense of this argument, and admitted that

he had made a mistake.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

III.--HOW BUTTERFLIES, FLIES, AND SNAILS FEED.

(_Concluded from page 78._)

When the method of feeding employed by the Snail is compared with that

of the Butterfly or the common Fly, a very striking difference in the

construction of the mouth-parts will be noticed. The common snail (fig.

D), for example, feeds by the constant licking, or rather rasping,

motion of a very wonderful tongue--a tongue which, stretched out,

appears to be longer than the whole body! Yet only a small portion of

this curious organ is in use at one time.

[Illustration: Fig. D.--Common Snail.]

[Illustration: Fig. E.--Section of Snail's Head (much magnified).]

This tongue (fig. F) consists of a long flat ribbon, or 'radula,' as it

is called, the surface of which is beset by a series of minute teeth,

set in rows across the ribbon. The number of these teeth varies greatly

in the different species of Mollusca--the group to which the snail

belongs. In some there may be as few as sixteen; in others, in some

relatives of our garden snail, for example, there may be as many as

forty thousand! The working portion of this ribbon is fixed to a sort of

tough cushion, which, by means of muscles, can be drawn forward and

protruded from the mouth, where it is worked backwards and forwards with

a licking or rasping action that effectually scrapes away, in a fine

pulp, the edge of the cabbage leaf on which the creature is feeding. The

teeth serve, in fact, the same purpose as the horny spines on the tongue

of the lion, or, on a small scale, of the cat. You all must have noticed

how rough a cat's tongue is when, in a burst of affection, pussy insists

on licking your hand. If she went on licking long enough she would wear

away the skin. As the snail's teeth wear away in front they are replaced

from the reserve store which is kept in a sort of pocket, which lies

behind the 'cushion' in the drawing of a section of a snail's head (fig.

E). It is here that new teeth are being constantly formed, and pushed

forward to supply those lost.

[Illustration: Fig. F.--Snail's Tongue (much magnified).]

In this drawing, by the way, you will notice a long arrow (A-B): this

marks the passage which the food takes from the mouth to the gullet, and

thence to the stomach. The head of the arrow points towards the snail's

interior.

In many mollusca, the teeth, instead of resembling one another

throughout the series, are of different kinds, very large and very small

teeth alternating one with another in endless variety.

The horny jaws, to which reference has been made, are generally not

conspicuous; but in the Cuttle-fish and Octopuses they are of huge size,

and have been aptly compared to the beak of a parrot. But we must return

to this subject again on another occasion, for it is one of quite

unusual interest.

AN OLD-FASHIONED GRACE.

This little 'grace before meat' was written two hundred and fifty years

ago by Robert Herrick, a Devonshire clergyman who became a famous poet.

'Paddocks' is an old name for 'frogs,' and 'benison' means blessing;

'heaving up' means 'lifting up in prayer.'

Here a little child I stand,

Heaving up my either hand;

Cold as paddocks though they be,

Here I lift them up to Thee,

For a benison to fall

On our meat and on us all.--Amen.

CURIOUS NAMES IN LONDON CITY.

Time and progress have swept away many of the old streets, lanes, and

alleys for which London City was remarkable. Most of them had names with

a meaning, though it is sometimes difficult to find this out now. One

reason is that, as the years went on, names often got altered in very

odd ways. There were few of what might be called 'fancy' names, such as

are now often given to new streets or roads. Frequently a name arose

from the business of the people who lived in the street, or perhaps it

kept in remembrance some notable person who had a house there.

Occasionally it happened that a lane or alley had several names, and it

is not easy to tell which is the oldest. The citizens sometimes gave two

or three streets the same name.

When it could be done, old names have been kept, or not much altered,

though the street is changed. Old-time Londoners would stare at Cannon

Street of nowadays, so different from the Candle-wick or Candlewright

Street of the past, where lived dealers in tapers and candles. It is

said that Paternoster Row got its name from the fact that stationers and

writers had shops there, who sold, among other things, copies of the

Lord's Prayer. It had an Amen Corner, and Creed Lane is also near.

Afterwards mercers and lacemen invited customers to shops in the Row,

and finally it became famous for books and magazines.

Chancery Lane and Fetter Lane still keep the old names they had when

their appearance was not that of streets or business thoroughfares, but

quiet lanes between Holborn and Fleet Street, dotted with private

houses. Fetter Lane had nothing to do with fetters or prisoners; it was

so called because 'fewters,' or idle persons, were often found lurking

amongst the back gardens. One of the short turnings out of this lane had

the odd name of Three Leg Alley; nobody seems to know why. It is

supposed that Gracechurch Street is a reminder of a church in the

locality, St. Benet's, Grasschurch, thus called because near the church

was a herb-market, where wild or garden plants were sold. Occasionally

the name is found in books written by chance as Gracious Street. At

first the Gresham Street of our day was called Cateaton Street, but an

old writer about London states that this was also shortened to 'Catte.'

There was a surname Catte or Katt, which might have belonged to a person

who built houses along the street. Hog Lane, Spitalfields, we are told,

was visited now and then by the porkers that were allowed to range in

the fields and obtain what food they could. Doubtless they strolled up

the lane on the chance of getting fragments from the kitchens of

citizens. Was Duck Lane, Smithfield, damp enough to be attractive to

ducks? It may once have been, but later it was known as Duke Street.

Many places in the city were named from eatables or other articles that

were sold in them. This was the case with Pudding Lane and Pie Corner;

Milk Street, too, is supposed to have been a milk market, but Honey Lane

was not a depôt for honey, nor remarkable for its sweetness. The

historian Stow says that it was both narrow and dark, needing much

sweeping to keep it clean. The Poultry was a market for fowls, and

Scalding Alley, close by, had houses in which people scalded poultry and

prepared them for sale. An old name given to Grocers' Alley was

Coney-slope Alley, for it had a market where coneys or rabbits could be

bought. In Rood Lane formerly stood the Church of St. Margaret Pattens,

beside which the women offered pattens to by-passers. These wooden

elevators for the feet were much in demand at the time when London

streets were often deep in mud, and the fields splashy or sticky with

clay. But they did not sell bucklers in Bucklersbury; so far as we know,

it was called after a citizen named Buckle, to whom the manor belonged.

Grub Street did not have at all a pretty name, though some say it was

first Grape Street; then it was altered to Milton Street in honour of

our great poet. Little Britain or Britagne Street had a residence

belonging to the Dukes of Brittany, and Barbican was notable for its

Roman tower, around which were large gardens.

EARNING AN HONEST PENNY.

'I wish we could scrape enough money together to buy poor old Father a

pair of slippers for his birthday,' said Jack; 'his old ones are all in

holes, and I know he can't afford a new pair--he has had so many

expenses since Mother's illness.'

Geoffrey looked up from his home-lessons and sighed deeply. '_My_

money-box is quite empty,' he remarked, 'and Nellie and Hilda have not a

farthing in the world.'

'That is true enough,' laughed Nellie. 'But, oh, Jack,' turning to her

eldest brother, 'if only we could do _something_ for Father, I should be

so glad! He seems so worried lately, and I am sure it's because he can't

get Mother all the nice things she ought to have now that she is getting

better.'

'Couldn't I take out a broom and sweep a crossing?' asked Geoffrey;

'that would bring in a little, and I would not mind what I did, if it

helped.'

'You must find your crossing first,' returned Jack. 'The roads are as

dry as a bone at present, so _that_ won't work, little stupid!'

'Little stupid' sighed again. 'If only I knew how to earn an honest

penny!' he murmured.

'Or twopence,' said Hilda. 'I think twopence would be a little better.'

'I would rather it was half-a-crown,' put in Nellie.

There was silence for a moment; then Jack said slowly: 'I wonder what

became of Uncle Harry after he went out to Australia. Father never

writes to him; he doesn't know where he is now, and we have moved so

many times that I expect Uncle does not know where _we_ are either. I

dare say if he knew we were so badly off he would help us.'

'It's no good talking about Uncle Harry,' said Geoff; 'the question is,

Can _we_ help Father?'

'Look here,' cried Jack, suddenly; 'supposing, instead of saying "_Can_

we," we say "We _must_." Supposing,' he added, 'we all make up our minds

to earn a shilling each as best we can, so that we may have four

shillings to buy Father some slippers?'

'Capital!' exclaimed Nell; 'but _how_ are we to earn it?'

'Oh, we must each hit upon a plan for ourselves,' returned Jack; 'I vote

we draw lots for the first victim to-night, and we will allow each

victim two days to earn the shilling in, and then will draw for the

next.'

Of course, they all began to puzzle their young brains about plans; but

Jack cut some slips of paper into different lengths, and, placing them

between his thumb and first finger, while he clasped his other fingers

tightly over the ends inside his hand, he bade them each take one, and

whoever drew the longest was to earn the first shilling.

Well, they all drew, and Jack took the slip which was left; but Nellie

got the longest, and she retired to the window, and stared out for

inspiration.

'I know what I shall do,' she announced, at last; 'I'll cut my twelve

chrysanthemums out of my garden, take them down to town, and sell them

in the street for a penny each.'

'Nellie!' cried Jack; 'you mustn't think of doing such a thing! Father

would not like it, and I am sure _we_ should not. You are not half

strong enough to go out into the streets.'

But Nell was firm. 'It's the only thing I can think of, Jack,' she

replied, 'and I _will_ do it. We must earn some money somehow, and no

one will recognise me if I put on my old frock, and a shawl over my

head. We can't help being poor, Jack, and it is an _honest_ way of

earning a shilling.'

Jack, however, looked a little worried. He admired Nellie's pluck, but

he did not like the thought of her going out into the streets alone.

Nevertheless, after some discussion, it was decided that she should have

her way, on condition that Jack went with her to see that she was quite

safe. It was agreed that the matter should be kept dark, and that if

Mother asked where Jack and Nellie had gone next evening, the others

were to say it was a secret.

So, after tea the following day, the two children stole out. Mother was

resting in her own room, and Geoffrey and Hilda were at their lessons,

though it must be confessed they found it hard to give their whole

attention to them.

It was a good mile and a half down to the town, but Nellie trudged

bravely on with her treasured chrysanthemums (she alone knew what it

cost her to cut them), and Jack walked a little behind, for his sister

said that flower-girls never had any one to escort them, and he must not

let any one see he belonged to her.

When they arrived in town, Nellie took up her station at a busy corner,

and timidly offered her flowers for sale, while her brother stood in a

doorway not far off, pretending to read a book by the light of a street

lamp, but in reality he was watching to see that she came to no harm.

One honest penny was earned--two; then Nell grew bolder, and ran after

a man whom she thought a likely customer. But he pushed her roughly on

one side, and she fell upon the pavement. Jack could have kicked that

man, but he was out of sight in an instant, so the boy went and helped

Nellie to rise instead. Gathering up her flowers, he entreated her to

return home, and not to trouble any more. But the little girl bravely

held out, assured him she was not hurt, and in the end persuaded him to

go back to his doorway.

Ten minutes passed away without any more flowers being sold, then Nellie

held out the best of all to a kind-looking gentleman who was passing

slowly by.

He stopped, looked at the child somewhat curiously, and then said, 'No,

little lass, I do not want any flowers; but I wonder if you can tell me

where Greenfield Road is, eh?'

Nellie started, for that was the name of the road where she lived.

However, she simply directed him, and was turning away to seek for

another customer when he slipped a bright half-crown into her hand. The

child was so astonished that for the moment she could say nothing, and

when she recollected herself the gentleman had gone, and Jack was by her

side, asking what had happened.

'Well,' he said, when she had told him, 'no more selling flowers

to-night, Nell, so you can just come home at once, for you have done

your part and more,' and he would not hear of her staying there any

longer.

Together the two started for home, feeling very happy indeed; but

scarcely had they got inside the door when Geoffrey literally rushed at

them.

'Oh, Jack! Nellie!' he cried, 'you can't think what a splendid thing has

happened! Who do you think turned up ten minutes ago? Uncle Harry; yes,

_Uncle Harry!_ He has been hunting for us for days. Oh, it seems too

good to be true! He's in the dining-room now, with Father, and----'

'Oh, is he?' said a voice from behind, and who should appear on the

scene but the kind gentleman who had given Nell half-a-crown! 'Why!' he

exclaimed, suddenly, 'what's this I see? Well, if it isn't----Why, what

does it all mean?' he asked, turning round to Father, who had followed

him out, and was looking equally puzzled.

There was an awkward silence. Nellie coloured, and in her nervousness,

down went all her pretty flowers on to the floor. But Jack came to the

rescue, and blurted out the whole story on the spot.

Father turned his head away as Jack explained; indeed, he was much

touched by the children's thoughtfulness; but Uncle Harry patted Nell's

head, and praised her for her pluck. He said that Father ought to be

proud of his four children, and I am sure Father was, though he said

they must never think of going into the streets to sell flowers again.

Of course, the earning an honest penny business came to an end, for

Uncle Harry had come back much better off than when he went out to

Australia, and he gave the children a shilling each to buy Father some

slippers, and something else for themselves besides.

Later on, he and Father became partners in a business of their own, and

Nellie never had to think of selling her flowers again, or Geoffrey of

sweeping a crossing.

J. A. VIVIAN.

[Illustration: "'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers.'"]

[Illustration: "'Look out, Father, they are going to shoot you!'"]

'GINGER FOR PLUCK.'

Thomas M'Calmont had blue eyes, a mop of red hair, a moderate share of

brains, and a most insatiable thirst for adventure. When his

school-fellows made insulting remarks about his red locks, he was wont

to answer, 'Ginger for pluck;' and, indeed, on several occasions, he had

acted up to this saying there and then on the persons of his unfortunate

persecutors.

Tommy was only eleven years old. Mrs. M'Calmont, his mother, regarded

him as the most wonderful boy in the world, and would have utterly

spoilt him, after the fashion of adoring mothers, had it not been that

Mr. M'Calmont, seeing nothing more wonderful in his son than a

red-headed, mischievous boy, set himself most diligently to curb Tom's

youthful energy, and make an honest, sensible fellow of him.

They lived in the country, and Tom had three miles to go to his school.

But Mr. M'Calmont also had business in Barton, so the pair set out

together each morning in a trap drawn by a steady-going horse, who never

shied or ran away, or did anything at all exciting. Tom was set down at

the door of his school at nine o'clock, and called for at half-past four

precisely, just like a grocery parcel. Never a chance for a frolic over

the fields in the clear morning air, never any scrapes to get into! No

gentle dawdles through the lanes after school, with occasional

excursions into hedge or spinny after wild creatures, or the chance of a

nice creepy adventure in the darkness of some winter's evening. The

whole business, Tom thought, was humdrum and commonplace.

But at last, one early springtime, it happened that Mr. M'Calmont had

urgent business at the town of Greenhurst, twenty miles away. It was a

cross-country journey, where railways did not fit, so Mr. M'Calmont

departed in his trap, leaving Tom and his mother in sole possession for

a whole fortnight at Red House. Mrs. M'Calmont was secretly rather glad

to be able to spoil her son as she liked.

Tom made the most of his advantages, and mother and son together

revelled in the glorious sense of doing everything they liked best.

Tom's favourite dishes appeared at every meal, bedtime came a good hour

later than usual, and Tom also managed three clear days'

'old-soldiering' on the strength of a slight cold. But the last morning

of liberty came, and as Tom dressed he carefully turned over in his mind

how he should celebrate it. It was a beautiful morning after a week of

heavy rain, and Tom had no wish for another day of coddling indoors.

Tom's mother packed his lunch-case with many dainties, and kissed him

good-bye. Tom felt rather mean, 'like a wriggle-up worm' as he

afterwards put it, and he half resolved to give up his plan and go

soberly to school, for, to tell the truth, he had already resolved to

play truant. Unhappily, as he turned into the lane from the drive gates,

a rabbit dashed across the road right in front of him, and frisked into

the hedge in a most tantalising manner, as if to show his contempt for

stupid human beings who plod along the beaten track. That killed all

Tom's scruples, and he was soon scurrying through the fields, scrambling

over hedges, leaping ditches, and getting his clothes into as pretty a

pickle as could be desired.

What a splendid day he spent, following no settled route, but wandering

here and there as the impulse of the moment directed, and feeling in all

his boyish frame the gladness of life and of spring! He lunched in a

little wood, with a fallen tree for a throne, and a rippling stream to

play him music while he feasted. Then he sauntered leisurely on in the

afternoon sunlight, many thoughts busy beneath his comical red thatch.

The long hours in the open after his three days indoors made him sleepy

at last, and he was glad to discover behind the temporary abode of a

railway navvy a little rough wood hut, where, with a friendly dog for

company, and some straw for a couch, he was soon fast asleep.

Tom was dreaming. He heard a babel of voices fierce and angry, and was

striving very hard to hear what they were saying; but, though the voices

seemed loud, he could not distinguish one word from another, and in

trying to do so he awoke. The voices continued, but they were not loud

at all, though rough and angry. They came from the navvy shelter, and

Tom could hear plainly every word. He was about to move away when he

heard his father's name mentioned, qualified with expressions of hatred.

Plainly it was right that he should hear what these men had to say about

his father, so Tom crouched nearer the wall of the hut and listened. His

blue eyes grew big and round, and his face filled with horror.

Tom knew that the navvies at work in the district were not regular

workmen, but a very rough set. A gang of them had been almost a terror

to the neighbourhood, and Tom's father had been foremost in bringing the

guilty ones to justice. Three of their friends were in the hut, one with

a revolver. They had learned from a workman that Mr. M'Calmont was to

return from Greenhurst that evening, and they were discussing the spot

where they could best waylay and shoot him. 'We won't kill him, only

damage him a bit,' were the last words Tom heard as he crept from his

hiding-place and made his way quietly into the wood.

Tom's fear began to give way to excitement. He had an adventure at last,

and all to himself. To go home for help would be no use and would only

terrify his mother. The setting sun showed that the evening was

advancing, and his father would soon be coming, so that the only thing

was to go and hide near the spot where the men had planned to wait. This

was where two roads merged into one, at the bottom of a steep hill

overhung with trees. Mr. M'Calmont might come by either of the two

roads--it would depend on whether he wished to go into Barton or not.

Tom made his way to his post as quickly as possible, and found himself a

hiding-place in a hole beneath the hedge, where only a boy could

wriggle, and where he hoped that in the dusk he would be unobserved. His

post was just the point where the road forked; the men had planned to

stand some yards from that point, where it was more shaded by trees, so

Tom hoped that when he heard the trap approaching, and could distinguish

on which road it was, he would have time to run and warn his father, who

would then, he did not doubt, with the aid of his valiant son, be a

match for any three men.

It was rather a lonely watch. Tom was getting hungry again and very

tired and stiff. As the light faded, his excitement faded too, and it

was almost a relief to hear the stealthy arrival of the conspirators.

Then another long wait, until at last he heard the cart-wheels going

over unrolled stones, which told that it was not on the Barton road. Out

of his hiding-place he crept, and darted along the grass at the

road-side. An unlucky stumble over a fallen branch betrayed him, but as

he fell he shouted with all his might, 'Look out, Father, they are going

to shoot you!' Then there was a rush, a crack as something came into

violent contact with his head, the world went round, and then--darkness.

When Tom woke, the morning sun was shining into his own room. His mother

was busy at the window, fixing the curtain to keep the light from his

face, and Tom could see that she was crying. A great fear entered his

mind, and, as his mother turned and looked at him, all he could say was

'Father?'

'Quite safe, my brave laddie, for you frightened the men away. My dear,

brave boy.'

Then joy filled the heart of Thomas M'Calmont, and for once the fault of

playing truant went unpunished.

JESSIE HARVEY.

GROWING UP.

When birthdays come, we always write

Our names upon the nursery door,

And carefully we mark the height,

Each standing shoeless on the floor.

How strange to think birthdays will be

When we shall never add one more

To all those marks which gradually

Are climbing up the nursery door!

SOME WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

IV.--THE GROTTOES OF HAN IN THE ARDENNES.

A narrow opening high on an oak-covered hill; a cluster of women, girls,

and boys, each carrying a slight iron bar connecting two oil lamps; a

crowd of tourists of many nationalities--all waiting to enter the

Grottoes of Han. Presently the guide arrives, and delivers a brief

speech as to the possible consequences should visitors deface or purloin

the treasures of the cave, demanding silence during his explanations,

and declaring that one light-bearer would accompany every four persons.

He ceases, and away we go. Down, down, down, apparently into the very

heart of the earth, through damp and chilly air and profound darkness,

broken only by the glimmer of the friendly lamps. Then we cease

descending, and emerge in a cavern where the lights are flashed upon

thousands of fossilised insects, and on into the 'Hall of the Foxes,'

where countless generations of their species lived, died, and were

buried. After this the great caverns succeed each other rapidly, each

with some special interest of its own, until we find ourselves in the

'Hall of the Trophies,' where electric light is installed to exhibit the

marvels of the roof. A thick fringe of stalactites, many of immense

size, descend to meet the columns of stalagmite ascending from the

floor.

Right through the caverns, a distance of nearly two miles, a rough path

has been made which is fairly dry and clean, but on either side are

rivers and banks of mud, so that it is well to be careful and watch the

way. Once as we went along we heard behind us a splashing thud, and,

turning, beheld a portly Belgian floundering on his back in the mire,

whence he presently emerged, coated with mud, looking rather like a

hippopotamus. No rule of silence could avail to stifle the peals of

laughter that rang through the grotto, and we had the less scruple in

enjoying the fun because any one of us might at any moment have the

happiness of similarly amusing his or her fellow-creatures.

Our merriment ended before the wonders of the 'Hall of Mystery,' where

the electric light travelled round to show 'The Mosque,' standing out in

glittering points of light; 'The Curtain,' a veil of gleaming lacework

in stone; and 'The Alhambra,' furnished royally with every combination

of diamond-like crystals. It would be easy to invent names for most of

the objects, for shrines, pulpits, thrones, and such-like are everywhere

carved, of dazzling whiteness and richness of design.

Next we enter the gloomy magnificence of the 'Hall of the Dome,' where

the roof towers up two hundred feet into the darkness. As we ascend the

steep path we turn and see below the gleam of water. This is the

subterranean river Lesse, the architect of these gloomy grottoes, which

until some forty years ago had heard no voice save that of the water

hammering and chiselling the rocks at its own sweet will. Legend

declares these stately halls to be the palaces of the little Brown

Dwarfs, who, issuing from their homes at night, by counsel and more

practical aid enabled the early builders to produce the wonderful

edifices of Bruges, Ypres, and other Flemish cities.

Still we go on, up and down through grotto after grotto of marvellous

beauty; sometimes along the banks of the shadowy river, reflecting in

its depths the fairylike beauties of roof and wall, then up high, narrow

ridges or down into the depths of inky blackness, until at last we find

ourselves in the 'Hall of Embarkation.' Here a small wooden platform

projects over the river, and near it are a number of large boats capable

of carrying all our party. The boats push off, all lights are

extinguished, and the sensation of total darkness in such conditions is

more weird than pleasant. We are told that the water is of unknown

depth, and it takes some confidence to repress thoughts of collisions

and perils by water of various kinds.

[Illustration: The Grottoes of Han in the Ardennes.]

The boats move on in solemn procession, and soon a tiny speck of light

appears, and grows gradually larger and brighter. By degrees the light

pervades dimly roof, walls, and transparent water, and then, all in a

moment, a flood of glorious sunshine gleams through the lofty portal

which we are approaching. Behind us fringes and bosses of stalactite are

tinged with the warm glow, and stand out in bold relief from the

darkness; before us the banks are green with grassy slopes and waving

trees; below us the river dances along in the sunlight as if full of joy

at escaping from prison, and we too share its happiness as we float back

into our every-day world from the gloomy glories of the Grottoes of Han.

HELENA HEATH.

[Illustration: "Jacintha was off her machine at once."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 107._)

For the next hour I felt extremely miserable, but, remembering that I

should, in all probability, see Jacintha to-morrow, I began to wish it

were possible to do something to improve my appearance for the occasion.

For not only were my clothes in a far from satisfactory condition, but

the soles of my boots were full of holes, so that one stocking touched

the ground.

There was nothing to do but wander about and look at the chickens until

I was summoned to supper, which consisted of bread and very strong

cheese.

On being shown to the bedroom, I found that it contained two beds, in

one of which a small boy was already reposing. Although he seemed to

watch me with considerable curiosity, he made no attempt at

conversation; but it was a very noisy house, and I found it impossible

to get to sleep for some time.

When my room-fellow awoke me at about six o'clock the following morning,

the sun was shining brightly into the shabby room, so that this promised

excellently for the day's tramp. I said my prayers, and having washed,

dressed, and partaken of a somewhat scanty breakfast, wondering, as I

ate, what had by this time become of Patch, I set out, at a little after

half-past seven, in the direction of Hazleton.

Presently, passing through a village, which seemed to be on the outskirts

of the town of Hazleton, I bought two penny sausage rolls at a small

baker's shop, and asked for a glass of water. As I walked on, eating the

rolls, it soon became evident that the town was close at hand. At

intervals I passed large houses, standing in their own grounds, and

carefully I read the names on their gate-posts, lest one should be

Colebrook Park. The path, which had been almost indistinguishable from

the roadway, was now asphalted, and I stopped to read a notice board

concerning vagrants, wondering whether I ought to be reckoned under that

denomination. I do not know whether the sun had affected me--for it

shone with brilliant force that morning--or whether I was tired after my

ten miles' walk without much food, but as I drew near to Hazleton, which

I had formerly felt so anxious to reach, my usual spirits seemed to

forsake me, and, if it had not been for the necessity to return the

locket, I think I should have passed on my way without making the least

attempt to see Jacintha again.

I seemed to have lost pride in myself, so that it became difficult to

keep up much hope. Perhaps it might be possible to get the locket safely

into Jacintha's hands without seeing her, especially if there happened

to be a lodge at the entrance to Colebrook Park, when I might leave the

trinket with the lodge-keeper.

With the object of making up my mind, I lay down on the wide border of

grass on one side of the road, thankful for the shelter of the hedge. It

was about half-past twelve, and several carriages passed as I lay there,

as well as a few bicyclists. But now the straight, wide road was clear;

no one was in sight, either to the right or to the left, until, from a

gate a hundred yards away, in the direction of the town, a girl on a

bicycle came forth, and I knew at once that she must be Jacintha.

She wore a wide-brimmed, white straw hat, and a white cotton frock, and

was sitting very upright as she turned and coasted on her free-wheel

machine down the slight hill towards me. For an instant I thought of

turning away my face, so that, even if she remembered it, she should not

recognise me; but she looked so bright and pleasant an object in the

middle of the sunny road that, on the impulse of the moment, I rose to

my feet, crossed the margin of grass, and lifted the cloth cap which had

been given to me before I reached Polehampton.

Jacintha was off her machine at once. 'Why,' she cried, 'you are the boy

who ran away!'

'My name is Everard, you know,' I answered.

'But I thought you said you were going to London?' she suggested.

'So I am.'

'It is not the nearest way from where you were to come through

Hazleton,' said Jacintha.

'You see,' I explained, thrusting my fingers into my waistcoat pocket,

'I came to bring back your locket,' and I held it out towards her in the

palm of my right hand.

'My locket?' she said, gazing at it while she held the handle of her

bicycle.

'Yes,' I answered. 'I found it on the path just by the hedge where you

were standing.'

'But I did not bring a locket with me from London,' she exclaimed, and I

felt immensely disappointed.

'Isn't it really yours, then?' I asked.

'Of course not,' she returned. 'How can it be if I didn't bring one?'

and then she removed one hand from the bicycle, and took the locket from

my palm, which I wished had not been so extremely grimy. 'I think it is

very pretty,' she continued, 'and I believe it is gold.'

'Oh, it is gold right enough!' I said, 'because it has a hall-mark. It

is eighteen carat.'

'Have you come out of your way just because you thought it was mine?'

she asked, giving me back the trinket.

'It was not very far,' I persisted.

'Rather nice of you, though,' said Jacintha.

'If it comes to that,' I answered, 'you were rather nice to me that day.

Some girls would have given me away, and then I should have been back at

Ascot House before now.'

As I was speaking, she took a small gold watch from her pocket.

'I must not be late,' she cried, 'because both Dick and I were late for

breakfast.'

'Who is Dick?' I asked, as she put away her watch.

'Dick is my brother,' Jacintha explained. 'He only came down yesterday.

Dick's a year older than I am. I really ought to go,' she added. 'If my

uncle were to see me talking to you he mightn't like it.'

'I suppose,' I cried a little angrily, 'he would think I was begging?'

'At all events,' said Jacintha, candidly, 'he would be rather surprised,

you know. Because you do look most tremendously dirty--just as if you

were a regular tramp--and yet your face would be all right if it were

only washed and you had your hair properly cut.'

I felt that my cheeks were growing red, and for the moment I was tempted

to make an angry retort, although, remembering what I owed to Jacintha,

I simply held out my hand and muttered 'Good-bye!'

'Oh, you mustn't go on yet,' she exclaimed. 'I want to hear all you've

been doing. I must go in now, but please promise to wait till I come out

again. I won't be long.'

'I am not in a hurry,' I admitted.

'Only don't stay here,' she said. 'Wait till I am out of sight, and then

follow me until you come to our hedge. Right in the corner you will

find a place you can get through, and nobody ever comes to that field.

You get through the hedge and stay till I come back.'

CHAPTER XIV.

I stood in the road while Jacintha mounted her bicycle and rode up the

slight hill to the gate, when she looked back and waved her hand as she

turned into the grounds. Having waited a few minutes, I followed her

directions, found the weak spot in the hedge, scrambled through, and at

once sat down on the grass.

I saw I was in a remote corner of a large field, in which a few Jersey

cows were grazing. But this was not quite an ordinary field, as it

contained a good many foreign trees with iron railings round them. It

was more like a park. In the middle stood a small mound, looking as if

it had been made artificially, with a kind of arbour on the top

overgrown with some sort of creeper and shut in by trees.

The time seemed to pass very slowly, but at last I saw the flash of

Jacintha's white dress in the sunshine as she walked rapidly towards my

corner, the house not being visible from where I sat. To my vexation,

however, she was not alone. A few yards behind came a boy of about my

own age and size, with a straw hat on the back of his head, a

red-and-blue blazer thrown over his white cricket shirt, and his hands

thrust in the pockets of his flannel trousers.

While Jacintha tripped quickly over the grass, her companion, who, no

doubt, was her brother, seemed to follow far less cheerfully. I could

not help thinking there was something unwilling, almost resentful, in

his manner, so that I felt prepared to pay him back in his own coin.

Although I might look as dirty and as much like a tramp as Jacintha had

suggested, I was not going to stand any nonsense.

When they reached the arbour they came to a standstill and seemed to be

holding an argument, until, a few minutes later, Jacintha tossed back

her long hair and set forth at a run in my direction, whereupon I went

to meet her.

'You didn't mind my bringing Dick?' she suggested, looking doubtfully

into my face.

'Have you told him, then?' I asked.

'I told him yesterday,' she said. 'I mean I told him about seeing you in

the wheat-field, and your running away from school, and when I just had

time to whisper that I had met you before lunch, he said I must not

come; but I told him I had promised, and then he said he would come

too.'

By this time we were within a few feet of Dick, who looked all right,

although he seemed to think a great deal of himself. He was fair, like

Jacintha, and he did not take his hands out of his pockets, so I put my

hands into my pockets also, and stared at him as hard as he stared at

me.

'Dick!' cried Jacintha, 'this is Everard.'

'Well, look here,' he answered, 'if you don't want to be collared, you

had better come in, instead of standing out here all day.'

(_Continued on page 125._)

CUBAN LIZARDS.

The Cuban anolis is one of a large family of lizards, all of which are

confined to America and the West Indian islands. This family is nearly

related to that of the iguanas; but whereas some of the iguanas attain a

length of five or six feet, the anolis is always small. It is a

remarkably active little creature, and often singularly beautiful,

offering a striking contrast to the ugly and sluggish horned lizards of

North America and Mexico. It is usually rather more than a foot long,

and its general colour is a beautiful green. It has a white throat, and

a white band passing over each shoulder and for some distance along each

side. The little creature has the power of puffing out its throat, and

distending it till it looks like a ball upon its neck. When it is

irritated, angry, or alarmed, it invariably blows out its throat in this

way, and tries to frighten its enemy by this means. Most of these

lizards have also more or less power of changing their colour, like the

chameleon, and, indeed, a few of them can out-rival the chameleon in

this respect.

A striking peculiarity of this lizard is the structure of its toes. They

are rather long, and furnished with sharp hooked claws, and the last

joint is swollen out into a kind of pad. At first sight we should be

inclined to think that these little swellings near the tips of the toes

would be rather an inconvenience to the anolis, by impeding its

movements. But a closer examination shows that these curious growths

have a use. They act to some extent as suckers, and enable the anolis to

climb the perpendicular faces of rocks, or even to hang from the under

side of a branch.

The males of these little lizards are often very quarrelsome, especially

at certain times of the year, when two of them rarely meet without

having a fight. They fly at each other furiously, rolling over and over,

and biting savagely. These fierce battles generally end in one of the

combatants losing his tail, for in these lizards, as in many others, the

tail is not very strongly attached to the body. The victor sometimes

makes off with the tail of his foe in his mouth, and sometimes he even

devours it. The loss of his tail is a great blow to the vanquished

anolis, for he seems to have a great pride in it. When he is deprived of

it, he accepts defeat at once, and though he recovers from the injury

without much trouble, he is generally but a timid and crest-fallen

creature afterwards. He seems to look upon the loss of his tail as a

disgrace--very much, perhaps, as a regiment of soldiers regards the loss

of its colours.

Another pretty little Cuban lizard is the chameleon-eyed lizard. It is

of a brownish colour spotted with white, especially about the head. It

has many resemblances to the anolis just described, being small,

slender, and active. Both frequent trees, thickets, and rocky places,

where they run and climb with such quickness as to be sometimes easily

mistaken for birds hopping to and fro. The numerous tropical insects are

their usual food, varied occasionally by berries and fruits.

W. A. ATKINSON.

[Illustration: Cuban Lizards.]

[Illustration: "The rabbit bit the stoat in the most infuriated

manner."]

A MOTHER RABBIT'S COURAGE.

A True Anecdote.

Not long ago a gentleman heard of a remarkable fight between a stoat and

a rabbit; he gives an account of it in the _Field_ newspaper. His

gardener was walking in an orchard when he heard a scuffling and

squealing on the other side of a hedge. He looked over, and to his great

surprise, saw a rabbit in close pursuit of a stoat. Just as they reached

the hedge the rabbit caught up with its enemy, but the stoat hid in the

hedge for a few seconds, and then ran along it swiftly, escaping the

rabbit's notice for a few minutes. Then it rushed out into the field

again, some thirty yards from where it had entered the hedge. Its object

soon became clear. 'It pulled a young rabbit out of a bunch of grass,'

says the writer, 'and began to drag it to the hedge. When the old rabbit

turned and saw the stoat it went for it again, and jumped on it and bit

it in the most infuriated manner, driving it away from the young rabbit,

and running it squealing with terror into the hedge, where they both

eventually disappeared.' It is sad to learn that this brave attempt of

the mother rabbit to save her young one was in vain; the little bunny

was dead when the gardener picked it up a few minutes later.

Stoats will often pursue rabbits across country for very long distances,

going steadily on and following the track by the power of scent alone;

but it is very seldom that a rabbit will show such courage as to turn

the tables and attack its foe.

MAGIC RODS.

The people of the olden time had great faith in the powers of magic rods

and wands. Not only was this the fact amongst the Greeks and Romans, but

the belief was found in our own country not so very long ago. Certain

trees were famed for their magical virtues, because they were supposed

to be the home of some spirit, and rods cut from them were said to have

wonderful powers. The belief survives in the conjurer's wand, which, as

we all know, does marvels when waved to the sound of 'Hey presto!'

To the pretended wonder-worker of the past, his rod was a most important

thing, for by its help he accomplished marvels, or at least pretended to

do so. There is a story told about a man who had seen a magician produce

water by means of his rod. Getting hold of the rod one day, he thought

he would supply his house with water by its aid. He said to it, 'Bring

water.' Soon the wand rushed to and fro with big pails, but when the

floors were getting flooded, he thought there was enough water, and told

the wand to stop. He did not know the word of command, and so the wand

went on just the same. In his rage, he took a chopper, and cut the wand

in two, but instead of stopping it brought twice as much; a double lot

of pails appeared, and at last the torrent of water washed away the

house of the meddlesome man.

The magic rod or wand has had several names given to it. A common one

was that of 'divining rod.' By the Germans it was called the 'wishing

rod,' or 'wishing thorn,' which points to the fact that it was often

cut from the blackthorn or sloe. It was supposed that the person who

could use the magic rod most successfully was the seventh son of a

seventh son, if such a person could be found. The wand, too, should not

be cut from very old wood, but it must be more than a year old. Some

folk said that the twig chosen to make this rod ought to be one upon

which the sun shone both in the morning and afternoon. Again, the magic

rod was not simply a straight piece of wood; it had to be of a

particular shape--that of the letter Y. When using it, the hands grasped

the two arms, so that the unforked part pointed outwards. In houses

about the West of England, people will show visitors magic or divining

rods, cut many years ago, and now carefully kept as memorials of the

past.

These rods had various uses. They were not only supposed to show where

metal was hidden, or springs of water might be found, but one brought to

a person ill of fever might cure him, though he had to pay whatever was

asked for it, and make no objection to the price. In some countries, men

believed that a magic rod might be got to point the direction in which a

lost person had gone.

The Chinese, ages before the Westerns knew them, had their magic rods,

and generally cut them from fruit-trees, the peach being often chosen.

But in Europe, the hazel or cob-nut tree stands at the head of the list

of the trees favoured. German farmers formerly cut a hazel rod in

spring, and when the first thunder-shower came, they waved it over the

corn that was stored up, believing that this would make it keep sound

till it was wanted. Next to the hazel in importance was the rowan or

mountain ash, a tree always associated with the pixies and fairies;

magic rods were frequently made from it, and also little crosses, which,

if put over the door, were supposed to bring good fortune into a house.

Another tree furnishing such rods was the willow, and another was the

apple; one carefully avoided was the elder.

J. R. S. C.

OUR PUSS.

She came with the evening shades,

At the close of a winter day,

And her manner implied,

As she trotted inside,

'I am here, and have come to stay.'

Where she came from nobody knows,

And no one has claimed her yet;

But she made so free,

It was easy to see

That she had been somebody's pet.

Now the homeless waif on our hearth

Gives a homelike look to the place;

With her warm grey fur,

And her satisfied purr,

And content in her comely face.

She has all the craft of her race,

Though she does not look like a thief,

For she climbed of late

Up to Charlie's plate,

And calmly ate some of his beef!

But we all have our little faults,

And well will it be with us

If, when ruin impends,

We can win new friends,

Like our gentle and brave stray puss.

THE CYPHER TELEGRAM.

'What a shame it is, Hugo, that when your father is giving the whole

class this splendid treat in honour of your recovery, you yourself

should be the only boy absent.'

Hugo laughed somewhat sadly. 'Yes, I should like to be going, but the

doctor says that I must not walk much before Christmas, and no one wants

to spend three days in the woods in the middle of December. I should

have liked the chance of catching a swallow-tailed butterfly for my

collection.'

'I will try and get one for you,' answered Franz, 'though they are

scarce this year. But what is this? How did you get your medal back?' as

he picked up a silver disc from the table.

Hugo had won this medal a year before for a Latin composition for boys

under fifteen, and when Baron Rosenthal's beautiful collection of coins

and antique silver had been stolen, the medal had gone too.

'A friend of Father's saw it in a Berlin curiosity show among a lot of

coins, and he sent it back to me.'

'And the coins--were they also your father's?'

'He has gone to Berlin to look at them, and he will be back to-night.

But all coins are not easy to recognise. If it had been any of the

silver boxes or cups he would have known his own at once.'

'And none of these have been traced?'

'No, not one. My father thinks they have probably been sold in some

foreign country--America, perhaps, or England. But see, he left this

money for you, so that you can let me know what you are doing. Then you

can send me a long cypher telegram every day from the station on the

Observatory, and it will give me something to do to translate it,' and

he handed Franz some silver.

During his illness, Hugo had occupied himself in inventing a most

elaborate cypher, which was the envy of the whole school. Not even the

masters could read it, and it was an endless source of amusement to

himself and Franz, who alone was in the secret.

'All right!' answered Franz; 'I will send you three telegrams, and catch

you three swallow-tails too if I can manage it.'

As he went out of the room, his school-fellow looked wistfully at the

pair of crutches that stood beside his invalid's chair. He was the only

son of a very rich German nobleman, and six months before he had been

nearly killed in a railway accident. When he began to recover, the Baron

had promised to give a special treat to his son's class in honour of

the event, and now that the time for the annual excursion had arrived,

he was paying all expenses for the boys to remain three days in the

forest instead of, as was usual, only one. It is the custom in German

schools for each master to take his class for a long day's expedition

into the country during the summer, in which he is supposed to open

their eyes to the beauties of nature and the wonders of the botanical

world; and the Baron, who was a very wealthy man, had caused this

privilege to be extended that year. But now his son was unable to enjoy

it, and this use of telegrams was a suggestion of his father's to

prevent his being too depressed by the thought of his disappointment.

[Illustration: "He looked wistfully at the pair of crutches."]

* * * * *

At five o'clock on the following morning there was a very cheerful party

of boys waiting at the station for the little hill-climbing train that

was to take them into the heart of the Black Forest. The master, Herr

Groos, was also in the best of spirits, in spite of his failure to make

any of the boys listen while he explained to them how the train was

enabled to climb a hill. The boys, with their yellow caps, which was the

distinctive colour of their class, and their butterfly-nets, botanical

presses, and green specimen-cases, were much too excited to listen to

him.

At last the train arrived, and they all filed into an open third-class

carriage, whose only other occupants were two strangers, a tall and a

short one, also armed with butterfly-nets and enormous green cases.

'Did you see Hugo yesterday?' inquired Herr Groos of Franz, who was

sitting next him.

'Yes, sir; I was there a long time. He wished he was coming with us.'

'Well, we all wish it too,' said the master heartily. 'What does he do

with himself all day? Invent more cyphers?'

'No, sir, he does not mean to invent a new one,' answered Franz,

laughing, 'till some one has solved the present one. I am to send him a

long telegram in it every day.'

'What is that?' asked the short stranger, good-humouredly. 'I did not

know there was such a thing as a cypher that could not be solved.'

'One of my pupils has invented one that no one has solved yet,' answered

Herr Groos proudly.

'He should let me see it,' laughed the stranger. 'I would undertake to

read it in half an hour.'

Then the master and the two strangers began to talk sociably together,

and the conversation drifted to a discussion on the best place in the

locality for the capture of butterflies, especially swallow-tails.

Franz listened attentively, for he was firmly resolved that he would not

return without at least one specimen to adorn Hugo's collection. Herr

Groos was of opinion that the Kühberg was the best place for them; but

the strangers said, 'No, for every one found on the summit of the

Kühberg there are at least three on the sunny slopes of the

Hirsch-felsen on the opposite side of the valley.'

But at last the train journey came to an end, and the boys arrived at

the little inn which was to be their head-quarters. There they were soon

devouring rolls and hot coffee, almost faster than the inn-keeper and

his good-tempered wife could bring them out of the kitchen. Then, with

their pockets and knapsacks full of rolls and German sausage, they

started on their first day's expedition to a little lake at the foot of

the Kühberg. It was a lovely walk, and as they passed now under the cool

green pine-trees, and now along sunny slopes where the cows, with their

tinkling bells, were almost buried in sweet-scented flowers, both

botanists and butterfly-hunters were busy. Finally, after two hours'

walk, they reached their halting-place at the edge of the forest lake.

(_Continued on page 130._)

[Illustration: "I took the locket from my waistcoat again."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 119._)

Jacintha led the way up a path on the mound, and we all entered the

summer-house, which was quite large, with seats round the sides and a

table in the middle.

'Have you got the chocolates, Dick?' she asked, and at the same time

began to unload her own pocket, which contained a bag with some

preserved apricots in it, two oranges, and two pears. 'I often bring my

dessert out here,' she explained, 'only to-day Auntie said she hoped I

should not make myself ill.'

'Mind you don't,' said Dick.

'Have a pear, Everard,' she suggested, and accordingly I took one.

'Uncle has just started out with Auntie in the motor-car,' she

continued, 'so I want you to begin at the beginning and tell us

everything, you know--just everything.'

I looked at Dick, who was pinching an orange so as to make a hole in it

to suck the juice, but he did not speak; so, having eaten a preserved

apricot, I sat down next to Jacintha, wishing she had not so hastily

drawn away her white skirt, and began.

I cannot accuse myself of speaking a word that was not true that

afternoon, but it must be confessed that the chief object was to impress

Dick with the conviction that I was not what he might easily take me to

be. Accordingly, I glossed over the character of Aunt Marion's

household, and dwelt upon the wealth and importance of Captain Knowlton.

I brought tears to Jacintha's eyes when I told her of the loss of the

_Seagull_, of his death and the difference in my treatment at the hands

of Mr. Turton; but what seemed to have the greatest effect on her

brother was the story of my encounter with the tramp who stole my money,

and the other events of my journey.

'Still,' he said, being the first to speak when I ended the story, 'I

don't see what you are going to do when you get to London.'

'Neither do I,' cried Jacintha.

'Oh, I shall do something right enough,' I answered with all the

confidence I could assume.

'I tell you what I believe,' said Dick. 'I believe Captain Knowlton is

not dead after all. You see if I am not right. You don't know really

that he was drowned.'

'If he were not,' I answered, 'he would have sent a telegram, because he

would know the _Seagull_ had been reported lost.'

'Still, you cannot tell,' Dick insisted, 'and if I were you, as soon as

I got to London, I should go to his rooms in the Albany.'

But this was a point I had already considered.

'You see,' I said, 'very likely Mr. Turton has been there and told them

to keep me----'

'I did not think of that,' Dick admitted. 'Still, I don't see what you

will do in London. And, of course, I live there, though I'm going to a

crammer's at Richmond next term.'

'Everard was going to be sent to Sandhurst, too,' said Jacintha quietly.

'What a lark,' he exclaimed, 'if Captain Knowlton should turn up, and

you should be there at the same time.'

But this was more than my imagination at the moment was capable of. I

felt very, very far from going to Sandhurst, and, indeed, a kind of

sense that Dick and Jacintha belonged to a different world from mine was

fast growing upon me.

'I say,' said Dick, presently, for his manner had now become all that I

could desire, 'how much money have you got left?'

'One and twopence,' I answered, and he looked solemn at that.

'But still,' cried Jacintha, 'you forget the locket.'

'Why, of course, there is the locket,' said her brother; 'let us have a

look at it, Everard.'

I took it from my waistcoat again, and holding it close to his nose,

Dick at once looked for the hall-mark.

'It is gold right enough,' he added.

'You can sell it for quite a lot of money,' urged Jacintha, 'because you

picked it up, and you can never find the real owner. I should think you

would get a good deal for it.'

'If you don't mind my saying so----' began Dick, and pausing, he looked

into my face.

'Cut along,' I said.

'Well, if you took it to sell, the chap might--he might think you had

stolen it.'

'You see,' said Jacintha hastily, 'we could take you to the bath-room,

and Dick could lend you some of his clothes; but Auntie would be certain

to find out, and Uncle has kept Mr. Turton's card, and he said that if

he saw you he should take you back to Castlemore.'

'Can't go back,' said Dick, in a tone of authority. 'I know!' he

exclaimed, after a thoughtful silence.

'What?' demanded his sister.

'Look here, Everard,' he explained, 'there is a good shop in High

Street, Foster's, where my people buy things. I know old Foster--a

decent sort of chap. If I were to take the locket----'

'What would you say when he asked you where you got it?' asked Jacintha.

At that we all stared into each other's faces, and I felt disappointed

at the suggestion. For I had judgment enough, after my experience in

selling my watch and chain, to see that in my present untidy condition I

could not myself deal with the trinket to the best advantage. A

respectable jeweller would probably decline to buy it at all, whereas a

less honest dealer would not give me a third of its value.

'I have it!' cried Dick, after a few minutes' pause. 'You drop the

locket on the floor, Everard,' and with a glimmering of his purpose, I

took it again from my pocket and let it fall on to the boarded floor of

the summer-house. He immediately stooped.

'Now,' he said, 'I can tell old Foster I have picked up a locket and

that I don't know whose it is, and I want to sell it. I will get my

bicycle and ride into the town at once; but look here, old chap,' he

added, taking my arm in quite a friendly way, 'you had better not wait

here. Just hang about outside in the road, and don't let them see you if

they come back first in the motor-car. I say, Jacintha, it will look

better if you come to Foster's too.'

'It's awfully good of you,' I answered as we all went down the slope.

'How much do you think I shall get?'

'I should think you might get twenty-five shillings,' said Dick, as if

he knew all about it.

'I wish I might,' I cried.

'Well,' he insisted, 'you get into the road and keep dark a bit, and we

will scorch into the town like anything.'

With that they both set off across the field while I scrambled through

the gap in the hedge, and returned to my former position on the grassy

side of the road, lying down and waiting expectantly to see Dick and

Jacintha ride out through the gate; and with the prospect of obtaining

possession of twenty-five shillings, it really began to seem as if the

foundation of my fortune had been laid.

CHAPTER XV.

A very few minutes later Dick rode through the gate followed by Jacintha,

who raised an arm as she turned to the right, pedalled up the slight

hill, and soon disappeared as she began to descend on the other side.

Rising to my feet I had waved my arm in return, and I was strolling

about the grass beside the road, already impatient to see Dick and

Jacintha returning and to learn the full extent of my wealth, when I

heard a motor-car panting along the road.

A glance showed that it was driven by the man who had accompanied

Jacintha that morning she spied me in the corn-field, and a few moments

later he steered the car into his gate. It seemed a long time before I

saw the head of Dick and then of his sister appear above the crest of

the hill. Dick, in his eagerness to reach me, pedalled all the way down.

'I say, Everard,' he exclaimed as soon as he reached me, 'how much do

you think?'

'Did you get the twenty-five shillings?' I asked.

'Two pounds----' began Jacintha, dismounting from her bicycle.

'Let me tell him,' cried Dick. 'Two pounds three and sixpence,' he added

with an air of triumph.

'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said, as he took a purse from his

jacket pocket.

'Not so bad,' he continued, 'is it? You see I told old Foster he must

give a tip-top price, and of course he knows me. At first, I thought he

was not going to buy the thing at all; he said he didn't know whether my

uncle would like it, and all that.'

'And he said we ought to have bills printed to say it was found,' added

Jacintha.

'But I talked him out of that,' said Dick, 'and here is the money,' he

continued, counting out the two sovereigns, a half-crown and a shilling.

'Mind you don't lose any of it,' suggested Jacintha.

'No fear,' I answered.

'I say, where are you going to sleep to-night?' asked Dick.

'Oh, well,' I replied, and I am afraid that my newly acquired wealth

made me a little proud, 'I dare say I can find an hotel in Hazleton.'

'Do you think they will take you in?' said Dick.

'I wonder whether we shall see you in London,' cried Jacintha, 'because

we are going home next week.'

'And I say, Everard,' said her brother, 'take my word for it, I should

not be a scrap surprised if Captain Knowlton was rescued after all.'

'Dick,' suggested Jacintha, 'don't you think we ought to go in to tea?'

'Perhaps we ought,' he admitted. 'Well, good-bye,' he added, and with

that he held out his hand. When I shook Jacintha's a moment afterwards,

I wished once again that my own hands were cleaner.

'Good-bye,' she cried. 'I am glad the locket was not mine,' and then

they both re-mounted their bicycles, rode up the hill, waved their hands

once more, and disappeared from my sight.

In spite of the possession of the money for the locket, a sense of

depression fell upon me. I had grown quickly friendly with the pair, and

they seemed to bring me back to the life which I felt more acutely than

before I had lost for ever.

(_Continued on page 134._)

A LESSON IN STEERING.

It was a perfect day for the water, and the Fletcher boys, with a good

supply of sandwiches, meat-patties and ginger-beer, had gone off for a

day's boating. Their sister Daisy thought it was very hard lines to be

left at home, but Mrs. Fletcher would not allow her to go unless a

boatman were in charge.

'The boys know what they are about, and I feel fairly happy about them,'

she said, 'but I cannot let my little daughter run any risks.'

This was disappointing, though the real grievance lay in the fact that

the boys did not seem very anxious to have her. They were very fond of

their sister, but, of course, they said there were times when a girl was

'a bit in the way.'

So Daisy wandered down to the pier, feeling rather forlorn, and longing

for the time when the boys' boat would come in sight.

Old Steve Tucker was sitting on the end of the pier, smoking his pipe,

when Daisy came along.

'Fine day for a sail, Missie,' he said, and indeed the dancing blue

waters of the bay looked most inviting.

Then Daisy poured out her troubles, and the old man shook his head in

sympathy.

'I wonder now if you would be allowed to come along with me in my little

sailing-boat?' he suggested.

'Do you mean it?' Daisy cried. 'Oh, you good old Steve! I will run home

and ask Mother this minute.'

'Right you are, Miss Daisy! and I will just go down and put the _Mary

Jane_ ship-shape.'

Daisy soon came flying back, having gained the desired permission.

Soon the little boat was dancing over the waves. The breeze filled the

sail, and they made such speed that the houses on the shore fast

dwindled behind them. Old Steve showed Daisy how to manage the sail and

then gave her a lesson in steering. At first the sail slackened and the

boat wobbled a little, but his pupil soon grew clever at keeping the

head to the wind and steering a straight course.

'Oh, I am enjoying myself!' she cried. 'This is ever so much better than

going with the boys, because they always want to manage the sail and the

steering, and I never have a chance of learning anything.'

'Well, Missy, you shall come out sailing with me a few times, and I will

soon teach you all there is to know about a boat.'

'And then they will not be able to refuse to take me because I am no

good, will they?'

'No fear, Missy! You will soon know as much as the young gentlemen--and

I do believe that is their boat just ahead.'

'So it is,' cried Daisy, in great excitement. 'Now we will race them,

Steve, and give them a surprise.'

'Ship ahoy!' called Daisy as they flew past, and her brothers were

indeed astonished to see their sister steering the boat like any old

salt. After that they never said that a girl was 'a bit in the way.'

[Illustration: "Daisy soon grew clever at keeping the head to the

wind."]

[Illustration: ON A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY.]

[Illustration: "She managed to drag her on shore."]

THE GIRL WHO DID NOT RUN AWAY.

A little French girl only seven years old, named Eudoxie, was playing

with tiny Philomène in a field, when the young child made two stains on

her pink pinafore.

'Mother will scold,' thought the little maid, and trotted off to the

river to wash them out.

A plank stretched out from the bank to make it easy for people to draw

water, and on this Philomène stepped, but she did not know how rotten it

was. Before she could touch the water there was a splash, and the little

girl was in the river.

Eudoxie heard her cry out, but did not run away as some children have

been known to do when a companion was in danger. She ran at once to the

bank, and caught her little friend by the foot, nearly losing her own

balance in doing so.

Though Philomène, all wet and breathless, was a heavy weight for

Eudoxie, still she managed to drag her on shore, kiss her, and try to

console her.

But poor little Philomène was frightened at the idea of facing 'Maman'

after her scrape; she must have been rather a scolding mother, as the

little girl was afraid to go home in her wet clothes.

So Eudoxie partly undressed in the sunshine, and wrapped her in her own

frock, while she ran to beg a change of clothes from the sharp-spoken

Madame.

The mother asked why they were wanted.

'Promise not to scold, and I will tell you,' said the child. The promise

was given, and Eudoxie told the adventure. 'It was not Philo's fault,'

she said.

'Oh, then! my wicked, naughty, precious, darling Philo! take me to her,'

said Madame.

Poor Philomène was sitting smiling in the sunshine when the two reached

her, Eudoxie with her garments, the mother with tears and kisses all

waiting to be showered on her tiny daughter.

Some one told the story in Paris, and many people were pleased with

Eudoxie's presence of mind, and the French Humane Society presented the

brave girl with a medal for saving the life of her friend.

THE HARDEST WORK.

A Fable.

A famous Persian king once called around him all the wisest men in his

kingdom, and put the following question to them: 'What is the hardest

work in the world?'

Some answered one thing and some another, but it was thought that still

harder work might exist.

At last a sage came forward and said, 'I have lived many years and seen

a great many things. I have come to the conclusion that the hardest work

in the world is to be forced to do nothing at all; and no one can spend

the whole day without doing something or other.'

The king, anxious to prove the truth of it, tried his best to find out

whether this were so or not, as did also his courtiers, but they were

obliged to own that what the sage had stated was the truth. Hence the

proverb: 'No work, the hardest work.'

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

6.--DOUBLETS.

Changing one letter at a time, in as few steps as possible, make

1. Cat into Dog.

2. Yes " No.

3. Will " Won't.

4. Pony " Cart.

5. Dry " Wet.

7.--ARITHMOGRAPH.

_A Short Proverb._

1.--9, 10, 12, 11, 8. A French city.

2.--9, 7, 10, 12. A delicious fruit.

3.--12, 10, 8, 9. A kind of file.

4.--3, 2, 4, 5. To turn in different directions.

5.--12, 11, 9. To tear, to cut asunder.

6.--1, 2, 10, 5. Close at hand.

7.--1, 2, 5, 3, 4, 8. Organs of sensation.

8.--8, 9, 10, 11, 1. A country in the south of Europe.

9.--8, 9, 10, 1. A very short space.

10.--6, 5, 11, 9. To fall in drops.

C. J. B.

[_Answers on page 167._]

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 98.

5.--_Evangeline._

1. Nile.

2. Lean.

3. Liege.

4. Veal.

5. Vile.

6. Nail.

7. Geneva.

8. Nave.

9. Gain.

ANSWER TO PICTURE PUZZLE ON PAGE 28.

This picture contains the key to itself in the letters which are found

on the walls, the corner-stone, and the gateway--I, C, U, S, X. If these

letters are named in the order given, they form the sentence 'I see you,

Essex,' which Queen Elizabeth is said to have written on a wall or a

window of one of her palaces, as a warning, or perhaps an encouragement,

to Lord Essex.

THE CYPHER TELEGRAM.

(_Concluded from page 124._)

Though it was still only eleven o'clock, the boys were quite ready for

dinner when they reached the lake; and when it was finished and they had

hidden the rest of their provisions in some bushes, Herr Groos gave them

leave to amuse themselves as best they chose till he sounded his horn to

collect them for another meal at four o'clock. He himself was going to

take charge of a botanising party on the Hersch-felsen, and a junior

master was to superintend those who wished to fish in the lake; but

Franz decided to join neither party, as his one idea was to catch a

swallow-tailed butterfly for his friend. At last, finding no one with a

similar ambition, he started on his quest alone.

'I will try the Kühberg first,' he said to himself. 'If we should meet

the strangers again, it would be fun to prove to them that Herr Groos

was right and they were wrong.'

It was very hot as Franz toiled up the mountain-side, and when at last

he reached the place where his search was to begin, he lay down panting

under some trees at the edge of the wood. On the opposite slope he

could see the yellow caps of his comrades, and the tall figure of Herr

Groos; but where he himself was all was solitude and silence. After a

few minutes' rest he rose, and having filled his cap with some delicious

berries, sat down, almost buried amongst the cool, green plants, to

enjoy them. They were soon finished, but he was still too lazy to move,

and rolling himself down till the cranberries nearly met above him, he

fell fast asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of voices, and, thinking it was some of his

schoolfellows, he lay still, meaning to surprise them. He was so well

hidden that he knew he could not be discovered unless he moved. Then he

realised that it was not his comrades, but the two strangers from the

train.

'Look at all those boys over there,' said the tall man. 'It was

fortunate that we put them off the scent. If they had chosen to spend

the day up here it would have upset our plans nicely.'

'Are you sure, though, that they are all there?' asked the other,

doubtfully. 'There were thirty-two in the train, and I can only count

twenty-five yellow caps now.'

'You are right, Schmidt,' answered the tall man, after a short pause.

'And who can tell where the others may be?'

'Not I! We must put off our digging till we are sure that they have all

gone away for the night.'

'We shall miss the American boat,' said his friend, angrily, 'and all

because of a pack of schoolboys!'

'Not necessarily. If we return to Freistadt by the nine o'clock train

instead of by the five o'clock, we ought still to catch the steamer at

Hamburg. That is the worst of taking things from a well-known man like

Rosenthal. He makes it unsafe to dispose of a single recognisable thing

in Germany. We were lucky to get rid of the coins, even.'

'And a mere nothing we got for them,' replied the grumbler. 'Are you

certain you remember where we buried the rest of the collection?'

'Under this stone here, by the big tree, and it has evidently never been

moved since we left it. See, the cranberries are already beginning to

grow round it.'

'Which shall we take this time? I wish we could get the stuff all sold

and done with!'

'So do I! but we cannot take too much to one country. If we make a good

haul in America, we will return, and try and see what we can do in

England with the rest.'

'If we cannot dig now, what are we to do?' asked the tall man,

disgustedly.

'We must go on to the Observatory, and pass the time there. There is

nothing else to be done.'

When they had quite gone, Franz raised himself slowly. There was the

great stone, just as the short man had said, and underneath it were

evidently most of the treasures stolen from Baron Rosenthal. What was

the best thing to do? If he dug the treasures up and hid them elsewhere,

they would be safe, but then the thieves would probably escape. If he

went straight back to Freistadt by train and warned the police, Herr

Groos would think he was lost, and there would be such a hue and cry in

the woods that the strangers would probably hear of it and have their

suspicions aroused.

Then an inspiration came to him. He would telegraph to Hugo in cypher,

and then, even if Baron Rosenthal himself were not there, Hugo would

have the sense to arrange matters. It took him some time to concoct his

telegram, and put it into cypher. It ran as follows:--

'A tall man in grey and a shorter man in brown, with butterfly nets and

big specimen cases, will reach Freistadt station at ten-thirty. Have

them arrested, as their cases contain some of your father's silver, and

the rest is hidden in the woods.--FRANZ.'

Visitors were always allowed to use the telegraph at the Observatory on

the top of the hill, and so he decided to go there at once and send off

his message. Then a fresh danger occurred to him. The two strangers were

going to the little inn by the Observatory. If they chanced to see his

telegram, or even asked to look at it, he would arouse their suspicions

if he declined to show it, and yet, if the short stranger were as clever

as he professed to be, he would probably decipher it and learn

everything. So he wrote a companion message, using some of the same

words and figures as in the cypher one, but arranging them so that they

could not possibly be translated to make sense.

When he arrived at the top of the hill, he found the two strangers, as

he had expected, sitting at a little table outside the building.

'Hallo, youngster, have you caught your swallow-tail yet?' inquired the

tall one.

'I have not even seen one,' replied Franz, truthfully. 'I am afraid they

have all left the Hirsch-felsen since you were there. I gave it up at

last and came on here to send a cypher telegram to my friend.'

'Ah! the cypher!' said the fat man. 'Show me what you are going to say,

and I will warrant myself to read it.'

'Very well, but be quick, for I want to send it off,' replied Franz,

seeing that this would disarm suspicion.

He gave the strangers the copy he had specially prepared for them, and,

to his surprise, the stout man _did_ manage to read it, though,

naturally, he thought nothing of its contents. Then Franz took the real

telegram to the clerk at the Observatory, who dispatched it carefully,

though he chaffed Franz a good deal about the enormous importance of a

message that required to be sent so secretly.

When he rejoined his companions by the lake, just in time for the

afternoon meal, he was well teased by them because he was the only boy

who had no important find to announce. Then followed a merry walk back

through the woods, then supper, and then bed, and through it all Franz

never had a chance of a private talk with Herr Groos.

The next morning the boys were still at breakfast when the early morning

train came creaking into the station, and the first person to come

towards the inn was Baron Rosenthal.

He shook Franz warmly by the hand. 'Thanks to you, my boy,' he said,

'the thieves are in prison. It only remains for you to show us where the

rest of the silver is hidden.'

The other boys gazed at Franz in surprise, but he was not long in

telling the whole story, and explaining how it was that he had been the

only boy who had had no time to collect specimens. Half an hour later

the whole party started for the Kühberg, with Franz to guide them.

[Illustration: "'It was fortunate that we put them off the scent.'"]

Afterwards, when the winter came, and the boys of the class discussed

the great summer excursion, they always agreed that the most exciting

part of it had been the digging for Baron Rosenthal's treasures under

the pine tree. Not a few of them also, though without success, tried to

invent a cypher that should rival the famous one which had proved of

such real and unexpected value.

A. KATHARINE PARKES.

[Illustration: The Great Northern Diver.]

THE GREAT NORTHERN DIVER.

Amongst our water-loving birds there are few that can rival the great

Northern Diver. He is strong of wing, with remarkable legs and feet, and

a body so formed that it can take in a wonderful amount of air. He is a

beautiful bird, too, and a glance at him gives you the impression that

he is very knowing--as is, indeed, the fact. He has not a tuneful voice,

for he does not belong to the singing birds, but he utters a plaintive

and wild cry, which seems to suit the regions that are usually his home.

For, though the species does not keep entirely to the cold northern

regions, where summer is brief and winter is long, they are his chief

resorts, and their loneliness seems to suit him. He has often been seen

along British shores, in the Firth of Forth, for instance, and upon the

coast of Wales and Ireland. But if you wish to see the great northern

diver in abundance, you must go beyond the Hebrides, towards Labrador,

Iceland, and Spitzbergen. Nature has provided the bird with the means of

obtaining a great amount of animal heat, which enables him to bear

comfortably the intense cold of arctic regions.

A solitary specimen often attracts the notice of those on board passing

ships. They observe on a headland this tall, gaunt, white-breasted

sea-bird, motionless, it may be, yet looking round sharply with his keen

eyes. Is he thinking of the family cares of the last season, or

considering where the next meal is to come from? Suddenly he moves and

darts towards the sea, into which he plunges. Two or three minutes

after, he reappears many yards away. He has probably been fishing. He

seems to know before entering the water what the fish are doing, and the

formation of his body and limbs makes him a capital diver. It is the

habit of the Northern Diver to seek out especially the shoals of

herrings and sprats, of which both young and old birds consume great

quantities. There is only one brood yearly, the young birds hatching

during the brief summer of the far north.

The bird's head and neck are black, the bill being strong and pointed at

the tip. The breast is white, but the back, tail, and legs are black,

with scattered white spots; its feet are webbed. Though his wings are

short, and his body appears heavy, the Northern Diver can fly powerfully

and swiftly, owing to the strength of his muscles. The body, too, is

smooth and rounded, adapted either for swimming or flying. Another name

for it is the Immer, or Immer Diver.

J. R. S. C.

ENCOURAGEMENT.

Be as encouraging as you can. There is no end to the good sometimes done

by a few kindly words.

When Sydney Smith was a boy at school, a visitor found him one day, in

the play-hour, poring over a lesson-book. 'Clever boy!' said the

stranger, as he bestowed a shilling upon the young student, 'that is the

way to conquer the world.'

This bit of encouragement brightened the neglected boy's life like a

ray of sunshine. That kind man was not forgotten by Sydney Smith, who

was never weary of praising his deed. Little dreamed the stranger, as he

went his way, of the great good effected by his pleasant words. The lad

whom he had encouraged rose soon afterwards to be prefect of his school,

and, as we know, became in after years a very distinguished man, and

possibly the first real start he had in life was this little piece of

encouragement.

E. D.

TRAVELLERS' TALES.

They say there is a country where snowstorms never fall,

And sliding is a game they never knew:

They never saw a lake

Paved with ice that wouldn't break--

I would rather stay in England, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the bright sun never sets,

But still continues shining all night through;

And you needn't go to bed,

For there's always light o'er head--

That's a country I should like, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the people all talk French--

I can't imagine what they ever do!

For who amid their chatter

Could understand such patter?

I should answer 'Speak in English,' wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the women cannot walk,

And everything is made out of bamboo,

And the people's eyes are wee,

And they live on rice and tea--

I should like to go and see them, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the elephants are wild,

And never even heard about our Zoo;

And through the woods they roam

Like gentlemen at home--

I should like to go and see them, wouldn't you?

F. W. H.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 127._)

After a few minutes' useless waiting, and wishing that I might have

accompanied Jacintha and Dick into the house, I turned my back towards

Colebrook Park and set out in the direction of the town, which I entered

by a steep hill. The hill brought me into the middle of the High Street,

at about half-past four in the afternoon, and my attention was soon

absorbed by the fresh surroundings. In the street was a constant stream

of well-dressed persons, there were good shops, many carriages, and I

stood at the corner wondering which way to turn. Every now and then I

put my hand into my pocket to make certain the money was safe, and at

last I began to feel a certain sense of recklessness, as if I had now

the power to launch out into extravagance. To tell the truth it seemed

difficult to be in possession of such a sum without immediately looking

out for something to buy, and indeed there were several things I could

have added to my stock with advantage.

On the left I came to the railway station; the line passed over the

road, and beyond it the High Street sloped steeply upwards. At the top

of the hill I saw some public baths. Noticing on the opposite side of

the way a large shop with cheap clothing in the window, I entered and

made my first purchase, which consisted of a pair of stockings and some

shoes--of brown canvas, because these were the cheapest. Carrying my

parcel, I entered the baths, and came forth feeling much cleaner and

more presentable.

I next treated myself to an egg for tea, with ample bread and butter and

a cup of cocoa, and then I thought it high time to seek a place in which

to sleep. In speaking of an hotel, I had in my mind a Temperance Hotel,

although I had not entered into details before Dick; but, as I walked

away from the tea-shop, exploring small streets, I passed a tailor's,

where a man was seated cross-legged on a board, busily stitching. In the

window was a card bearing the inscription, 'Bedroom to let to a single

man,' and then a happy idea occurred to me.

My clothes were sadly in need of repair, my jacket being torn and

stained, and my knickerbockers requiring a patch on the right knee. Now,

I thought, if I engage a bed at the tailor's, he might consent to repair

my suit while I occupy it. So I opened the door and entered the warm,

moist air of the shop, with an inquiry about the bedroom, whereupon the

tailor gazed at me doubtfully a moment and shouted for 'Emma!'

She was a pleasant-looking woman with a baby in her arms, and a second

child clinging to her skirts, and she also seemed to regard me

suspiciously.

'I want a room for one night,' I explained, and then she glanced at her

husband.

'Got any money to pay for it?' he demanded.

'Rather,' I said. 'I can pay you first if you like.'

'Well, that is what I _should_ like,' he answered. 'Show the room,

Emma.'

She took me upstairs to a clean but poorly-furnished room, for which she

demanded a shilling, but after some conversation she agreed to supply me

with a good breakfast the next morning for one and ninepence. With this

offer I closed, and then, having given her one of my sovereigns, she

took me downstairs again to ask her husband for the change. When I had

counted this, I broached the subject of my clothes, suggesting that I

would go to bed at once if he would put them in good order by to-morrow

morning. We made a bargain for two and sixpence, and this sum I paid

also; then I turned into bed as soon as Emma had prepared the room. But

for some time I could not feel inclined to sleep, lying there thinking

of the time I had spent with Dick and Jacintha, and trying to decide

about the future.

Before closing my eyes I came to one determination. The first thing

to-morrow morning I would walk to the railway station and inquire the

cost of a third-class ticket to London. With so much money in my pocket,

it seemed folly to walk the rest of the distance, and the sooner I

reached my destination the sooner I should begin my real career.

My last waking thought that night was of Captain Knowlton, but in spite

of Dick's hopefulness it seemed impossible to believe that by any chance

my friend could be still living. For a few moments I exercised my

imagination, I built air castles, and pictured his reappearance on the

scene. I saw myself again at some other school, mixing once more with

the fellows on an equality: I saw myself going in due course to

Sandhurst, with Dick as my companion; I saw myself a guest at his house

during the holidays, discussing with Jacintha the experiences through

which I was at present passing. Whether or not I was awake when I

fancied these things, or my last thoughts melted into dreams, I have not

the remotest notion, but I knew nothing else until Emma knocked at my

door at eight the following morning, laying down my clothes outside, and

then all the pictures my imagination had painted appeared unreal and

extremely tantalising.

There was a small looking-glass on the bare wooden dressing-table, and

by its aid I saw that the tailor had given me good value for my money.

Feeling quite respectable with the new stockings and shoes and the

renovated suit, I determined to improve matters further by accepting

Jacintha's hint and having my hair cut.

During breakfast I realised that the day was Saturday, and that if I

travelled to London, it would not be practicable to take any steps

towards finding employment until Monday. As I was at present in cheap

and comfortable quarters, it seemed judicious to remain over Sunday,

especially as there would be a chance of seeing Dick and his sister once

more before I left Hazleton.

Having made a satisfactory arrangement with Emma, I went to the nearest

hairdresser's; and afterwards bought for two and fourpence a white

flannel shirt with a collar attached. Then, turning my steps to the

railway station, found that the price of a third-class ticket to London

was five shillings and threepence, and that there were several trains

during the morning.

When I had returned home to change my shirt, I wandered along the road

in the direction of Colebrook Park, but passed the lodge gates several

times without the satisfaction of seeing any sign of Jacintha or her

brother. Later in the day rain began to fall again, and continued until

bedtime, throughout the night, and through the whole of Sunday, so that

I only went out to church in the morning, and spent a far from

unpleasant afternoon listening to stories from Emma's husband. It

appeared that he had been a soldier, and passed through an Egyptian

campaign, to the success of which, according to his own account, he must

to no mean extent have contributed. In the evening I went again to the

church a few doors off. On Monday, seeing that the sun was shining, I

determined to make one more effort to see Dick or Jacintha before

setting out to London. The walk to Colebrook Park, where I hung about

for an hour or more, proved again entirely unavailing, however, and

turning towards the railway station, I changed another sovereign for a

ticket, and reached the platform ten minutes before the half-past eleven

train was due.

CHAPTER XVI.

While waiting for the train, I took the opportunity to count my money,

and finding how rapidly it had diminished, almost regretted the

determination to travel luxuriously by the railway, instead of walking

the rest of the distance to London. But, on the other hand, it appeared

highly desirable to present a respectable appearance when at last I

began to look for work in earnest. I had learned enough since leaving

Castlemore to understand that it would not do to be too particular as to

the nature of such employment, but that it could be possible to search

in vain scarcely seemed to me likely.

There being few passengers, I entered an empty third-class compartment,

and began to eat some meat patties which I had bought on the way from

Colebrook Park. At the first stoppage a middle-aged woman entered the

compartment, taking a seat by the farther window, but at Midbrook, about

three-quarters of the way to London, we were joined by a man, who

lowered himself gently into the seat facing my own, with his face

towards the engine.

He looked sixty years of age, or perhaps somewhat older, and had one of

the most benevolent-looking faces I had ever seen. He was clean shaven,

and he wore a tall black hat. His long frock coat was made of shiny

black cloth, with a waistcoat to match, and grey trousers. He exposed a

large amount of white shirt-front, and wore a neatly-tied narrow black

bow; indeed, he looked noticeably neat and well-brushed from top to toe.

But, although he was so well dressed that I felt surprised at his

travelling third-class, he had the appearance of a highly respectable,

old-fashioned butler out for a holiday, rather than a gentleman. A pair

of double eye-glasses hung from a broad black ribbon, and he sat with

both hands resting on the knob of his umbrella as he gazed benevolently

into my face.

'I wonder,' he suggested, soon after the train had restarted, 'whether

you would object to changing sides with me?'

'I don't mind at all,' I answered.

'A great pity,' he continued, 'to put up the window on such a lovely

warm day, but I am a great sufferer with a tickling in my throat, and

anything of a draught--thank you, my lad, thank you,' he said, as I took

the seat which he had left.

Resting his umbrella by his side, he took a small packet from his

waistcoat pocket, and helped himself to a lozenge. 'May I offer you

one?' he said, holding out the packet in a somewhat shaky hand. 'You

won't find them at all unpleasant.'

As I noticed the smell of aniseed, I accepted the offer at once. He

seemed to speak as if I were a man rather than a boy of fifteen, and no

doubt I felt flattered. But his voice was scarcely in accordance with

his general appearance, and it was easy to detect a note of

ill-breeding.

(_Continued on page 138._)

[Illustration: "'May I offer you a lozenge?'"]

[Illustration: "He gave me back the half-crown."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 135._)

Before we reached the next station, the old gentleman made several

remarks about the condition of the crops, the beauty of the country, and

the unusual quantity of rain that had recently fallen, and when

presently the train stopped again, and the woman at the farther end of

the compartment rose from her seat, he put out a hand to open the door,

though he nodded without raising his hat when she turned to thank him

from the platform.

'Now, I wonder,' he said, when we were on the way again, 'if you are

able to oblige me?'

'How?' I asked.

'I want two shillings and sixpence or sixpenny-worth of coppers for a

half-crown piece.'

'I think I can do that,' I answered, thrusting a hand into my pocket.

'You may think it strange that I should ask you,' he suggested.

'Not at all.'

'But,' he continued, 'I hadn't time to get change, and I want a paper at

the next station.'

Bringing out a handful of silver, I gave him two shillings and a

sixpence, whereupon he handed me a half-crown in exchange.

'It looks like a new one,' I remarked.

'I trust it may bring you good fortune, my lad,' he answered. 'Though,

in one respect, you certainly seem to be well provided for already.'

I suppose I smiled with satisfaction.

'But,' he continued, 'never forget one thing. Money is the root of all

evil--the root of all evil.'

'Do you live in London?' I asked presently.

'Yes,' he replied, 'although it does not agree with my delicate throat.

But we cannot choose where we would wish to live.'

'I wonder,' I said, a little hesitatingly, 'whether you could tell me

where to find a lodging?'

'Ah,' he cried, 'you may be sure of this! If I can assist you in any way

I shall be very happy--very happy indeed. Of course it is to some extent

a question of what you are prepared to pay.'

'I must not pay much,' I said, 'because, you see, I may not get anything

to do just at present.'

'So you have come to London to try your fortune?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I only want just a bedroom.'

He was looking up at the rack over my head.

'Your luggage is in the van?' he remarked.

'I have no luggage,' I answered, realising that this must appear a

somewhat serious drawback.

'May I inquire how much money you possess?' he asked.

'A little over a pound.'

'Ah!' he cried; 'and that is to be the beginning of a fortune, we will

hope. I have always taken a great interest in young men,' he continued.

'Now, let me see what we can do. I live with my son and my

daughter-in-law, and it is just possible she might accommodate you, if

you would like to come with me when we get out of this train.'

'I should like it very much indeed,' I answered, congratulating myself

that I had not been backward in asking his advice. I felt no shadow of

doubt concerning his good faith. He looked so entirely respectable that

I should have gone anywhere at his bidding. So, when the train stopped

at the London terminus I walked by his side through the booking-office,

out of the station-yard, and took a seat on an omnibus without an

instant's hesitation. I noticed that he had a way of turning his head

very quickly, almost as if he were looking out for some one, and I

thought it nice of him to insist on paying my fare. We took two

omnibuses before we alighted at the corner of Baker Street and

Marylebone Road, when, holding my arm in a most friendly manner, he led

me in the direction of Lisson Grove, although at the time I had no idea

whither we were going.

After passing through one or two quiet squares and dingy streets, we

reached one which looked more dingy still, with its rows of narrow, high

terrace houses, a number of unkempt children playing about the road, and

a fish-hawker bawling by the kerb. At one of the dingy-looking houses my

companion stopped, taking a latch-key from his waistcoat pocket; but as

soon as he opened the door a woman came out of a room, standing with her

arms akimbo in front of him, while I brought up the rear.

She was tall, like the old man, but her face was red and puffy, while a

wisp of fair hair fell untidily over her forehead. She wore a

dirty-looking dress, with several buttons missing, their places being

supplied by pins.

'Who's the kid?' she asked, and it was impossible to imagine that she

felt pleased at my presence.

'A young friend I happened to meet in the train,' he answered in a

curious tone. 'This way, my lad,' he added, 'this way,' and, stepping

past the woman, he opened a door of a back room. 'Just sit down for a

moment till I come back,' he said, although there was nothing to sit

upon but a bed.

Closing the door, he went away, and I heard him entering the front room.

I suddenly became the prey of all manner of anxious feelings. The house

itself was close and stuffy, with a curious odour as of some pungent

acid. I did not feel favourably impressed by the appearance of the

woman. But when a few minutes had passed the sound of voices reached my

ears, although it was impossible to hear the words with any

distinctness. Knowing that the old man was in all probability discussing

me with the woman who must be his daughter, I did what I may safely say

I had never attempted before in my life. Overcome with eagerness to

learn what was being said concerning myself, I stole towards the door,

opened it, and played the eavesdropper.

Even now I could not make out half their meaning, and what I heard only

served to perplex and frighten me.

'I tell you he is just what we want,' said the man, and the only word I

could catch in the woman's answer was--'Risk!'

'An open-faced, honest-looking boy,' he continued. 'You have only to

look at him a second to feel you can trust him. Dress him properly, and

he is as good as a fortune.'

If it had seemed possible to dart along the passage and out through the

front door, I should have done so, but my knees were shaking under me;

and, hearing fresh movements in the next room, I drew back and reclosed

the door. A few minutes later the man returned.

'Come this way,' he said, and I followed him into the front room. 'My

daughter, Mrs. Loveridge,' he continued, 'does not like strangers, but I

have persuaded her to treat you as a member of the family----'

'But if you would rather not!' I cried, looking up into her face.

'We are not rich people,' he said, entirely ignoring my outburst, 'but

what we have we are willing to share--now, no one can say fairer than

that. You give up what money you have got in that pocket of yours, and,

when you have taken it out in board and lodging, we will see whether we

can't manage to find you some useful work to do. So hand out, my lad!'

CHAPTER XVII.

Although he had looked so benevolent in the train, I had already begun

to fear this urbane old man far more than I had previously feared the

tramp at Broughton. With an uncomfortable feeling that he had got me in

his power, I could see no way of quickly getting out of it. To refuse to

hand over my money was out of the question, although, with an appearance

of kindness, he gave me back the particular half-crown which I had

changed for him in the train.

The next few hours went by wretchedly enough. Mr. Parsons (for that I

learned was his name) did not leave me for a moment alone, and there was

nothing to divert my thoughts from the extremely disagreeable situation.

I could see no sign of any kind of book; and, indeed, the only form of

print in the house seemed to be half of an old newspaper. At about

half-past eight, Mrs. Loveridge began to prepare for something

resembling a meal by placing on the table, without a cloth, a piece of

bacon, and some bread and cheese. When it was supposed to be ready I

made the acquaintance of Mr. Loveridge, a small, pale-faced, dark-haired

man, with one leg shorter than the other. He wore a boot with a very

thick cork sole, and walked with crutches. Mr. Loveridge scarcely opened

his lips, but greeted me with a long, keen stare. Although I did not

feel the least appetite, I made a pretence of eating.

After supper, we all sat round the table, just as it was, while the men

smoked, and talked in a jargon which it was impossible to understand.

'Better put the kid to bed,' said Loveridge, presently; and, indeed, I

was beginning to feel exceedingly curious as to my sleeping quarters.

Rising from her chair, Mrs. Loveridge led the way upstairs to the top of

the house, where she opened a door and said that was to be my room.

'Can I have a candle?' I asked.

'No, you can't,' she answered. 'And you needn't be afraid. We always

lock the front door and take out the key, and sleep with one eye open in

this house.'

With that she went downstairs and I shut the door. The window had

neither blind nor curtains, and the room was almost dark. I could,

however, distinguish a bed on the floor, and suddenly I remembered the

last and only other time I had slept in a bedroom without a bed--at Mrs.

Riddles', at Polehampton--and sincerely wished myself back in that

cupboard, despite its nearness to Castlemore. I prayed earnestly to God

to watch over me, for I knew instinctively that I was in some great

danger. I felt that I had fallen among thieves--if these people were not

thieves, what could they be?

I reproached myself for having been so easily deceived by Parsons, and

determined to make my escape at the earliest opportunity. The hint in

Mrs. Loveridge's parting words had not been necessary to convince me of

the uselessness of trying to get away during the night, so I lay down on

the mattress and the blankets (there were no sheets) and tried to make

up my mind how to act. I could not believe that the object of Parsons in

bringing me to his house had been merely to obtain the small sum of

money I possessed. Yet he appeared eager to detain me, and he had

persuaded his daughter of the need for such detention. It seemed to

follow that he meant to make use of me in some way--some undesirable

way, no doubt. In vain I racked my brains, before I fell asleep that

miserable night, to see through his design. But I realised that my

situation had become worse than ever, and it seemed difficult to imagine

that only yesterday I had been the companion of Jacintha and her

brother. I determined to do my utmost to disguise my suspicions, to

exercise patience and--for once--judgment, and to await a favourable

opportunity with all the courage I could muster.

(_Continued on page 146._)

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

V.--THE ROCK TEMPLES OF INDIA.

Perhaps next to their own country, English folk know more about India

than of any other part of the world. So many of us have either been

there ourselves, or have relations who have spent long years there, that

in a way it seems rather like a home-land than a foreign country. The

great difficulty is to realise what a huge piece of the world it is,

with its population of over two hundred and seventy millions of people.

We have to remember that this population is made up of many different

races which have from time to time conquered and settled in various

parts. India is above all things an _old_ country. Its sacred books, its

temples, indeed, the way of life of the people date back to very ancient

times, and it is believed that considerable intercourse took place

between Hindustan and ancient Egypt, which may account for the likeness

between the rock tombs and temples of the two kingdoms. New races have

from time to time supplanted the former owners of the land, but except

the Mohammedan invaders of the tenth century, the conquerors seem more

or less to have fallen in with the faith and traditions of their new

subjects.

[Illustration: East Front of the Rock Temple of Elephanta.]

The greater part of the natives of India are worshippers of Buddha,

though many have been converted to Christianity. The teaching of Buddha

depended greatly on meditation and freedom from the distractions of the

world, and Buddhists at a very early date began to withdraw into

communities of hermits living by themselves, and, partly from

convenience, partly from a love of mysterious places, availed themselves

largely of the many natural caverns with which the rocks of India and

Thibet abound.

At first a small cave would be enlarged, and by the aid of masonry

turned into a habitable cell for one or more of the hermits. Next a

verandah would be added, where the good men might meditate, and at the

same time enjoy light and fresh air. Later on a large cavern would be

chosen, which, with some building, and the addition of pillars to

support the roof, would be adapted to the form of a great central hall,

with small surrounding cells for each of the brethren. To our ideas it

sounds rather cold and gloomy, but those were not days of luxury, and in

Southern India, where coolness means comfort, these old cave-dwellers

might have been worse off.

Some of these Buddhist temples are marvels of genius as well as of

industry, being richly decorated with carvings of men, women, and

animals, and with pillars, roofs and galleries cut from the solid rock.

One of the most celebrated of these rock buildings is on a small island

a few miles from Bombay, called by the natives, Garapur, though in the

sixteenth century the Portuguese gave it the name of Elephanta, from a

huge black stone elephant which they saw on landing. The great temple is

reached by a paved causeway from a beach below, and is chiefly

underground, though both centre and wings have handsome outside

frontages. The chief hall is one hundred and thirty feet long (or about

as large as a fair-sized English church), and formerly had many columns,

though most of these have fallen. The roof of the cave in the east wing

projects seven feet beyond the line of pillars, and is about fifty feet

long. On square pedestals guarding the entrance sit stone animals,

either leopards or tigers, and inside are statues, whilst over the head

of an image of Buddha are flying cherubs.

The view from outside, over the Bay of Bombay, is very beautiful, and

the temple is still held sacred by the Hindus, who celebrate there the

festival of Shivaratri. An important religious fair is also held before

the first new moon after the middle of February in each year.

HELENA HEATH.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

III.--THE SIMPLON ROAD.

[Illustration: The Simplon Pass.]

In the year 1805 Napoleon accomplished a work which for many years had

occupied his thoughts, namely, a good carriage road from Switzerland to

Italy, over the Simplon Pass, thus associating his name with that of the

great Carthaginian general, Hannibal, who had crossed that Pass with his

troops many hundred years before.

This road of Napoleon's--still perhaps the best-graded mountain road in

Europe--was a marvel of engineering, and was considered perfect in all

respects. Every stone which marked the miles (or rather kilometres)

along the route was stamped with the imperial eagle, and each bridge

over the rushing torrents bore the words 'Napoleon fecit' ('Napoleon

made this'), so that succeeding generations should honour his name.

How little could Napoleon have imagined that, just one hundred years

later, human moles, boring an underground passage through the mountain,

would render his grand road all but useless, and that the opening of the

Simplon Tunnel would cause his road to be neglected and forsaken.

* * * * *

Some conversation on this topic was passing between the travellers on a

diligence (or coach) not long ago; as the five horses gaily trotted

along the Simplon road from Brigue to the Italian side, an English

schoolboy, who had been attentively listening, broke in.

'This grand road to be left to decay? The road Napoleon made! Why is it

to be given up? I never saw a better road in all my life!'

'There could certainly be no better road,' answered an elderly gentleman

who sat next to the lad, 'but now that the Simplon Tunnel is almost an

accomplished fact, this road will be no longer needed. People will not

sit for eight or ten hours on a diligence when they can do the journey

in less than an hour by rail.'

'I would choose the diligence all the same, tunnel or no tunnel!' said

the lad heartily. 'Just see how jolly it is to be trotting up-hill, with

a precipice on one side of you, a great slab of rock on the other, high

snow mountains in front, and hundreds of butterflies dancing about in

the sun. Isn't that better than being dragged through a dark tunnel,

boxed up in a stuffy train?'

'I agree with you there, at any rate in summer,' said his neighbour,

smiling; 'but for all that the tunnel is a grand thing for this country,

and it will benefit English folk too, for it will considerably shorten

the distance between the Straits of Dover and the Adriatic, and so our

Indian mails will go through the Simplon tunnel to Brindisi. The tunnel

is twelve miles long--the longest railway tunnel in the world.'

'I know the tunnel is very wonderful,' went on the lad, 'and I dare say

it is necessary, but why, because there happens to be a tunnel inside

the mountain, should this beautiful road be allowed to go to rack and

ruin? That beats me!' and the boy looked round as if to request an

explanation from some one.

A Swiss gentleman--speaking, however, most excellent

English--enlightened the lad.

'You only see the road in summer, when every yard of it has been

carefully inspected, and if necessary renewed. The winter storms and

avalanches do great damage here every year: bridges are swept away, and

the roads blocked with immense rocks brought down by the avalanches, so

that the cost of keeping this road in repair comes every year to over a

million of francs. When the tunnel is open, the Government will be able

to save this money, as the road will be no longer needed.'

'Poor old road,' said the lad. 'Then will no one ever come up it in

future?'

'Oh, yes,' answered the gentleman, 'it will always be used by the

peasants--they cannot afford to pay railway fares, and I hope for their

sakes the monks at the Hospice yonder will still continue their good

offices, and not forsake the home and the refuges, as there is some talk

of their doing, now that the number of travellers on the road will be so

greatly diminished.'

'Of course,' said the boy eagerly, 'I have heard of the St. Bernard

monks, and their hospital and their dogs, and how they dig travellers

out of the snow, and so on; but what are refuges, please? I never heard

of them.'

'They are also shelters for travellers, a sort of off-shoot from the

parent-house at the top of the Pass. It is fifteen miles from the valley

to the Hospice, and in winter-time the road is often blocked by snow,

and if it were not for these refuge houses, where food and warmth is

freely given to all comers, many a poor traveller would perish in the

snow.'

* * * * *

Napoleon's fame will have to live without the help of the great road

which he built to keep it alive. Though many obstacles have been met

with, including a break-down caused by an underground spring, when there

were only a few yards between the borings from each end, the tunnel is

at last practically finished, and it is hoped that in 1905, a hundred

years after Napoleon made his road, it will be open for railway traffic.

S. C.

THE BAT AND THE BALL.

'I'm quite knocked up!' exclaimed the Ball,

While mounting to the skies;

'I know I shall have such a fall

After this dreadful rise.

I speak no ill of any one,

However they provoke,

But many things the Bat has done

Are something past a joke.'

'Just watch that Ball, how high he goes,'

The Bat exclaimed with glee,

'But yet he never says he owes

His rise in life to me.

No, no, that's not his way at all;

And though I do my best,

His graceless growls at every fall

Are something past a jest.'

JOHN LEA.

WITHOUT A HEN TO BUY STAMPS.

A native from the shores of Lake Nyasa, in Central Africa, lately

enlisted in the King's 2nd African Regiment, and went off to the war in

Somaliland.

He had had some education in the Mission School in his own village, and

by-and-by sent home a very good letter describing his work, and how he

learnt signalling, and so on; and then he ended up with this pathetic

little reproach to his 'brothers' in Nyasa-land for leaving him without

a letter.

'And what? all the people who knew us, have they finished to die' (that

is, are they all dead?), 'or are they alive and laugh? Brethren of

Mbamba, how are ye without a hen to buy stamps?'

A fowl in Central Africa, it may be explained, costs about a penny, and

is the usual means of barter, so that stamps are bought with hens. But

let no one think an African fowl is as plump as its English sister; on

the contrary, it is such a poor, skinny thing, that three of them form

the usual breakfast for a European, who after all often gets up hungry.

MAY DAY.

The village children were making great preparations for May Day, and

none were more excited than Alice and May Risdon, for it would be little

May's birthday, and she had been looking forward to it for a long time.

Early in the morning, before some people were out of their beds, the

children would start maying, carrying garlands and bunches of flowers

tied on poles, and calling at each house to sing the May greeting. Some

would give them pennies, and others only smiles, but the fun and the

frolic were what the children loved, and they would be certain to have

plenty if the sun shone and the skies were blue overhead.

On the last day of April, Alice and May hurried home from school, for

they meant to start off directly after tea to pick the flowers they

would want.

'I do wish Mother would give me a ribbon for my garland,' little May

said, as she ran along, trying to keep pace with her elder sister.

'I don't think she will,' Alice replied. 'Mother says pennies are none

too plentiful, and she cannot waste them on finery for us, so I am sure

she will not buy ribbon just to decorate our flowers.'

'Annie Mock had hers tied with a lovely bow of white satin last year,'

May said, with a sigh. 'I don't want to go maying if I have no ribbon

for my flowers.'

May was just a little bit spoilt because she was much younger than

Alice, and her elder sister was so devoted to her that she always

thought of her first, and gave way to her in everything.

'We will find the very prettiest flowers we can, dear, and then nobody

will miss the ribbon.'

'Do coax Mother to buy me a bit,' May begged, but Alice knew that this

would be quite useless.

How she wished, though, that she could satisfy her little sister! If

only she tried hard enough, perhaps she would be able to think of some

plan.

However, when they reached home she was afraid that May might be

disappointed, not only of her ribbon, but of her flowers and garland as

well, for she found Mrs. Stevens, the Squire's wife, had called and

asked Mrs. Risdon to send Alice to the Lodge to help with some weeding.

'Oh, Mother, need I go? I must get the flowers for the maying,' Alice

said.

'Nonsense, my dear; I cannot disoblige Mrs. Stevens when she is always

so kind to us.'

So Alice had to go to the Park Lodge, leaving May in tears, because she

knew she could not get nearly as many flowers without her sister to help

her.

'Never mind, dear! Pick some primroses and ferns, and I will get up

early to-morrow to gather may-blossom and make the garland,' Alice

promised, as she kissed her good-bye.

It was growing dark when the weeding was finished, but Mrs. Stevens was

very much pleased with the neat look of the borders.

'You have been a good, industrious girl,' she said to Alice. 'Now you

must come in and have some cake and milk, and I have a few little scraps

of finery your mother may like for her patchwork.'

She brought a bundle of pieces of bright-coloured silk, and among them

Alice saw, with delight, a length of lovely green ribbon.

Her eyes shone with excitement as she thanked Mrs. Stevens.

'Do you think, ma'am, we might use that beautiful ribbon for our

garland? It would still do for Mother's patchwork if we ironed it

afterwards.'

Then Mrs. Stevens had to hear all the story of May's wish and her

sister's fears for her disappointment. She gave Alice leave to go

through their orchard on her way home, and to pick as many of the wild

jonquils--'White Sundays,' the children called them--as she liked. So

Alice was a happy girl, and, although she saw by the tears on little

May's cheeks that the child had cried herself to sleep, she knew how

glad her waking would be.

Alice was awake at daylight to weave the garland and arrange the bunch

of flowers on the pole. When all her preparations were finished, she

roused May and told her that it was May Day and she had a delightful

surprise for her. She brushed the little girl's golden hair till it

shone, and put on her best white frock, and then, looking from the

window, saw some other children coming to meet them.

'Run off, dear,' she said; 'I will follow with your garland.'

She just had time to slip on a clean pinafore, and then hurried after

her down the hill.

'Oh, how lovely!' cried May, when she saw the green ribbon; and she was

so excited she could hardly stand still while she held the garland and

Alice tied it on.

The other children were full of admiration, and May's happy little face,

with the hug she gave her kind sister, quite repaid Alice for her hard

work the evening before, and for getting up with the sun to prepare for

a joyful maying.

M. H.

[Illustration: "She could hardly stand still while Alice tied the ribbon

on."]

[Illustration: "The empty branch bore a label."]

NOT THE SAME THING.

At a college in Cambridge there was once a master who was extremely fond

of figs. He watched his fig-tree very closely and tenderly, for he held

that in the existence of a fig there was but one fit and proper moment

at which the ripe fruit should be eaten. To eat a fig either before or

after that supreme moment was, said the master, a neglect of an

opportunity and a sad mistake.

One year, for some reason, the tree produced only one good fig; and one

day the master's examination of this solitary fruit led him to the

conclusion that it would be at its best on the day following. Then he

did an exceedingly foolish thing--considering that there were

undergraduates about! He wrapped his precious fig in a piece of silver

paper and labelled it 'The Master's Fig!'

At what he judged the exactly right moment of the next day the master

went to the tree, anticipating a brief but exquisite pleasure. Alas! the

fruit had vanished, and the empty branch bore a label with these words;

'A Fig for the Master!'

H. J. H.

INVITATIONS.

The daffodils are nodding;

There's a swaying of the trees;

The playroom window rattles

To the fragrant summer breeze.

There is sunshine in the garden,

And the bees are all a-hum.

Oh, hark, the invitation:

'You must come, come, come!'

The butterfly is glancing

On his wings of golden hue;

Ah! see where now he loiters

O'er that bed of pansies blue;

A moment since he hovered

At this very window-pane,

To see if we were coming

To the garden and the lane.

Hats! hats! for those who want them;

Boots! boots!--oh, lace them, _do_!

Fling open doors and windows,

To let the sunshine through!

When birds and bees and blossoms

Invite us out to play,

Oh, who could well refuse them

Upon so bright a day?

JOHN LEA.

JAPANESE PLUMS.

Plums, especially if pickled, are a favourite ration of the Japanese

soldiers. These plums are said to be such marvellous thirst-quenchers

that if you have once tasted them the mere recalling of their name is

sufficient to allay the severest thirst.

There is a saying in the Japanese army that when a regiment shows signs

of being overcome from want of water, the officer in command has only to

say, 'Two miles from here, my men, there is a forest of plum-trees.'

At once, says a Japanese writer, the men's mouths begin to water, and

the danger is past.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 139._)

I fell asleep at last, and, on opening my eyes the next morning, saw the

sunlight shining into the squalid room. Evidently it had been empty on

my arrival at the house, and Mrs. Loveridge had flung these things on

the floor, and placed a basin and what looked like a duster on a

broken-backed chair, and considered the room furnished. Not aware of the

time, but believing it to be quite early, I got up and said my prayers

and began my toilet, with the intention of going downstairs to explore

the house. Having lain down in my clothes, I now washed as well as I

could without soap, opened my door, went out to the landing, and

listened. All that I could hear was snoring; so, taking courage, I tried

to walk downstairs without noise--a task in which I only partially

succeeded.

Passing the first floor, I went on to the rooms which I had entered

yesterday, and then to the front door. I saw that it was locked, and

that the key, as Mrs. Loveridge had hinted, had been taken away. At the

back of the passage was a flight of stairs, and, in the wild hope of

finding some kind of back door, I went down.

In this basement were two rooms, that in front being an ordinary kind of

kitchen--the door of the back room being locked. I was in the act of

stooping to look through the keyhole, when I felt a hand on my collar.

'Now, get away from that,' cried Mrs. Loveridge, flinging me heavily

against the wall. 'None of your prying down here, or it'll be the worse

for you.'

I returned upstairs without speaking, and there I hung about the room,

where the supper things still remained on the table, until I smelt an

odour of frying bacon. Both the men came to breakfast, and nobody spoke

during the meal. When it ended, Mr. Loveridge left the room, and I heard

him downstairs, opening and shutting the door of the room where I had

been caught trying to peep. I strained my ears for any fresh sound,

fancying that some one must be blowing a pair of bellows, such as may be

seen in any blacksmith's shop, until my attention was suddenly diverted.

'I never expect gratitude,' said Mr. Parsons, 'so I am not disappointed

if I don't get it. There are private goings on in every house, come to

that, and visitors have got to behave themselves.'

'Of course,' I answered, remembering the caution I had administered to

myself last night.

'People tell me I am what you may call a good-natured man,' he

continued. I noticed how thin his lips had become, and what an

unpleasant expression had come into his eyes. 'But if you rouse me,' he

exclaimed, 'I'm a Tartar--a Tartar I am! So you had better be careful.'

I was rapidly growing convinced that there was a mystery connected with

the house, and that the clue was to be found downstairs in what ought

to have been the back kitchen. But I had no time to think of this at

present, because Mr. Parsons said he intended to take me out. He

accompanied me into the passage, where he carefully brushed his tall hat

with his sleeve, and opened the street door, whilst I determined to lose

no opportunity of making my escape before we returned. The next minute

we were walking away from the house, and, to my surprise, Mr. Parsons

put his hand through my arm, holding it with what seemed to be a grip of

iron.

'Where are we going?' I asked, as we left the street.

'I want to make a deal with a friend of mine,' was the answer.

'Appearances are very important in this world, my lad. I like to see a

boy nicely dressed. I'm always very particular myself what I wear.'

'My clothes are all right,' I muttered.

'Ah, you think so, do you? Now, I'm very fond of a short black jacket

and a tall hat--a tall hat is most important.'

'You mean Etons?' I suggested.

'You will see what I mean before you're much older,' he answered, still

keeping his grip of my arm.

In a wider street in the neighbourhood of Edgware Road we stopped before

a good-sized second-hand clothes-shop, which was kept by a man, who

appeared to be a friend of Parsons. Telling me to enter first, he stood

blocking the doorway while he carried on a whispered conversation with

the shopkeeper.

'Take off your jacket,' he said, a few minutes later, as the shopman

began to show some folded suits of clothes.

Although I did not in the least like the notion of exchanging my own

clothes, shabby as they were, for a suit which had already been worn by

somebody else, it was a part of my plan to offer no unnecessary

objection. Besides, it must be confessed that, in his quiet way, Mr.

Parsons had succeeded in filling me with something very like terror. In

a manner, he seemed like a volcano, looking perfectly harmless, and even

pleasant, but yet capable of a terribly dangerous eruption.

The shopman brought out an armful of clothes, and the second jacket I

tried was only a trifle too small. In less than a quarter of an hour I

had taken off my own suit and put on in its place an ordinary suit of

Etons, such as we all wore on Sundays at Castlemore. Although obviously

far from new, it was not in very bad condition; but the hat, which had a

soiled lining, required to be filled in with paper to prevent it from

coming down over my eyes. Mr. Parsons sold my old suit (it could

scarcely have fetched a very high price), and paid the difference to the

shopman, who, I observed, examined the money, coin by coin, with close

attention.

'Now,' said Parsons, as we walked in the direction of Edgware Road, 'you

look a little more genteel.'

We entered a cheap hosier's shop next, and there he bought me a white

shirt, two wide Eton collars, and a dark tie, all of which I carried

home in a brown-paper parcel.

So far the morning had been passed harmlessly, if unpleasantly, for I

continued to resent the second-hand suit, and especially the hat, and

now we walked direct back to the house. After a meal, of which the less

said the better, Mr. Parsons took me into his own bedroom, telling me to

change my shirt and look sharp about it. When I had put on the white

shirt, a wide collar, and the new necktie, I returned to the front room,

but was sent into the passage to fetch the tall hat.

In the front room I found Mr. and Mrs. Loveridge, as well as a

rough-looking man whom I had not seen before. Mr. Parsons placed his

hand on my shoulders, and turned me round and round as if he were proud

to show the change he had affected in my appearance.

'Won't he do beautiful?' he cried, excitedly. 'Did ever you set eyes on

a nicer, genteeler-looking lad? Don't he take the cake?'

They all began to laugh, evidently with approval, while I bit my lips

and tried to look as if I also liked it, although I think it was one of

the worst minutes of my life.

'Well,' said Loveridge, 'we shall see what we get for our money.'

Mrs. Loveridge muttered something which I could not understand, and Mr.

Parsons shook his head with a significant frown.

'Trust me for that,' he answered. 'Come along, Jacky! Handsome is that

handsome does, you know.'

A few minutes later we were again out in the street, and while any

casual passer-by would have imagined that I was accompanied by an

affectionate old gentleman who held my arm, I knew very well what was

his real motive. It was a hot afternoon, and presently we took an

omnibus to Oxford Circus, where we at once turned down a side street.

'I dare say you are thirsty, my lad,' he exclaimed, suddenly. 'Now, two

or three doors from here there's a nice shop where they sell delicious

ginger-beer--a penny the bottle. Go and get yourself a bottle, Jacky.'

'I--I don't want any,' I answered, as he took a coin from his pocket.

'Jacky,' he said, looking full into my face, 'you will find it always

best to do as you're told. Go and get yourself a bottle of ginger-beer,

my lad.'

CHAPTER XVIII.

Taking the two-shilling-piece, I walked on and entered the small shop,

where a clean-looking woman stood behind the counter. Opening a bottle

of ginger-beer, she poured the contents into a glass, counting out the

change for the florin while I drank. In the meantime Mr. Parsons was

waiting directly outside the door, and the moment I reached his side he

again gripped my arm.

'Change!' he muttered, whereupon I put the one and elevenpence into his

shaky hand.

When we had walked a little farther, he stopped at another shop--a

tobacconist's this time.

'Just go in there and buy me a box of wax lights,' he said, giving me

half-a-crown.

Accordingly I entered the shop, where a young man was smoking a

cigarette just within the door.

'A box of wax lights,' I cried, placing the money on the counter. Having

given what I asked for, the man began to examine the coin. He rang it

on the counter, he tried it with his teeth, and then he looked curiously

into my face.

[Illustration: "'Take off your jacket,' Mr. Parsons said."]

'Haven't you got any smaller change?' he asked.

'No,' I answered, and, with another curious glance, he examined the

half-crown again, and finally gave me the change.

(_Continued on page 158._)

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

IV.--HOW INSECTS SEE.

Of the five senses, sight is to mankind undoubtedly the most precious.

The changes of the seasons, the beauty of scenery, sunset and sunrise,

the wonders of nature, and the triumphs of art are only to be

appreciated through the eyes, which have aptly been described as the

'windows of the soul.' Yet there are many who pass through life without

even realising what we may call the 'gilding' of the world--the delights

of colour. Quite a large number of people have no colour-sense, and are

unable to tell red, for instance, from green. The writer knows an

eminent botanist who is unable to tell the colours of the flowers he so

loves to study!

[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Head of Insect with eyes at side (greatly

magnified).]

How is it with the little people of the insect world in this matter?

Their eyes are constructed on an entirely different plan from ours. What

sort of a world is it that they look on? Taken as a whole, it would seem

that the insect inhabitants of our world see but very little of it; they

perceive it rather through the sense of smell. Only a very few insects,

such as dragon-flies, for example, see well, and even their length of

sight probably does not exceed six feet or so. They are a near-sighted

race. Moreover, they see moving objects more easily than stationary

ones.

[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Head of Drone Bee (greatly magnified). 'Ocelli'

at O.]

That many recognise colours there can be no doubt, and many show

preferences for certain colours. Bees show a great liking for blue, and

ants for violet. White butterflies appear to prefer white flowers, and

yellow butterflies yellow flowers. Orange and yellow are also attractive

to bees, whilst other colours seem to have no charms for them.

[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Head of Worker Bee (greatly magnified).]

[Illustration: Fig. 4.--Eye of Bibio Fly. 'Ocelli' at O (greatly

magnified).]

There is no doubt that some insects, however, see much more of the world

than others, for the eyes of the insects and their near relations, the

spiders and scorpions, are of two different kinds, and both kinds differ

greatly from ours in structure. Let us take the simple eye found in the

spider or scorpion, for an example, and look at it. If you catch a

spider, and carefully examine the front of his head, you will notice a

number of bead-like bodies of different sizes, arranged sometimes in the

form of a circle, sometimes on a prominent swelling or 'tubercle,' or it

may be in some other fashion, according to the kind of spider. These are

the eyes. A section cut through one of these eyes and placed under the

microscope would show that the surface of the eye was formed by a

transparent body like a lens, and that behind this lay a complicated

arrangement of rods passing gradually into the nerves of sight. Only

_ocelli_, as these eyes are called, are found in the spider and his

kind. But in true insects, like the dragon-fly, or the butterfly, we

meet with eyes of another kind, in addition to ocelli. These are known

as compound eyes. Where compound eyes are found, the ocelli never exceed

three in number, and are arranged in the form of a triangle, and placed

in the middle of the head (figs. 2, 3, and 4).

The compound eyes vary greatly in their size. In some insects they are

placed one in each side of the head (fig. 1); in others, as in the drone

bee, they meet one another at the top of the head (fig. 3, spot marked

O) and extend downwards to the mouth. In others, yet again, they may

attain a huge size, and occupy even the whole front of the head,

crowding over the ocelli to form a little group at the top, as in the

head of a species of fly known as the Bibio (fig. 4).

The compound eye is so delicate and wonderful, that great knowledge of

anatomy or the science of optics is necessary before it can be really

appreciated. Briefly, it is made up of a cluster of simple eyes, in each

of which there are several parts. Beginning at the surface we have what

is known as the facet, or cornea, which roughly corresponds to the

surface of our own eyes. Next we meet with a clear, glassy rod, and this

passes downwards into the nerve of sight. Around these rods is a sheath

of black colouring matter, so that each eye is cut off from its

neighbour. Thus the whole eye may be likened roughly to a bundle of

telescopes.

Of what use, it may be asked, are the three little eyes in the middle of

the head of insects which have these wonderfully complex eyes? Well, the

large compound eyes are used to watch the movements of other animals;

thus they are enabled to escape their enemies. Many of you doubtless

have tried to catch butterflies, and if so you will know how suddenly

and quickly they avoid the master-stroke that is to land them in the

net. But the use of the three little eyes seems to be to enable their

possessor to see in the dark. By their means the bee (figs. 2 and 3) can

distinguish objects even in the darkest parts of the hive; so too the

ant can find his way about the galleries of his underground home.

Night-flying moths all have these little eyes, whilst in butterflies,

which fly in the daytime, they are wanting.

W. P. PYCRAFT, A.L.S., F.Z.S.

TWO WAYS OF READING A SENTENCE.

People in high stations of life often receive from authors presents of

their works, and are expected to say something flattering about them in

return. They do not like to hurt the author's feelings if the book is

worthless, and so Benjamin Disraeli, when Prime Minister, used to answer

those who approached him in this way: 'I have received your book, and

shall _lose no time in reading it_.' This sentence, as you can see, is

capable of being read in two ways, but the sender of the book was, of

course, intended to understand the more flattering reading. It was a

kind of deception, and was not very honest, but it was done out of

kindness.

A musical composer found another way of answering the many applicants

for his opinion: 'I have received your music,' he would write, '_and

much like it_.'

S. CLARENDON.

RUDEL AND LISBETH.

By the Author of 'The Silver Flagon,' 'The Red Rose Knights,' &c.

Rudel and Lisbeth were a little girl and boy who lived many years ago in

a beautiful gabled farmhouse on the edge of a forest in Germany. The

forest was far from any town, and the children were dressed in the

quaint and pretty costumes of German peasants at that time. Lisbeth

looked like a tiny copy of her old grandmother, except that her own hair

hung down in two long, tight flaxen plaits, while her grandmother's was

completely hidden under a high cap.

The forest, which was many miles wide, lay on one side of the farmhouse;

on the other it was open country, and from the top of a low hill in the

neighbourhood you could see villages and churches for miles round. This

hill was a favourite playground of the children, for it was full of

caves and hiding-places; it was in fact the great 'show-place' of the

neighbourhood, but the children only thought how delightful it was to

play houses in.

Rudel and Lisbeth were very strictly brought up, and were punished for

the slightest fault. They seldom spoke to their grandparents unless

spoken to, and were never talked to about anything that was going on.

Like other children, however, they had a good deal of curiosity about

their elders, and it puzzled Rudel very much one day when he saw that as

his grandmother went about her household work, the tears were running

down her face.

About this time Rudel stopped playing at houses, and took to playing at

soldiers. The new game absorbed him so much that he could think of

nothing else. The neighbours also began to talk of soldiers, and at last

the children came to know that there was a war going on in Germany, and

that certain States speaking the same language were fighting with one

another. This was very sad, but the children thought it very exciting

and delightful.

One night Rudel said to Lisbeth, 'We must get up early to-morrow and go

and storm the hill. I am going to play at having a siege. I heard

grandfather say to-morrow is to be a holiday.'

Lisbeth joyfully agreed, and they went to bed full of plans for the

siege.

In the middle of the night, as it seemed to Rudel, he woke and heard a

loud noise in the living-room below. Two men were talking in loud, angry

tones, and a woman was sobbing. Presently the crying ceased, and the two

men seemed to leave the room. Rudel sprang up and looked out of his tiny

window--yes! there were his grandfather and another man going towards

the forest. But after taking a few steps they paused, spoke together

for a little while, and then turned in the opposite direction.

'They are going to our hill,' thought Rudel, as he went back to bed.

Hours afterward, as it seemed to him, a light flashed into his eyes, and

he awoke again. His grandmother was standing over him with a candle. She

was crying, and as she wept she bent down and kissed Rudel, which

frightened him very much.

'Oh, Rudel,' said Grandmother, sobbing, 'will you always be a good boy?

Promise me you will.'

Rudel promised, and, after kissing him again, Grandmother went away.

Rudel wondered if she was going to see Lisbeth, and make her also

promise to be a good girl. Rudel fully meant to keep his promise, but he

was a forgetful little boy, and he broke it the very next day.

'Children,' said Grandfather, just as he and Grandmother were setting

off on business, 'you are not to go to the hill to-day, nor anywhere

near it--keep to the orchard and garden.'

And, without even stopping to make them promise, he went away, while

Rudel stamped his foot in a rage, and Lisbeth began to cry.

'If Grandfather thinks,' said Rudel, after they had been wandering about

for some time, 'that I am never to be a man, and do as I like--oh,

Lisbeth, we didn't promise Grandfather--if we had promised it would be

wrong to go; but we didn't! Let us go to the hill--no one will see us.'

Lisbeth stood out against her brother for a little while, but she was so

accustomed to follow his lead in everything that she gave in at last,

and the children went to the hill.

They played at the foot for some little time, and then mounted to the

top, Rudel busy explaining the plan of his siege; but on reaching the

top and looking round they uttered cries of amazement on seeing a party

of soldiers--an army they thought it--riding rapidly towards the hill

and surrounding it on every side. Rudel was fascinated by the horses and

trappings, but Lisbeth was frightened and began to cry.

'Let's go and hide,' she said.

'You may,' said Rudel, 'but I shall go and speak to the soldiers, and

ask them what they want. And mind, Lisbeth, don't come out or speak, but

stay till they are gone.'

The children ran down the hill to a cave they knew of, which could

hardly be found by any one who did not know where to look, and Lisbeth

went in. But her terror may be imagined when she found it already

occupied. A fierce-looking man rose up at her entrance, seized her, and

pressed his hand over her mouth.

'Silence,' he whispered into her ear, 'or it will be the worse for you.'

Meantime, Rudel went to face the soldiers.

'Hallo!' cried a rough-looking soldier, who seemed in authority, 'is

this the spy and deserter we are seeking?--truly a dangerous ruffian!'

The other men laughed loudly, and pressed round Rudel, who began to be

frightened.

'Where's your father, boy?' asked the leader.

'He has gone away,' answered Rudel.

'You know where he is. I remember your face now; aren't you the grandson

of old Peter Klinger, who holds yonder farm? Well, we are looking for

his son, Rudolf Klinger, whose children we know live with the

grandparents. We believe that he came here last night, and is hiding

somewhere in the neighbourhood. Tell us where he is, and you shall have

as many sugarplums as you can eat.'

'You are not looking for my father,' said Rudel boldly; 'he would not be

a spy and deserter, and if he were I should not betray him.'

'We shall soon see that. If you don't tell us where he is you shall be

shot as a deserter in his place. We have no time to waste.'

The soldiers laughed. They were accustomed to their leader's cruel

jokes, but Rudel was not. He turned pale, and began to tremble a little.

'Now, then, tell us,' said the leader.

'You may kill me,' said Rudel, 'but I will not tell.'

Full well did Rudel guess now the cause of his grandmother's tears last

night, and who the visitor had been.

'Fall in, men,' commanded the leader, winking at the next in command;

'form a shooting party.'

Soldiers were rough and cruel in those times, especially in time of war,

and poor Rudel fully believed he was going to be shot. He watched the

preparations with fascinated eyes, and allowed himself to be placed in

position against a low stone wall. Then he burst into tears.

'Once more--will you tell?'

Rudel did not answer, but shut his eyes and began rapidly to repeat the

Lord's Prayer. The leader glanced round with a grim smile, and the men

clicked the locks of their muskets. Then fear overcame the poor little

fellow, and he sank down in a heap on the ground.

Meanwhile, in the cave, which was quite close, Lisbeth had heard all.

She began to struggle, and uttered a stifled scream. The man released

her, and, to her surprise, gently touched her flaxen hair.

'Fear nothing, little one,' he said, and taking her hand, went with her

out of the cave, and walked straight up to the soldiers.

'I may be a spy and a deserter,' he said loudly to the leader, 'but I am

not a brute as you are.' And he struck the officer a violent blow in the

face.

'Take that!' he said, 'and shoot me as soon as you like. I am worth

something when I can call that brave boy my son.'

The soldiers surrounded and seized him, and when Rudel came to his

senses he found them already gone, and his grandfather lifting him into

his arms and preparing to carry him home.

The next morning both children were punished for disobedience. Rudel

thought this very cruel, and years afterwards, when for the first time

he dared to ask about his father, he asked his grandfather why he had

done so.

'To make you forget all you had gone through,' answered the old man,

smiling, 'and only remember the beating. Besides, you had disobeyed me!'

Rudel never saw his father again, for when the deserter had undergone a

long imprisonment for his offence, and was free again, he was ordered to

leave the country for ever; and Rudel and Lisbeth stayed on with their

grandparents.

[Illustration: "'I am worth something when I can call that brave boy my

son.'"]

[Illustration: "A horseman galloped to the spot in the hope of finding

them still alive."]

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

IV.--THE FIRST CATASTROPHE.

The Countess of Villeroy was a very old French lady who was strongly

inclined to think that people were wrong in supposing they could cruise

among the clouds in balloons. But when she saw Professor Charles and his

companion rise into the blue sky, she was ready to agree with any one

who said that men had conquered the upper air. Alas! only a few months

later an event occurred which would have made her change her opinion.

Day by day the ballooning fever grew more intense, and when the King of

Sweden visited Paris of course he had to be entertained with a grand

display of the new discovery. Pilâtre de Rozier, a young physician who

had, like Professor Charles, devoted much attention to the subject,

ascended in a balloon bearing the French arms, with the flag of Queen

Marie Antoinette floating from the car. The voyage was quite successful.

Scarcely had the fanfare of trumpets which greeted its start died away

when the aeronauts landed on the estate of the Prince of Condé, who

welcomed them with more heartiness than his ancestors were wont to

bestow on visitors from the King. Mingling with the buzz of delight

which accompanied these experiments, was an ever-growing rumour that

certain Englishmen had made up their minds to cross the Channel in a

balloon. It would never do to let them be first in performing such a

feat, so Pilâtre de Rozier lost no time in asking the French Court for

forty thousand francs, to build a special balloon which would take him

across the English Channel. 'It is a matter of national honour,' said a

writer of the time; and as most people agreed with him, De Rozier's

request was granted.

The balloon was different from any other yet made, being a combination

of both the systems. The lower section was a large bag to be filled with

hot air, after Montgolfier's plan, and round which the platform for the

travellers was arranged. The upper part was a huge gas balloon. 'My idea

is,' said De Rozier, 'that by this invention much gas will be saved, for

when I wish to descend I shall simply cool the hot air in the

Montgolfier instead of letting out the gas. Then, to rise again it would

only be necessary to rekindle the fire. This also renders ballast

unnecessary.'

It was very ingenious, but most people will agree with Professor Charles

that 'it was like lighting a fire under a barrel of gunpowder.'

However, the balloon was built, and measured, when complete, seventy-two

feet from platform to summit. The race for the honour of crossing the

narrow sea had begun, and Pilâtre took his giant to Boulogne. But here

on the very shore he was doomed to stay, for the winter winds blew

shrill and strong from the west. Day after day he waited for more

favourable weather, and day after day he heard with still greater

concern that an Englishman named Blanchard was already at Dover, waiting

only for the winds to subside a little before he set out in his balloon.

Pilâtre's anxiety was increased every time he thought of the forty

thousand francs he had begged from the Government, and, hoping that

report had been exaggerated, he took ship to Dover to see if Mr.

Blanchard was really as well prepared as people said. There had been no

exaggeration, and he returned to Boulogne more disturbed than ever.

With the assistance of a young doctor, named Romain, he made a number of

small balloons, and sent them into the air at frequent intervals to see

if they would rise into some current which would waft them to England,

and show a way that he might follow. But they all fell back on the

French coast, and the hopes of success grew less and less. At last the

rough weather died away and a lighter wind blew from the west. Letters

came from Paris urging him to ascend, and reminding him of the money

paid for the experiment. Contrary winds were not considered by the

officials of Paris, and poor Pilâtre could only repeat that it was

impossible to sail against them. With eager eyes he watched the sea in

the direction of Dover, and one day (it was the 7th of December) he saw

Blanchard's balloon come sailing majestically over the grey waters, and

knew that the strange race was lost. France would not have the honour of

having first crossed the Channel through the air. But Pilâtre de Rozier,

being a brave man, hastened to Calais, and was among the first to

congratulate his successful rival. He would now have been willing to

abandon his project, but such a thing was not to be permitted. He was

told that it was easier to sail from England to France, since the latter

had a much longer coast-line, whereas it would be a great feat for him

to accomplish the reverse journey. It was vain to point out that his

balloon had become weather-worn in the long waiting, and how his

materials had suffered from the attacks of rats. The forty thousand

francs must not be spent for nothing; so Pilâtre patched his taffeta as

best he could, and with the heroic assistance of his friend, Romain, had

things fairly in order by June 13th, though he was so uncertain of

success that he declined to endanger the life of a gentleman who asked

to be allowed to accompany him.

On the morning of June 15th, the loud report of a cannon told the

inhabitants of Boulogne that he intended to start. At seven o'clock he

and Romain stepped into the gallery and the balloon was released. With

majestic slowness they rose into the air and sailed out over the sea;

but a moment later the wind, that had so long been his enemy, drove them

back. The crowd watched with great anxiety. Twenty-seven minutes after

starting, the balloon, at a height of one thousand seven hundred feet,

was still only a short distance away. Then, to the horror of the

spectators, Pilâtre de Rozier was seen to make a gesture of alarm, and

the next moment a blue flame leapt from the summit of the balloon. With

terrible speed the unfortunate aeronauts were dashed to the earth. A

horseman, who tells the terrible story, galloped to the spot in the

hope of finding them still alive. Pilâtre de Rozier lay in the gallery

quite dead, with scarcely a bone in his body unbroken, and the young

Romain lived only to mutter an incoherent word or two.

In memory of the sad event an obelisk was erected on the place where

they fell, and in the cemetery at Wimille, their place of burial is

marked by the stone carving of a flaming balloon.

JOHN LEA.

NO HURRY.

Here is a story which a missionary lately told his congregation.

Some evil spirits were consulting together as to the best way to lead

men astray.

One said, 'Let us go and tell them there is no God.'

Another said, 'Let us tell them there is no Heaven.'

But the third said, 'Let us go and tell them there is no hurry!'

'No hurry' often leads to more harm than many deliberate wrong acts.

THE LITTLE BUSH-BOY.

A fine leopard had just been killed by an English hunter in South

Africa. The beautiful skin was speedily stripped off its back and

reserved for home use. While this operation was going on the native

beaters gathered eagerly round, assuring their master that the lair of

the dead leopard was well known, and that its mate was there with

probably a couple of young cubs; would he not like to have them? Not a

doubt about it! the master would like to secure the little ones alive;

but how? One leopard had doubtless been destroyed, but the other parent

was still alive and would have to be dealt with; while to rob a mother

leopard of her young was an act from which even the boldest of English

sportsmen might well shrink.

But the natives knew what they were about, and while they had not the

least intention of exposing themselves to danger, their plans were laid

so as to secure the cubs, and, perhaps, themselves to share in the

profits of the work. Therefore they gladly led the way to the rocky

kloof, thickly studded with clumps of brush-wood, where the leopard's

den, a dark cave, was situated, the entrance to it being covered with

fine white sand. Upon inspecting this sand the foot-marks showed that

the female leopard had lately gone forth, perhaps to fetch food for her

little ones or to look for her mate. The cubs were therefore alone; but

how could they be secured, as the mother leopard might return at any

moment, while the cave was a long and low one, with three different

entrances, each separated from the other?

How were the little cubs to be secured? We shall presently see. The

native beaters had added to their party a small bush-boy, who though

twelve years of age was scarcely four feet high. He was a very ugly

little fellow, but affectionate towards those who treated him kindly.

Like all his race, he well knew the habits of the wild animals of the

country, and he had a wonderful power of tracking their footsteps. The

beaters proposed that this little fellow should crawl into the den, and

bring the cubs to the outer air. But eager as the Englishman was to

secure the leopards, he called a halt when he understood the frightful

danger to which the boy was to be exposed. But the little bush-boy was

quite undaunted; he laughed in the sportsman's face, apparently looking

forward to the task with as much pleasure as an English boy would feel

at the prospect of catching a couple of young rabbits. They went to work

silently but quickly, as no time was to be lost. The Englishman with his

rifle kept watch at the principal entrance to stop the mother leopard,

if she should return, while the natives watched the other two approaches

to the cavern.

All being now ready, the boy disappeared into the cave. It was an

anxious moment: the sun was sinking, and the Englishman, somewhat

nervous at his novel position, could not help feeling uneasy about the

poor little fellow, who would certainly have to fight for his life

should the female leopard by any chance contrive to reach her family.

Suddenly, though he heard no noise whatever, he saw, not twenty yards

away from him on the ridge of the rocky glen, the head and shoulders of

the mother leopard with a kid in her mouth.

The fierce creature had paused, wondering who was the intruder who had

dared to place himself at the very door of her home. This pause of the

leopard gave the hunter time to recover his coolness and to take good

and sure aim; her head and shoulders being just over the rocky ridge

were clearly marked out upon the sky-line. Slowly raising his rifle

then, he fired, the leopard leaping into the air, while with the report

of the weapon came the natives who had been stationed at the other

entrances of the cave, all eager to see what had happened, and quite

forgetting the little bush-boy, who must have heard the report of the

weapon, too, and been in some anxiety as to the result. On the ground

lay the body of the dead kid, but the leopard herself, only wounded, had

disappeared, having got into the thick bush that clothed the sides of

the kloof.

Feeling thankful that the fierce creature had not made a dash for her

den, the Englishman hastily called to the boy, desiring him to come out

immediately, whether successful or not in his search. This was

absolutely necessary, as in the long run the wounded animal would

certainly return to the cave, though in the first moment of alarm she

had escaped in another direction.

But there was no reply from the boy. 'Come along, boy; come along; never

mind the cubs,' repeated the Englishman, peering into the dark mouth of

the cave, and desperately anxious to have done with this unpleasant

adventure.

'All right, master,' was at length heard in hollow tones, yet with a

dash of triumph in them; 'all right, I have got the young ones;' and in

a few minutes first one brown leg appeared, then a second, for the

brave little fellow had to travel backwards, the hole being too narrow

and winding to admit of turning. At length he appeared, gasping for

breath, but full of delight, and carrying two little growling and

spitting cubs. Hastily securing the prey and reloading his rifle, the

Englishman and his attendants made for home as fast as they could. They

reached the camp in safety, while the female leopard was found dead the

next day some distance up the kloof.

[Illustration: "The little bush-boy appeared, carrying two growling

cubs."]

The little bush-boy was well rewarded for his pluck, and taken into the

Englishman's service; but the reward he seemed to appreciate most was a

hearty meal off the dead kid, for good food did not often come in his

way.

B. M.

[Illustration: "'I don't know what to do!'"]

DISCONTENT BRINGS DULNESS.

As Johnny by the window stood

And watched the cloudy sky,

He seemed in discontented mood

And soon was heard to sigh:

'I don't know what to do to-day;

There seems no fun at all;

At cricket there's no chance to play,

For I have lost the ball.

'And tops are seldom spun in May,

And if I had a kite

There's not a breath of air to-day

To help it in its flight.'

With peevish frown he left the room

And roamed the garden through,

And murmured in a tone of gloom:

'I don't know what to do.'

And thus all day he idly went

From dreary place to place,

The saddest gloom of discontent

For ever on his face;

And when the stars began to peep,

And night its shadows threw,

He murmured in his restless sleep:

'I don't know what to do.'

J. L.

NATURE'S NOBLEMEN.

It was said of a man who rose to a high position in the State through

his conscientiousness and high principles, that he was at one time a

shoeblack.

One day, meeting the son of Lord ----, he was accosted in a tone of

scorn: 'I remember when you blacked my father's boots.'

His answer came without anger, and as brave as true, '_Yes, and did I

not do it well?_'

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 148._)

By this time Mr. Parsons' peculiar proceedings were beginning to arouse

my suspicions. I could not fail to notice that he had twice told me to

make trifling purchases, and that, although he had received some pennies

in exchange for the first florin, he yet brought out a half-crown for

the wax lights. My dawning suspicions grew stronger on the way home on a

penny omnibus, when he offered the conductor another two-shilling piece.

The conductor was an amiable, talkative man, and Mr. Parsons had already

begun a conversation with him.

'Haven't you got anything smaller?' he asked, 'because I have been doing

nothing but giving change half the day.'

'Sorry I haven't,' said Mr. Parsons.

'Well, I shall have to give you a shilling's worth of coppers,' answered

the conductor.

'All right--all right, it can't be helped,' said Mr. Parsons, and, of

course, I knew that he had already several pennies in his pockets.

'There was the change out of the wax lights and the ginger-beer,' I

suggested.

'So there was,' he cried, with a sharp glance over his shoulder, as if

to make certain that the conductor had left the roof.

When the omnibus stopped at our turning, I rose quickly, always on the

look-out for a chance to escape, but I felt a grip on my knee.

'Age before honour, Jacky,' said Mr. Parsons, who took the precaution to

alight first and to help me down the last step.

'Once upon a time,' he remarked, as we walked towards the house, 'I knew

a lad about your age who was just a leetle too clever, and perhaps you

would like to hear what happened to him.'

'What?' I inquired with a shudder.

'That little lad, Jacky, was licked with a strap. The little lad, Jacky,

was kept in one room without any food till he learnt how to behave and

keep his thoughts to himself. See, Jacky?'

'Yes,' I answered, 'I see,' and I felt helpless.

We had not been in the house more than half an hour, when he went to a

cupboard on one side of the front room and took out a coiled strap.

'That's what I was telling you about, my lad,' he said with a smile.

'Don't be afraid; take it in your hand and feel it. A good bit of

leather--there's nothing like leather, you know. Just hold it in your

right hand; now open your left. Try it, Jacky, try it,' he cried, with a

strange glitter in his eyes, and I dared not think of disobedience, but

raised the strap and brought it down lightly on my palm.

'Now, good obedient boys find me very kind to them,' he continued; 'very

kind indeed, Jacky. And if there's anything you'd like to amuse

yourself, why, you have only to say the word.'

Apart from worse evils, I found the hours drag terribly slowly,

especially as I had nothing whatever to divert my thoughts. Moreover, I

felt extremely anxious to fall in with his humour.

'I suppose there isn't a book I could have?' I suggested.

'Why not, my lad?' he answered. 'I didn't want particular to go out

again to-day, but anything to encourage a good young chap. There is a

nice shop in Edgware Road--hundreds of books for fourpence-halfpenny

each. Come along, Jacky!'

I had not counted on being taken so quickly at my word, but Mr. Parsons

at once put on his hat, and, giving me mine, led me out into the street,

and so to the large bookshop, where I saw piles of cheap novels. Not

daring to refuse to buy one even if I wished, I selected, after some

hesitation, a copy of the _Three Musketeers_, which I paid for with

another two-shilling piece. At least, it enabled me to forget some of my

troubles for two hours that evening. I had never read the book before,

and sitting in a corner of the ill-lighted room, I soon became lost in

the exciting story.

When it was bed-time, Mr. Parsons himself accompanied me to my room,

where the bed was exactly as I had left it that morning.

'Be careful of your collar, Jacky,' he said when we reached the top

story. 'I set great value on a nice clean collar. Mind you don't crumple

it.'

When I had entered the room I was not surprised to hear him put a key in

the lock and turn it. Although it was not pleasant to feel that I was a

prisoner, I had little fear of personal injury unless I openly rebelled.

Perhaps this is what I ought actually to have done; if so, I can only

say that I did not possess sufficient courage.

I understood now, beyond a doubt, that the people with whom I had become

connected were neither more nor less than makers of false coin. While

Mr. Loveridge, and the third man whom I had seen that day, conducted the

manufacture in the basement, Mr. Parsons spent his time in getting rid

of the result of their labours. I imagined that he had begun to meet

with difficulties, and that he thought a decently dressed boy of honest

appearance would prove an excellent tool for his purpose.

It was plain that having once permitted me to learn his occupation, Mr.

Parsons could not, for the sake of his own safety, afford to let me go,

lest I should give information to the police. At any cost he would keep

me under observation, and as far as I could see I should find it

extremely difficult to escape. Yet, on the other hand, I felt certain

that as long as I obeyed, I should be free from actual ill-usage. That

he could be cruel on occasion I had no doubt, and he had certainly

managed to overawe my little stock of courage. But when I had said my

prayers that night, I felt stronger and braver; before I fell asleep I

determined to do my utmost to keep my spirits up; I would meet cunning

with cunning, and above everything give him no cause for suspicion.

But the next day a slight difficulty arose. In the morning I lay on my

bed reading the adventures of D'Artagnan and the rest, until Mr. Parsons

was pleased to unlock my door and let me out of the bedroom, when I made

no complaint of his conduct in turning the key. Having had breakfast,

although every meal in that house was repulsive, and I felt as if the

food would choke me, and almost wished it might, we set out as usual,

and before we had gone far, Mr. Parsons stopped at a tobacconist's shop,

and, giving me a half-crown, told me to buy a threepenny packet of

cigarettes.

It was a shop of a better class than any he had sent me into before,

and, placing the coin on the counter, I asked for what I had been

ordered to buy. But the man behind the counter seized upon the

half-crown at once.

'That looks to me like a bad one,' he cried, gazing into my face, and I

suppose that my heightened colour, or some expression of guilty

knowledge, told him that I knew that as well as he did. Placing the rim

of the coin in a metal niche on the edge of the counter, he easily broke

the false half-crown into two pieces, which he flung into my face. One

of them hit my left cheek a little painfully.

'Now be off and never show your face here again,' he shouted, 'or I will

have you locked up.'

Without a word, although my blood was boiling, and I had never been

spoken to in this way before, I hung my head and walked out of the shop.

As soon as I reached the street, Mr. Parsons seized my arm as usual.

'Change!' he said.

'I have not got it,' I answered.

'How's that?' he sharply snapped out.

'The man said the half-crown was bad, and broke it in halves,' I

exclaimed, and gripping me more tightly Mr. Parsons quickened his pace

and turned aside down the first street on our right.

I felt that he was eyeing me significantly as we went, and my thoughts

were busy in an attempt to determine the wisest line of action. Perhaps

my circumstances were making me artful, and it is true that I felt

convinced that my escape could only be accomplished by strategy.

It may appear that nothing would have been more simple than to free

myself, especially as I spent some hours in the public streets every

day. Now that I look back on those days from a position of safety, I

even wonder whether a little more resolution, a little more courage,

might have earlier put an end to my difficult position. Surely it must

have been possible to have wrenched my arm from Parsons' grasp, and he

would not have dared to raise the hue and cry after me, or do anything

to attract attention to himself. Or I might have appealed to any

policeman for protection, or to a passer-by, and so have shaken off my

tormentor.

Perhaps some such attempt might have succeeded, but unfortunately a

potent factor in my case was the terror with which in some way Mr.

Parsons still succeeded in inspiring me. I have found myself since those

days in positions of some peril, but never have I known such fear as of

that old, smug-looking man. This dread had an almost paralysing effect,

nor could I fail to forget the terrible penalty I should certainly have

to pay if my bid for liberty were not to succeed. So that Mr. Parsons

held me in a grip tighter than that of his hand on my arm; for after all

I was scarcely more than fifteen years of age at the time, and it was no

disgrace to be afraid.

As we hastened away from the neighbourhood of the tobacconist's shop, my

fear was that Parsons might suspect that I was dissembling. He could

scarcely believe I was sufficiently stupid not to have had my eyes

opened by this time, and if I appeared to treat the affair as a matter

of course his watchfulness might be redoubled.

His deliberate purpose was, indeed, to pollute my mind, to show me that

my easiest course was to fall in with his wishes, and now as we hastened

along the streets, I determined to try to lead him to believe that his

efforts were already beginning to prove successful.

'I believe that other money was bad, too,' I said.

'Oh, you do, do you, Jacky?' he answered.

'Yes,' I cried, 'and you make it downstairs at your house.'

'Jacky, my lad, you haven't forgotten the story I told you about the boy

who was too clever?'

'Still,' I replied, 'one needn't be a fool although one needn't be what

you call _too_ clever.'

'True for you, my lad,' said Mr. Parsons.

'Only,' I continued, playing my part with as much skill as I possessed,

and more than I could have believed myself capable of a few days ago, 'I

don't want to get locked up.'

'No, no,' he answered, 'I don't want you to get locked up either, Jacky.

I should miss you, you know, very much. But you act sensibly, and you

will be all right. What's more, I will show you how to make your fortune

before we have done.'

'I should like to make a fortune,' I said, with perfect truth. But,

still, as we walked home by a round-about way, without attempting any

further business that morning, I could not quite make up my mind whether

I had succeeded in hoodwinking my companion or not.

(_Continued on page 162._)

[Illustration: "'Be off, or I will have you locked up!'"]

[Illustration: "I took to my heels at once."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 159._)

At least Mr. Parsons could not fail to be aware that I now understood

something of the truth about his occupation, while I had certainly done

my utmost to make him believe that I regarded it without any deep

dislike.

Had I succeeded or not? On the answer to that question my prospects of

escape to a great degree depended. When we reached the house, his manner

undergoing no change, I went to bed more hopefully than usual. During

the morning we had walked round a large block of buildings forming one

shop, with three doors in Oxford Street and two in another street

behind. Now, if I could induce Mr. Parsons to let me enter by one of the

front doors, it would be easy enough to pass through and make an escape

from the rear, for he had never yet accompanied me into a shop.

During the next few days, however, we did not go near Oxford Street; the

first day was wet, so that Mr. Parsons stayed at home, and when the

weather changed, we took a train to Uxbridge, where I succeeded in

exchanging five half-crowns--not without many self-reproaches.

The next day being Sunday, none of us left the house, and I think this

was the most miserable time of all that I spent beneath Mr. Parsons'

roof. I missed the Sunday service, and felt very lonely and helpless. At

last, pretending to be overcome by drowsiness, I asked permission to go

to bed at seven o'clock.

Whether or not it was due to the brightness of the morning, I awoke with

a sense of unaccustomed exhilaration, and something seemed to assure me

that I should find my longed-for opportunity to escape before night.

CHAPTER XIX.

As to what was to happen if I escaped, I had very little idea. Once let

me get away from my present surroundings, and nothing else seemed to

matter; things could not easily become worse. But, as a matter of fact,

I had thought once or twice that I would run the risk of trying to

discover Rogers, Captain Knowlton's servant, who had certainly not

accompanied him on board the _Seagull_. I knew that Captain Knowlton had

given up his rooms before he left England, but still I might succeed in

finding some one who could tell me where Rogers lived, and I felt

certain the man would help me if possible. Hitherto I had determined to

avoid the Albany, thinking that Mr. Turton would take care to anticipate

me, and perhaps make arrangements for my capture, for, in spite of all I

had passed through, I shrank as much as ever from the idea of returning

to Castlemore, and Augustus and the other fellows at Ascot House. Still,

I had in my pocket only the bad half-crown which Mr. Parsons had given

me in the train, and it seemed wiser to take the risk of being

intercepted, and to make my way to Captain Knowlton's old quarters. But

at present I stood no chance of making my way anywhere alone, and the

first thing I had to do was to get clear of Mr. Parsons and the

Loveridges.

'A lovely morning, Jacky,' Mr. Parsons remarked on Monday, as he took my

arm and led me away from the house. 'Makes me feel quite young again.'

'Which way are we going?' I asked.

'Ah, now, which way?'

'I like Oxford Street best,' I answered.

'Do you, my lad?' he cried, amiably. 'Then suppose we try Oxford

Street?'

There were a great many people in the street, and it was about eleven

o'clock in the morning when I found we were drawing near the shop which

I had planned to enter by one door and to leave by another.

'Couldn't we buy something there?' I asked.

'Where, my lad?'

'There,' I said, pointing to the chief entrance.

'That is too dear for the likes of us, Jacky.'

'Oh,' I cried, 'but I know what I could buy.'

'What?' he demanded, and I began to wonder whether I had betrayed too

much eagerness.

'An evening necktie,' I replied. 'They only cost about fourpence.'

'Jacky,' said Mr. Parsons, and I felt his grasp on my arm tighten,

'Jacky, that is the sort of shop a lad like you might easily get lost

in. He might even make a mistake in the door, Jacky. No, we won't go in

there, but I will tell you where we will go.'

'Where?' I asked, quaking with fear.

'We will go home, my lad, and I will give you such a nice little lesson

as you will never forget as long as you live.'

So we turned back the way we had come, walking towards the Marble Arch,

and I knew that if once I entered that hateful house, I should pay a

terrible penalty for the attempt which had been so easily seen through.

For the next few minutes I was utterly hopeless and helpless. But I

murmured a few incoherent words of prayer, and my head grew clearer. As

the danger drew nearer with every step I took, my courage began to

return, and I determined to make a bid for freedom. Mr. Parsons' threat

in a way defeated his own end. Hitherto the fear in which I held him had

served to cow me, to make me afraid to make a dash for liberty; but this

morning the very danger seemed to encourage boldness, and as we went on

our way with his strong fingers gripping my arm just above the wrist,

yet in such a manner that he appeared to be holding me affectionately, I

cudgelled my brains to devise some method of circumventing him.

At last, as we were close to Duke Street, Oxford Street, a bold plan

flashed across my mind. Whatever was done, it should be attempted while

there were some people about, to whom, in the last resort, I might

denounce Mr. Parsons; and yet I did not wish my actual deed to have a

spectator, since any one who saw me treat such a benevolent-looking old

gentleman as I fully intended to treat Mr. Parsons must think I was a

young rascal.

He hesitated a moment at the corner, and then turned to his right down

Duke Street, and I fancied that he looked forward with some enjoyment to

the threatened 'little lesson.' A short distance ahead stood a

policeman at a street corner, and, as we approached, I looked up into

Mr. Parsons' face and summoned all my courage--it was certainly the

courage of despair.

'If you don't let me go,' I said, 'I will tell that policeman who you

are as we pass.'

In an instant he had swung me round to retrace his steps, but, doubling

my free fist, I drew back my arm and hit him with all my strength just

about the belt. The effect was instantaneous. Releasing me at once, he

was completely doubled up, standing in the middle of the pavement

outside a grocer's shop, his hands pressed against his body, gasping for

breath. Fortunately no one had seen the blow struck, though Mr. Parsons

was soon surrounded by a gaping, sympathetic group. I took to my heels

at once, almost running against the policeman, and turned to my right,

in the direction opposite to that of Mr. Parsons' dwelling-place. Soon,

however, I ceased to run, feeling fairly certain that I should not see

him again--that day, at least. And as I walked--still towards the

City--I tried to take stock of my situation.

Besides the clothes I stood in, I possessed only a bad half-crown, and

although I had, under compulsion, changed similar coins for Parsons, I

had no intention of defrauding anybody on my own account. Taking the

coin from my pocket, I stooped and dropped it down a grating. Now that I

had nothing, I determined to risk a visit to the Albany, which I

reached--always on the look-out for Mr. Parsons--at a little past two

o'clock. Nothing, however, but disappointment awaited me here. I saw a

man who appeared to be a kind of porter, and he told me that Captain

Knowlton had given up the rooms on leaving London--a fact which I knew

perfectly well already. But he had no notion where I could find Rogers,

so that I walked away in a somewhat dejected mood.

Nevertheless I was able to rejoice at the successful escape from

something much worse than I had yet endured, and having once triumphed

over Parsons, I no longer feared him as I used to do. Even if I met him

in the street, I believed I could prevent him from taking me back to his

house, and the more pressing difficulty was how to obtain food and

shelter, and, subsequently, work.

Becoming hungry as the afternoon wore on, I went into St. James's Park,

and, taking off my jacket and waistcoat, did not put the waistcoat on

again, but carried it under my arm to a small pawnbroker's shop near

Victoria Station, where I obtained eightpence in exchange. For my tall

hat I received a shilling, and then, passing a very cheap shop, I bought

a grey cloth cap for threepence three-farthings, so that on the whole I

gained about one and fourpence by the deal.

Knowing that I must husband my resources, I bought a penny saveloy and a

chunk of bread at an eating-house, and then wandered about the streets

until nearly nightfall, wondering where I should sleep. The first night

was, however, by no means uncomfortable, for, passing a large

stable-yard, I saw it contained several empty omnibuses, and, waiting

until nobody was looking, I made a rush into one of these; I lay down

at full length on the seat, and slept until a stable-man woke me at

half-past five the next morning.

But over the next few days I intend to pass rapidly, for indeed they

were too full of wretchedness to be dwelt upon. From early morning until

late at night I wandered about the streets or in the parks, where also I

slept. I took every care of my scanty stock of money, but at last it

came to an end. Once I held a horse for twopence, once I carried a heavy

portmanteau from Charing Cross to Tottenham Court Road for a penny, and

once a lady took pity on my condition and gave me threepence. Then I

parted with my jacket, and lived on the proceeds for three days while

walking about with nothing above my shirt.

(_Continued on page 173._)

GOOD-BYE TO THE LAST FIRE.

Good-bye, old fire! We won't forget

Your pleasant warmth and glow,

When evening shades were dark as jet,

And outside lay the snow.

But now, you see, we're right in May,

It's spring, without a doubt,

And so, good fire, I grieve to say

It's time that you were out.

The little leaves are springing green,

The skies above are blue;

The primrose everywhere is seen,

The almond's blooming too.

Of course, you don't expect to stay

When flowers are round about,

And so, good fire, again I say

It's time that you were out.

But when, once more, November chill

Its cloak of mist has spread,

And o'er the lonely winter hill

The sun goes soon to bed,

We'll call you back with joyous shout,

And, as the shades descend,

We'll draw the blinds to shut them out

And greet you as a friend.

JOHN LEA.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

IV.--THE STORY OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

On the 2nd of April, 1805, was born, amid very humble surroundings, a

little Danish boy named Hans Christian Andersen, who, in later years,

became the most popular tale-writer that perhaps the world has ever

known. Andersen's Fairy Tales, though written in a past century, and for

another generation, are just as popular to-day as they ever were, and it

seems as if all children (and grown-up people who have kept their

child-like hearts) could never tire of these delightful stories. We can

all read, and re-read, the 'Ugly Duckling,' or the 'Eleven Wild Swans;'

we can sympathise with the love of the faithful 'Tin Soldier;' and who

can resist laughing at all the outrageous performances of 'Little Claus

and Big Claus?' Truly, Andersen had the key to unlock all hearts!

[Illustration: Hans Christian Andersen.

Born April 2, 1805. Died August 4, 1875.]

Now for the story of the writer's life.

The father of Hans Andersen was only a poor shoe-maker, but he loved

reading and poetry, and seems to have taught his little boy a similar

love. The shoe-maker amused himself by making a toy theatre for his

little Hans, and showed him how to work the puppets, and make them act

little plays. This was a winter amusement. In the long summer days he

would often take the child to the woods--and here, in the great birch

forests, the two would spend the hours, hardly saying a word to each

other, but each dreaming his own dreams as they sauntered along the

shady paths.

But these happy childish days soon came to an end: the kind father died,

and Hans had to go to a charity school, where he learnt little beyond

reading and writing.

Money was now very scarce in his home, and both Hans and his mother were

often hard put to it for a meal.

One day they went out into the fields to glean corn, and were chased off

the ground by a cruel bailiff, who ran after them with a heavy whip. The

bailiff, with his long legs, soon overtook the little eight-year-old

Hans, and was about to bring his whip down on the child's shoulders,

when Hans turned round, and looking full at the angry man, exclaimed:

'How dare you strike me when you know God can see you?'

The bailiff was so taken aback at this rebuke from the mouth of a child

that he dropped his whip, and, fumbling in his pocket, produced some

money, which he offered to Hans to make up for his unkindness.

A year or two later a widow wanted some one to read aloud to her, and

Hans got the place. The widow's husband had been a poet, and, as Hans

read out his poems, the boy's ambition was fired.

'I too will be a poet!' he cried, and, on returning home, he at once set

to work and wrote--a tragedy!

The news of this performance spread amongst the neighbours (very likely

the mother boasted of it, as mothers will), and all wished to hear it;

so they came together in one of the larger cottages, and Hans read his

wonderful tragedy to the company, and felt bitterly hurt when the

greater part of them laughed heartily at the play.

Meanwhile the mother was growing poorer and poorer, and Hans had to

leave school, and to try and earn his bread.

[Illustration: "'How dare you strike me when you know God can see

you?'"]

He went to a large factory, and here the workmen, finding Hans had a

good voice and knew many ballads, would get him to sing to them, and to

act scenes for their amusement from the great Danish writer, Holberg,

whilst another of the boys employed in the factory was told off to do

Hans' work for him.

After a time, however, the men tired of Hans and his songs, and he had

to take his place amongst the other boys, who, being jealous of the

notice that had been taken of Hans, led him a sorry life. At last he

could bear their persecution no more, and left the factory--never to

return to it.

The next few months he spent quietly at home, reading eagerly any book

he could get hold of, and specially delighting in a copy of Shakespeare.

The old toy theatre was had out once more, and the puppets were put

through the scenes of the _Merchant of Venice_ and _King Lear_.

After a short time it was decided that Hans was to be apprenticed to a

tailor. Hans, however, had other ambitions than to sit cross-legged on a

board; he had read much lately of famous men, and he now said to his

mother, 'I want to be famous, too!'

He had his plans all made, and had, he said, plenty of money to carry

them out, for he had lately earned the immense sum (as it seemed to him)

of thirty shillings, by singing and reciting at the houses of rich

people. With this capital he begged his mother to let him go to

Copenhagen and try his fortune.

She consented unwillingly at last, and the fourteen-year-old boy set off

to make his own way in the world.

He reached Copenhagen--the city which now proudly claims him for her

own--late one September afternoon, and at once went to the theatre and

begged for employment, telling the manager he had a good voice and loved

acting.

'You are too thin for the stage,' said the manager, shortly.

'Let me have a salary of a hundred dollars, sir, and I will soon grow

fat,' quickly answered the boy.

'We only take people of education here,' said the manager, and poor Hans

had to go away with a heavy heart.

Could he only have foreseen that in a few years' time his own plays

would be acted at that very theatre, and a throng of eager citizens

would be applauding the words of the now friendless boy!

But this was all in the future. At present misery and starvation stared

him in the face.

At last, after he had met with endless failures, a rich Copenhagen

merchant saw there was genius in the boy, and, finding that he lacked

education, sent him to school to learn Latin and mathematics.

It was, of course, very galling to Hans, now a tall lad of seventeen, to

have to sit on a bench with little boys of nine and ten, and be jeered

at by both master and scholars for his backwardness. But Hans

persevered, and at last he passed all his examinations, and was granted

a travelling scholarship.

Meanwhile he had published his first book, which was at once successful;

the promise of his boyhood began to be fulfilled, for he wrote the fairy

tales by which he became famous, not only in his own country, but all

over Europe.

He travelled in Italy, France, Germany, and Spain, and in 1847 he came

to England, where, to his great delight, he found his stories better

known than even in his own country. He was a welcome guest at many of

our great houses, and, on a second visit to England some few years

later, he stayed with Charles Dickens at Gad's Hill.

Andersen never married; he lived in Copenhagen when not on his travels,

and here he loved to gather round him children of all ages and all

ranks, whom he would delight with some of his wonderful tales.

On his seventieth birthday he was fairly overwhelmed with letters and

presents of kindly greetings from all parts of the globe, and these

tokens of love and goodwill much pleased the old man.

The end came a few months later, and on August 4th, 1875, Hans Christian

Andersen died, regretted by all who had come in contact with him, and

most of all by the band of children whom he had so loved to gather round

him.

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

II.--THE DEERSLAYER.[2]

Hurry Harry, Deerslayer, Judith, and Hetty are the four principal

characters in Cooper's famous book, which has delighted many thousands

of readers.

Hurry Harry, as he was nicknamed, his real name being Harry March, had a

dashing, reckless, off-hand manner, and a restlessness that kept him

constantly moving about from place to place. He was six feet four in

height, well proportioned, with a good-humoured, handsome face.

Deerslayer was a very different man from Hurry Harry, both, in

appearance and character. He, too, was tall, being six feet high, but

with a comparatively light and slender frame. His face was not handsome,

but his expression invited confidence, for it had a look of truth and

sincerity.

Hurry was twenty-eight years of age and Deerslayer several years

younger. Their dress was composed of deer-skins, and they were armed

with rifles, powder-horns, and hunting-knives. The two men were guided

by very different principles, those of Hurry Harry being entirely

selfish, while Deerslayer sought, backwoodsman though he was, to live up

to what he called 'white-man's nature.'

Judith and Hetty were supposed to be the daughters of a man known as

'Floating Tom,' otherwise Thomas Hutter, a man who had been a noted

pirate in his younger days, but in his later years had settled down--as

he hoped, beyond the reach of the King's cruisers--to enjoy his plunder.

At the time at which the story is laid Britain and France were at war,

fighting in Canada, and it is said that neither side had refrained from

offering payment for scalps. Whatever excuse there may have been for

tribes of Indians taking the scalps of their enemies, there can have

been none for Christian white men, and so Deerslayer held, but not so

Hurry Harry and Thomas Hutter, both of whom, as we shall notice,

suffered for their cruel practices.

If Hurry and Deerslayer were unlike in appearance, character, and

principle, so, too, were Judith and Hetty. Judith was very handsome,

quick-witted, fond of admiration and fine clothes, while Hetty was not

beautiful to look at. Hetty was possessed of a weak mind, and cared

little for the admiration of others, although she was of an affectionate

nature. Her principles were good, and she ever sought to follow the good

she knew, her constant companion being her Bible, for which she had the

deepest reverence, while the good counsels of her mother, whose body

rested beneath the waters of the lake beside which the family dwelt,

were put in daily practice by the devoted child.

Two other characters of the story deserve more than a passing word. One

was Chingachgook the hunter, the other 'Hist,' a lovable maiden, both of

whom were great friends of Deerslayer; they were Delaware Indians by

nationality.

(_Concluded on page 171._)

FOOTNOTE:

[2] _The Deerslayer_, by J. Fenimore Cooper. There are several cheap

editions published which can be easily obtained.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

8.--RHYMED METAGRAM.

1. Now thin and plain, now rich and sweet,

But nearly always good to eat.

2. A pigment painters use when they

The lovely blushing rose portray.

3. A garden tool we sometimes need

When smoothing soil and sowing seed.

4. Our true regard for any friend;

The purpose, final cause, or end.

5. To seize, to choose, to get, to hold,

Sometimes to catch, as we catch cold.

6. Active, alive, to cease from sleep;

A noisy Irish feast to keep.

C. J. B.

[_Answers on page 195._]

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 130.

6.--1. Cat. 2. Yes. 3. Will. 4. Pony. 5. Dry.

Rat. Yet. Pill. Pond. Day.

Rag. Pet. Pile. Bond. Way.

Hag. Pot. Pine. Band. Pay.

Hog. Not. Pint. Bard. Pat.

Dog. No. Pent. Bare. Pet.

Went. Care. Wet.

Won't. Cart.

7.--_Never despair._

1. Paris.

2. Pear.

3. Rasp.

4. Veer.

5. Rip.

6. Near.

7. Nerves.

8. Spain.

9. Span.

10. Drip.

THE TWO PUPILS.

A Hindu Fable.

An old philosopher who had two pupils one day gave each a sum of money,

and told them to purchase something with it, which should fill the room

where they did their studies. One pupil went out into the market and

bought a large quantity of hay and straw, and the next morning he

invited his master to see his room, which he had almost filled with the

results of his purchase.

'Ah! very good, very good!' exclaimed the philosopher; and now turning

to the other pupil, he said, 'Well, friend, and what have you bought?'

'A small lamp and some oil, which will fill the room with light in the

dark evening hours. This will enable us to continue our studies by night

as well as by day, if we should so wish,' replied the pupil.

'You have made the best purchase,' said the philosopher.

A wise pupil, who profits by instruction, is the delight of the master.

THE DUKE AND THE TRAVELLER.

For a quarter of an hour, during one of the greatest crises of the

Battle of Waterloo, when the Duke of Wellington had sent all his

_aides-de-camp_ with orders to the different divisions of the army, he

found himself alone at the very moment when he most needed help. While

watching the movements of his troops through his field-glasses, he saw

Kempt's brigade beginning a manoeuvre which, if not promptly

countermanded, would probably lead to the loss of the battle. But there

was no officer at hand to convey his orders. Just then he turned round

in his saddle, and saw not far off a single horseman, rather quaintly

attired, coolly watching the progress of the strife. The instant the

Duke caught sight of him, he beckoned to him, and asked him who he was,

why he was there, and how he had passed the lines.

He answered: 'I am a traveller for a wholesale button manufactory in

Birmingham, and was showing my samples in Brussels when I heard the

sound of the firing. Having had all my life a strong desire to see a

battle, I at once got a horse, and set out for the scene of action; and,

after some difficulty, I have reached this spot, whence I expect to have

a good view.'

The Duke, pleased with his straightforward answer, determined to turn

his sense and daring to good account, and addressed him as follows: 'You

ought to have been a soldier. Would you like to serve your country now?'

'Yes, my lord,' said the other.

'Would you take a message of importance for me?'

Touching his hat in military fashion the traveller replied, 'Were I

trusted by you, sir, I would think this the proudest day of my life.'

Putting his field-glass into the man's hands, the Duke explained to him

the position of the brigade that had made the false move, and added: 'I

have no writing materials by me; see, therefore, that you are very

accurate in delivering my message.' He then entrusted to him a brief,

emphatic order, which he made him repeat, that there might be no

mistake.

The orders were barely delivered before the stranger was off at the top

of his horse's speed, and soon disappeared amid the smoke of the battle.

After a few minutes' interval, the Duke turned his glass in the

direction of the brigade which was at fault, and exclaimed, in a joyful

tone, 'It's all right, yet. Kempt has changed his tactics. He has got my

message, for he is doing precisely as I directed him. Well done,

Buttons!'

The Duke used to say he considered the alteration of Kempt's original

movement the turning-point of the battle. Wishing to reward our hero for

his intelligence and courage, he caused inquiries to be made for him in

every direction, but in vain. It was not till many years afterwards that

he accidentally heard of the man's whereabouts, and managed to secure

for him a good appointment in the West of England, in recognition of his

services.

[Illustration: "'Would you take a message of importance for me?'"]

[Illustration: "'If you hang him, you shall hang me too.'"]

NEVER DRAW A SWORD EXCEPT IN A CAUSE THAT IS JUST AND RIGHT.

An English sailor, when travelling through France, arrived at the town

of Vernon, where he met with a great crowd of riotous men and women. The

mob had laid hands on a wealthy man, though he had done no wrong, and

knew the use of money much better than they did. The rich man was to be

hanged. In vain did the young sailor plead with the crowd: they only

laughed at him, and pushed him aside with words of scorn. As a last

resource he boldly pushed his way through the crowd, and with a strong

grasp clung fast to the man who was so near his death.

Above the wild yells and uproar, his voice was heard: 'This man has done

no wrong. I come to save you from a great sin. If you hang him, you

shall hang me too.'

The worst of hearts are often touched by a noble act of self-sacrifice,

and the fearless words of truth. The Frenchmen gave a cheer for the

brave sailor, and were ready to carry him off like a hero. This gave

time for the captive to escape. When the incident became known in Paris,

the sailor received much honour, and a sword was presented to him, for

they said, 'He who had no arms, and yet could save a stranger at the

risk of his own life, will never draw a sword except in a cause that is

just and right.' The sailor became afterwards Admiral Nesham, who lived

to serve his country for many years, and died at Exmouth in 1853.

THE PIONEERS.

A crocus peeped out from its snow-covered bed,

In a wood where the red robins sing,

And sighed, 'I could fancy, where brown leaves are spread

I heard the first footfall of Spring.'

And e'en while it spoke, from a tree-top above

There fluttered the song of the Wind:

'I come from the south, with a message of love,

And the Spring follows closely behind.'

Then while the soft echo was stealing along,

The snow melted gently away,

And over the meadow a bee's early song

Told stories of April and May.

The bluebell and primrose are blossoming fast,

And see, where the snow-drifts still cling,

The Sun his rich mantle has gallantly cast

At the feet of her Majesty, Spring.

SMITHFIELD TOURNAMENTS.

Many _Chatterbox_ readers have, no doubt, visited Smithfield, and others

have seen pictures of it as it was in the olden time, when it was known

by its executions and burnings. Upon St. Bartholomew's Eve, 1305, Sir

William Wallace was put to death under the elms, a large clump of which

then stood on one side of the open space. At Smithfield, too, Wat Tyler

met King Richard II. on June 15th, 1381, when he received his death-blow

from the Lord Mayor of London. In more recent years it was familiar to

the public as a big cattle market, now fortunately removed to a better

spot north of London. Evidently, too, it was for centuries a very

favourite resort with the citizens, the name at first, so historians

think, being 'Smoothfield.' The level open space was turfed, and made

suitable for horse exercise and a variety of sports.

During the Middle Ages our kings had a palace in the city, and many of

the nobles built themselves houses within the walls, or not far off. For

some centuries tournaments were forbidden on account of their danger,

and they were seldom held in England till after the reign of Richard I.

The position of Smithfield was very convenient for holding jousts and

tournaments. None but those who were esquires or knights were allowed to

take part in these contests, which usually celebrated some important

event, such as a royal marriage or a great victory. These tournaments

gave an opportunity for a display of courtesy and chivalry. Galleries

were arranged for ladies, and one in particular was chosen to preside,

who was usually called the 'Queen of Beauty.' If any dispute arose, this

lady settled it, and she also gave away the prizes awarded to the

victors. A remarkable tournament was held in 1374 at Smithfield. A grand

procession was started from the Tower; the King rode first in a

triumphal chariot, followed by a number of ladies on horseback, each of

whom had a knight leading her horse by the bridle. Many gallant feats of

arms were performed, and the tournament lasted a week.

After the battle of Poictiers, a three-days' tournament took place in

the cold weather of March, when the Lord Mayor, aldermen, and the

sheriffs offered to hold the field against all comers. The chief of the

heralds and minstrels had forty pounds given him for his services--a

large sum in those days. Richard II. held a great tournament in 1394,

when the Earl of Mar and other nobles from Scotland appeared in the

field. Then, and for several years afterwards, there were several jousts

and combats between Scots and Englishmen. A remarkable combat took place

in 1398 on London Bridge, a wooden structure broad enough to give room

for the fighters and spectators. Sir David Lindsay and Lord Wells agreed

to run courses on horseback for life or death, and this was done in the

presence of King and court. After a desperate struggle, Sir David

Lindsay won. Again, there was a joust at Smithfield during the same

reign, when the Queen gave as prizes to the most successful in tilting a

gold coronet and a rich bracelet. At this tournament, too, there was a

grand procession from the Tower; in front there rode an array of

minstrels and heralds, while along the streets flags and banners were

displayed.

The fifth Henry held several famous tournaments, and so did the fourth

Edward. Edward IV. had a tournament at Smithfield in which his queen's

brother, Lord Scales, engaged the young Duke of Burgundy. They fought

with spears, swords, and pole-axes, until Lord Scales slightly wounded

the Duke. It seems probable that tournaments at Smithfield ceased after

the Wars of the Roses.

It may be as well to explain the difference between a tournament and a

joust. Jousting, or tilting, was a frequent amusement; in this the

knights fought with blunt lances, and each tried to break his opponent's

lance or to unhorse him. But in a tournament they engaged with sharp

weapons, and the combatants were often wounded, sometimes killed

outright. The large open space in St. James's Park, next to the Horse

Guards, was at first called the Tiltyard, because of the tilting that

went on there when our kings came to reside in Westminster.

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

II.--THE DEERSLAYER.

(_Concluded from page 167._)

'The Deerslayer' abounds in incident. One of the most thrilling

adventures is that which befell 'Floating Tom' and Hurry Harry, who had

so far forgotten what was due from their white man's nature as to plan

to enter the camp of the Indians at night, with the object of securing

the scalps of unwary men, women, and children, and so obtaining the

bounty offered by the Government for each scalp. On one of these

occasions, when they had gone ashore, they were taken captives by the

Indians and came very near to losing their lives. They only escaped

through the brave conduct of Hetty, the well-known straightforward

dealings of Deerslayer, and the fact that hidden away in an old

sea-chest of Hutter's, amongst fine clothes and other relics, were some

beautifully chased ivory chessmen, among them being four castles

supported by elephants, an animal unknown by sight to the American

Indians. When the grim old warriors who held Hutter and Hurry prisoners

saw the little ivory animals, their delight knew no bounds. They were

familiar with horses and oxen, and had seen towers, and found nothing

surprising in creatures of burden. They supposed the carving was meant

to represent that the animal they saw was strong enough to carry a fort

on its back. It was fortunate for the prisoners that the old sea-chest

contained such treasures; had it been otherwise, they would probably

both have lost their lives.

They were not so fortunate when they fell a second time into the hands

of the Hurons, who had secretly gained possession of 'Muskrat Castle,'

as Hutter's house had been called. This 'castle' stood in the open lake,

at a quarter of a mile from the nearest shore. There was no island, but

the house stood on piles, with the water flowing beneath it. The lake in

other directions was of a great depth, but just where the piles had been

driven was a long narrow shoal, which extended a few hundred yards in a

north and south direction, rising to within six or eight feet of the

surface of the lake. Floating Tom had built his house strongly, while

the position made him safe against attack unless his assailants came in

a boat. One day when Hutter and his friends were absent from the

'Castle,' the Hurons took possession of it, and when Hutter and Hurry

returned they knew that they had fallen into a complete trap. Only a

short time previously, Hurry's reckless spirit had led him to commit an

act of wanton cruelty,--that of raising his gun and firing from the

canoe in which he was seated into the woods. His random shot struck down

an Indian girl, and caused her death, so that the Hurons felt no

goodwill towards him. The Indians knew, too, that Tom and Hutter would

have been only too willing to attack any of their party should it lie

within their power to do so. Hurry, whose conduct towards his foes had

been ferocious, was captured by means of a rope of bark, having an eye,

which was thrown so dexterously that the end threaded the eye, forming a

noose and drawing his elbows together behind his back with a power that

all his gigantic strength could not resist. A similar fastening secured

his ankles, and his body was rolled over on to the ground, as helpless

as a log of wood.

Hutter fared even worse, for he was found by his daughters wounded, and

in a dying condition.

'Oh, Judith!' exclaimed poor, weak-witted Hetty, as soon as they had

attended to the sufferer, 'Father went for scalps himself, and now where

is his own? The Bible might have foretold this dreadful punishment.'

A different scene is that which tells what befell Deerslayer when he

fell into the hands of the foe. They had let him out on furlough, well

knowing that they could trust his word. It was in vain that his friends

in 'Muskrat Castle' tried to persuade him that he was not obliged to

keep faith with such a cruel foe. Deerslayer was firm. A promise to

return had been given, and it must be kept, for God had heard it, and

God would look for its fulfilment. Well he knew that the cruelties of

the Indians would be practised on him, and that he would be put to the

'tortures'--the young Indians, all of whom hoped to become warriors,

would not, he knew, hesitate to subject him to such woes that even to

read of them makes one's heart sink. Yet this knowledge could not deter

him from keeping faith with them.

Bound so tightly to a tree that he could not stir an inch, he was

obliged to submit while the various young men of the Indian tribes threw

their tomahawks so as to strike the tree as near the victim's head as

possible without hitting him. His nerves stood the terrible test, and he

neither winced nor cried out with fear. The second torture was that with

the rifle, only the most experienced warriors taking part in this. Shot

after shot was sent, all the bullets coming close to the Deerslayer's

head without touching it. Still no one could detect even the twitching

of a muscle on the part of the captive or the slightest winking of an

eye.

But we will not continue to describe the tortures to which the brave

Deerslayer was subjected, none of which could cause his brave spirit to

quail. Hetty, whose feeble mind won for her the esteem and care of the

Hurons--who believed that the feeble-minded were under the special

favour of the Great Spirit--unable to endure the thought of what

Deerslayer, their good friend, might be suffering, made her way to the

camp of the foe, carrying her Bible with her, and there addressed the

chiefs and warriors assembled at the 'sports.' They listened to her

patiently and kindly for a time, but after a while bade her sit down,

and proceeded with their dreadful work. In vain did Judith, dressed out

in all the brocaded finery from the old sea-chest, suddenly appear on

the scene, telling them that she was a great mountain-queen who had come

in person to demand that Deerslayer be set free. Both the sisters'

attempts failed, and death would have been the lot of the good man had

not troops from the nearest garrison arrived at the very moment when

they were most needed, and so saved Deerslayer.

[Illustration: The Deerslayer in the Hands of the Indians.]

[Illustration: "He grasped my left wrist."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 163._)

I descended to terrible depths during those homeless days, and, at the

lowest, when half-starving, dirty, hopeless, it happened that I almost

ran against Mr. Parsons. It was about a quarter to three, in Brook

Street. He stopped abruptly, and stood gazing at me with an evident

effort to maintain his usual expression of benevolence.

'Now,' he said, smoothly, 'you will just make up your mind to come along

with me, my lad.'

'I know I won't,' I answered.

He stood with his hands on the crook of his umbrella, while his lower

jaw moved as if he were trying to swallow something; but whether it was

one of his favourite aniseed lozenges, or his indignation against

myself, was more than I could tell. One thing, however, seemed certain:

if he strove to hide his wrath, it could only be with the object of

getting me once more into his power.

'Ah, Jacky, my lad,' he exclaimed, shaking his head, 'you have not done

much good for yourself since you turned your back on your best friend. A

great mistake, Jacky--a great mistake!'

Indeed, I must have looked very disreputable. A pair of grey trousers,

supported by one brace--the other having given way some days ago--a

dirty shirt, neither jacket nor waistcoat, unwashed hands and face,

boots coated in mud, hair which had not lately known a comb and

brush--it would have been difficult to find a grubbier street-arab

within a few miles.

'Anything is better than living with you,' I cried.

He had drawn closer, but at the same time I took the precaution to edge

away, determined on no account to allow him to put a hand on me again.

'Don't be afraid, my lad,' he said.

'I'm not,' I answered, though it was only half-true.

'I don't want to hurt you, Jacky,' he continued, in a wheedling voice.

'I want to be your friend. You look hungry, my lad; now come along with

me--not home, but to a nice little eating-house I know. The hot joints

will be just ready. Nice hot joints, Jacky--roast beef and Yorkshire

pudding, and apple pie to follow. It is waiting for you round the

corner, Jacky, as much as you like to eat, and then we can have a nice

quiet chat together.'

It appeared inconsistent, but the naming of these luxuries caused a

feeling of something like temptation for the moment, which only those

who have been in need of food can understand. While I knew that nothing

in the world could induce me to accompany Mr. Parsons, still the mention

of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding tickled my palate, and a great

longing for something to eat came over me. I had tasted no food that

day, and yesterday only a few scraps.

Instead of answering, I turned my back, whereupon Mr. Parsons thrust out

his umbrella, catching my right arm with its crook, while at the same

time he grasped my left wrist with his disengaged hand. Now I had been

conscious of a strange giddiness and weakness, with a tendency to let my

thoughts wander, during the whole of yesterday and to-day, and at this

moment the fear suddenly seized upon me that I might be unable to resist

the man and consequently fall into his hands again. So raising my voice

I shouted with all my might, 'Police! police!' and although no policeman

appeared, two or three passers-by soon collected around us, while Mr.

Parsons still gripped my wrist.

'Would some gentleman kindly call me a cab?' said Parsons, in a voice

which might have deceived anybody. 'You will break your father's heart,

Jacky,' he continued. 'Now come home to your mother without making any

more trouble.'

'You are not my father,' I answered, still speaking as loudly as I

could. 'You are a thief, you make false coin, and you live at----'

'Ah!' cried an old lady, who formed one of the small crowd which by this

time had collected, 'here is a policeman at last,' and at the same

moment I felt Mr. Parsons' grasp relax. Pushing his way through the

throng, he stepped into the middle of the road, stopped a passing

hansom, entered it and was driven off. While the old lady intercepted

the policeman, I seized the opportunity to get away, turning my steps

towards Hyde Park, where I sat down on a seat.

Now I began to find a difficulty in keeping my eyes open; my chin

constantly dropped on to my chest, and then I would wake again with a

start.

I seemed to be living again through all that had occurred since I left

Castlemore: again I was selling the silver watch and chain at Broughton,

while the tramp gazed at me through the window; again I was being

pursued along the main road, sleeping under the tree in the wood, robbed

of all I was possessed in the chestnut plantation. Once more I was

awakened after a short sleep by Mr. Baker's dog, Tiger, and taken to the

cosy farmhouse with the red blinds, where Eliza gave me food and a

comfortable bed, in which I dared not lie down to rest, because I knew

that Mr. Baker would be certain to carry me back to Ascot House the

following morning. Then again I was racing across fields, floundering

into damp ditches in the darkness, sleeping in the shed, and afterwards

helping a bicyclist to blow up his tyre in the country lane. Once more I

seemed to be lying prone in the cornfield, while Mr. Turton inquired

whether Mr. Westlake had seen me, and Jacintha was looking down from the

other side of the hedge at the same moment. I was sleeping in the empty

house on the forest, and shivering at the weird, ghostly sounds in the

night; I was again delighted to make friends with Patch, and regretful

to have him taken away from me by the fat ginger-beer man.

I could almost taste the pear and the preserved apricot which I had

eaten in the arbour at Colebrooke Park with Jacintha and Dick; once more

I made the acquaintance of Mr. Parsons in the train.

Which, if any, of these were waking memories, which were feverish

dreams, it is quite impossible to tell, but every day's experience

seemed to be lived through again, and, at all events, at last I must

have fallen pretty soundly asleep; and after I actually woke again,

reality appeared like a dream. It seemed perfectly natural, after my

recent adventure with Parsons, to meet Jacintha and a lady, who, from

the likeness, in a confused kind of way I imagined must be her mother.

I fancy that I must have opened my eyes for an instant, and then,

unwillingly, have closed them again. At any rate, as I sat on the seat,

there stood Jacintha, much more gaily dressed than I had seen her

before, with gloves and a sunshade, and high buttoned boots, but

apparently taking no notice of me as she continued to talk very quickly

and excitedly to her companion. They were still in the same position,

Mrs. Westlake listening with a kindly, grave face, Jacintha looking

almost as if she had been crying, when I once more opened my eyes.

CHAPTER XX.

'Jacintha!' I murmured, and still she seemed to be almost a part of my

dream.

'Mother, he is awake!' cried Jacintha, and Mrs. Westlake leaned forward

towards me.

'I want you to come home with me,' she said, but when I tried to stand,

it seemed as if I should have fallen if she had not put a hand beneath

my arm. With Mrs. Westlake supporting me on one side and Jacintha on the

other, I managed to cross the road to the nearest gate, where a hansom

was hailed, and I found myself seated by Mrs. Westlake's side, while

Jacintha was perched on her knees. Probably I dozed off again the next

minute, for the next thing I knew was that the hansom had stopped before

the door of a large house, where a middle-aged butler carried me through

the hall and laid me down on the dining-room sofa.

Mrs. Westlake seemed to be holding a whispered conversation with a

short, stout, rather elderly nurse, whose name was Harper, and presently

she left the room, to return a few minutes later with a breakfast cup

full of beef-tea, after drinking which I felt very much better. A little

later, the butler half-led, half-carried me upstairs, and I seemed to be

getting into a deliciously comfortable bed, where I quickly fell asleep

in earnest. I have an idea that Harper came to look at me once or twice

during that night, and the next morning she took my temperature with a

thermometer, but although she declared there was not anything the matter

with me, I felt very tired, and not in the least sorry when she brought

me my breakfast in bed.

It was about twelve o'clock when Mrs. Westlake herself came to tell me

to get up, and then Harper brought a dressing-gown, which together with

everything else in the room must have belonged to Dick, who was away

from home on a week's visit.

'First of all, you are to have a nice warm bath,' she said, and she led

the way to a bath-room, where she had already made everything ready. The

water was quite a foot deep and delightfully hot.

When I had had a bath, and put on a summer vest, a white shirt, a suit

(almost new) of drab tweed with knickerbockers, a collar and a decent

blue and white spotted tie, I confess that I regarded my figure in the

glass with considerable approval.

'If you're quite ready,' said Harper, outside the door, 'you're to come

to lunch,' but first she led the way to what was evidently Mr.

Westlake's smoking-room. I fancied from his manner that he only

half-approved of all that Mrs Westlake had done for me. He reminded me

of Captain Knowlton, not because the faces were alike so much as because

they both seemed to dress and speak in the same way. Captain Knowlton

had been dark-haired, and wore a moustache, while Mr. Westlake was fair,

and his upper lip was shaven, but he also wore an eyeglass, and stood

nearly six feet in height, appearing a little stiff before I knew him

properly. As Mrs. Westlake led me towards him, she said a few words in

French, and I knew that they referred to her own boy, and the

possibility that he might want friends some day, but still Mr. Westlake

did not offer his hand, but only nodded and said, 'How d'ye do?'

'Let us go to luncheon,' he exclaimed the next moment, and I stepped

forward to open the door for Mrs. Westlake. In the dining-room I saw

Jacintha, who at once met me with her hand outstretched.

'You gave me quite a shock in Dick's clothes,' she cried.

'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said, turning to Mrs. Westlake.

'I--I don't know what to say.'

The butler stood with his back slightly bowed, ready to remove a

dish-cover; Jacintha shook back her hair, and looked tearful; Mrs.

Westlake stared at the plates at her end of the table, and her husband

put a pair of hands on my shoulders and pushed me towards my chair,

facing Jacintha.

'That's all right,' he cried. 'Sit down and have a good luncheon. We

will talk by-and-by.'

(_Continued on page 181._)

THE FEAST OF CHERRIES.

Readers of _Chatterbox_ will remember a story which told how a child

saved a German town; here is another tale of a siege in which children

played an important part.

One morning, during the siege of Hamburg, a weary merchant was slowly

returning to his house. With other business men, he had been aiding in

the defence of the walls. So severe had been the fighting that he had

not taken off his clothes for a week.

He reflected bitterly that all his labour was in vain, for by the

following day famine would have compelled a surrender. Passing through

his garden, he found himself admiring his cherry-trees, which were

loaded with fruit. The mere sight was refreshing, and a thought occurred

to the merchant. He was aware that the enemy were suffering from thirst.

How glad they would be of that juicy fruit! Could he not by its means

purchase safety for his city?

There was no time to lose, and he speedily made up his mind. He

collected three hundred small children belonging to the city, had them

all dressed in white, and loaded them with cherry-branches from his

orchard. Then the gates were opened, and they were sent forth in the

direction of the enemy.

When the commander of the besieging force saw the white-robed procession

passing through the gates he suspected some trick, and prepared for

battle; but when the children came nearer, and he saw how pale and thin

they were from want of food, tears filled his eyes, for he thought of

his own little ones at home.

As the thirsty--and, in some cases, wounded--soldiers received the juicy

fruit from the children's hands, a cheer arose from the camp. Love and

pity had conquered. The little ones returned accompanied by waggons of

food for the famished citizens, and an honourable treaty of peace was

signed the next day.

For many years, the anniversary of the day on which this deed was done

was kept as a holiday, its name being 'The Feast of Cherries.' The

streets were thronged with children, each one carrying a cherry-branch.

Then they ate the cherries themselves, in honour of their brave little

forerunners, the saviours of their city of Hamburg.

[Illustration: "He loaded the children with cherry branches."]

[Illustration: "One pig went squealing down the road."]

TOO CLEVER.

Jim Brown stood at the farmer's door--

'I want a job,' he said.

'Well, lad, have you done aught before?'

But Jim just shook his head;

An idler boy he'd always been

Than any in the village seen.

'Well, tell me now, what can you do?'

'Oh, anything,' said Jim.

'Oh, anything!' said Farmer Grey;

Then looking hard at him--

'Well, drive these pigs to neighbour Pratt--

'Tis time they went, they're prime and fat.'

Jim drove the pigs from out the yard,

But, ere they'd gone a mile,

One pig went squealing down the road,

And one towards a stile;

And while Jim pondered what to do,

The naughty pig just wriggled through.

Just then the farmer chanced to pass;

'Hullo!' said he, 'what's wrong?'

And when he saw Jim's downcast face,

He laughed both loud and long.

'My lad,' said he, with knowing wink,

'You're not as clever as you think.'

C. D. BOGLE.

TORN TO RAGS.

The curious and interesting 'little ways' of Ferdinand de Lesseps, the

designer of the Suez Canal, gained for him the favour of many prominent

Egyptian officials, when he was in Egypt, and he was often able to get

over a difficulty and do a kind act by unusual means. Among his duties

was the inspection of a large number of convicts in the Egyptian

galleys. Some of these were political prisoners--rather more than four

hundred unfortunate Syrians, who had been brought from Syria by Ibrahim

Pasha, son of Mehemet Ali, the famous Viceroy.

The Syrian prisoners begged the French count to help them to freedom. De

Lesseps had no real power to do this, but he had a kind heart, and did

his best to procure the release of the prisoners.

When, however, he mentioned the subject to Mehemet Ali, the Viceroy

shook his head.

'These men,' said he, 'are my son's captives, and in such a matter I

could no more handle him than I could handle the lightning.'

De Lesseps would not be put off. Mehemet, impressed by his persistence,

and wishing to stand well with the French, at last told De Lesseps that

he would manage to get five prisoners released quietly every week, until

all were free.

He kept his word, and this piecemeal business of freeing the prisoners

began. But very soon De Lesseps' house was besieged by the relatives and

friends of the Syrians still imprisoned, all begging him to use his

influence to get their own special friends included in the next batch to

be set free.

The anxious folk thronged round the Frenchman, and in their eagerness

plucked at his sleeve and tore it. He resolved to turn this fact to

account with the Viceroy. He had an old suit of clothes torn into

actual tatters, and wore it upon his next occasion of seeing Mehemet.

Mehemet was naturally greatly astonished at his friend's strange

appearance.

'What on earth has happened to you?' said the Viceroy.

'In arranging that five of those prisoners should be freed each week,'

replied De Lesseps, 'you have made me the prey of the relatives of those

who yet remain in the galleys. The number of the Syrians was four

hundred and twelve; therefore your Highness can easily reckon up and

tell how long I must go in rags.'

The Viceroy was highly amused with the serious and pitiful look which De

Lesseps put on as he said these words. After indulging in a hearty

laugh, he gave orders for the immediate release of the remaining

prisoners. Thus, by his ready wit, De Lesseps persuaded the Viceroy into

an action which he would never have done if asked plainly at first.

E. D.

WHITE NEGROES.

Have you ever heard of a white negro? Perhaps you will laugh at me for

asking the question, but there really are such people in the world, and

travellers and missionaries have met with them. I do not mean to say

that there are whole tribes of white negroes in some far-off countries,

which are not often visited by travellers, but that, scattered among all

or nearly all the black races, there are individuals who are white.

These persons are like the rest of the tribe in size and shape; they

have the same features, and the same kind of hair; but their complexion

is white, their hair is either quite white or straw-coloured, and their

eyes are lighter in shade than those of their companions.

Dr. Livingstone met with several of these white natives in some parts of

Africa, while in other parts he never saw any. One of these strange

people was a young boy, a very fine, intelligent fellow, of whom his

mother was very fond. His features were exactly like those of his

parents, who were both black. His woolly hair was yellow, and the pupils

of his eyes were pink. His father looked upon him with horror, very much

as an English father might be expected to look upon a black child, and

he treated him always as an outcast. The great traveller knew others,

both men and women, who were quite white. Their skins were always very

sensitive, and the heat of the sun blistered them very much. One of the

white women, perhaps through a sort of shame for her colour, was most

anxious for Dr. Livingstone to make her black, which was more than he

could do.

A missionary who had spent many years in Fiji had met with five Fijians

who were white. Three of these were grown-up persons, and one was quite

a little baby, being only two or three weeks old. This baby's skin was

much whiter than that of an English baby, although both its parents were

young and healthy, and as black as any Fijian could be. The grown-up

persons were as white as, if not whiter than, a weather-beaten

Englishman, and their hair was flaxen. Their skin was very smooth, and

looked like a kind of horn, and it was cracked and blistered with the

heat of the sun, like the skin of the white negroes whom Livingstone

saw. The white Fijians had pale blue or sandy-coloured eyes, which could

not bear the heat of the sun, and the poor men went about with their

eyes half closed. Similar men with white skins and white hair are found

among the other black races which inhabit the islands of the South Sea.

Among the red men of North America there are a few who have no colour in

their skins, and there are a great many who have light-coloured hair. In

one tribe a traveller found a great many men and women who had had grey

or white hair all their lives. He thought this was a very strange thing,

but had he known as much about other countries, he would have been aware

that this peculiarity is found among the dark races in nearly every part

of the world. White men are found not only in the countries already

named, but also in India, where they are looked upon with some amount of

dislike by their fellow-countrymen. In some parts of Africa, on the

other hand, these white men are regarded as magicians, and held in

honour by the rest of the tribe.

Strange to say, not only are there negroes who are white, but there are

some who are patched or spotted black and white all over. I have a

picture of such a negro before me as I write. He is a native of Loango,

on the west coast of Africa. From head to foot he is spotted in black

and white patches like a piebald horse, though in all other respects he

seems a large, well-made, healthy man. I have also before me the picture

of a spotted negro boy; who was exhibited as a curiosity in one of the

London fairs nearly a hundred years ago.

When a negro is white or piebald, it is because he has been born without

the black colouring matter which other negroes have in their skin. He

suffers from a defect, and deserves to be pitied. The black colour of a

negro's skin enables him to bear the heat of a fierce sun, and, as we

have seen, the negro whose skin is white suffers much pain and

inconvenience. A similar colouring matter in the eyes helps to shield

them from the bright glare of the sunlight, and the poor man whose eyes

are without this protection is compelled to go about with half-closed

eyes.

A BOY'S HEROISM.

A True Anecdote.

A couple of boys were once climbing about some disused scaffolding in a

lonely place, when a beam on which they were standing gave way under

their feet. Both fell, the elder a little before the younger. But just

in time the elder managed to clutch another beam and hold fast to it. By

a providential coincidence, his brother, catching wildly at anything

within his reach, seized his legs, and the two hung suspended thus, with

all the weight on the elder boy's arms. Before long, the strain became

too great, and he called out to the other that they were lost, for he

could hold on no longer. No one was near, and there was little hope that

their cries would attract attention.

'Could you save yourself if I let go?' asked the younger.

'I think so.'

'Then good-bye, and Heaven bless you,' said the little boy.

With these words he let go, and was dashed to pieces upon the ground

beneath. His brother, thus released from the additional weight, was able

to pull himself up to a place of safety.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

V.--HOW INSECTS FLY.

The wings of insects are like those of bats and birds only in the work

they do. In another respect they are quite different organs. The wings

of the bird and the bat, for instance, are formed from the front pair of

limbs, but the wings of insects are formed on a very different plan from

the walking limbs, of which there are never less than three pairs. The

bat and the bird have only one pair of wings, the insects have two,

though in many cases the hinder or second pair have been reduced to the

merest stumps, or vestiges, as they are called. In other words, they are

all that is left of a once useful pair.

The butterfly has two pairs of wings; the fly is a good example of an

insect which has but one pair. The stumps or vestiges of the second pair

can only be found after careful search. But these vestiges--which are

known as the 'balancers'--have a new use, and probably act as organs of

hearing as well as to guide the flight. The butterfly uses both pairs of

wings in flight, the beetle only the hinder pair, the pair that in the

fly are only 'vestiges.' The front pair of wings in the beetle form hard

horny cases or shields for the protection of the hinder wings, which lie

beneath them when not in use.

The wings of insects are often brilliantly coloured, and this colour may

be caused in two very different ways. Generally the colours of the wings

are due to the way the surface of the wing is made, for this surface

reflects light. But the colour of the wing of the butterfly is to be

traced to a quite different cause. If the fingers be rubbed over the

surface of a butterfly's wing, they will be found to be covered with a

fine coloured dust, whilst the wing itself will become quite transparent

(as in fig. 1). If this dust be looked at under the microscope, it will

be seen that it is made up of a number of tiny scales, most beautifully

shaped (as in fig. 2). Each scale is fixed to the surface of the wing by

a tiny stalk and in a regular order.

From the shape of the wings in the butterfly or moth we can tell more or

less how the insect flies. Long and narrow wings give a swift and rapid

flight, broad round wings a slow and leisured flight.

The wings of insects are moved by only a few muscles, but with wonderful

rapidity. It has been calculated that the common fly makes with its

wings three hundred strokes per second, the bee one hundred and ninety.

The dragon-fly and the common cabbage-white butterfly of our gardens,

however, have a much slower beat of their wings, the former twenty-eight

strokes per second, the latter only nine. The machinery by which they

move is like that of an oar.

[Illustration:

1. Butterfly's Wing (magnified).

2. Scales from Butterfly's Wing (greatly magnified).

3. Earwig (magnified): one wing folded, the other open.

4. Foot of Fly (greatly magnified).]

Insects' wings are folded in various ways. Those of the butterfly, when

at rest, are raised up over the back, so that the upper surfaces of the

right and left wings come together. In the moth the hinder wings pass

under the fore-wings, which are held flat over the back. But the beetle

and the earwig hide their hind-wings beneath a hard case not used in

flight. The size of the hind-wings, however, is so great that before

they can be covered by the horny case, they have to be folded up, and

this is done in a really wonderful manner, especially by the common

earwig.

Most people probably think of the earwig as flightless; but, nevertheless,

beneath a tiny pair of horny wing-cases, a very wonderful pair of

transparent wings is cunningly tucked away. The marvellous way in which

they are folded up after use we cannot describe in detail here. In each

wing there is a hinge shaped somewhat like a half-moon, in the middle of

the stiff front edge (fig. 3, in the wing extended on the left). When

the hinge is bent, the outer half of the wing folds over towards the

tail, and the tip points forward. The further inward folding of the

hinge of this rod next appears to divide the wing into two, the second

portion passing under the first, and thus bringing the wing down to half

its original size. By this time the mechanical or automatic folding

process stops, and the rest of the folding up has to be done by the aid

of the pincers at the end of the body. Finally the packing up is

complete, and the two hard outer cases, like a couple of tarpaulins, are

drawn over the delicate wings to protect them.

On the right side of the body, in fig. 3, the wing has been folded up,

and is covered by the wing-case.

The folding of the beetle's wing is also done by means of a hinge, but

the packing up is less close, as the outer covering cases are larger.

* * * * *

Most insects walk as well as fly, and their walking is not less

wonderful than their flight. Fig. 4 represents the foot of a fly. It

will be seen, under a strong microscope, to have a pair of large claws

and a pair of leaf-like plates, one on each side. The claws and the

plates have different uses. The plates are used when the fly is walking,

say, up a window-pane or along a ceiling. They are moved so as to lie

flat on the surface which the fly is crossing, and when they are laid

flat a number of tiny hairs are pushed out from them, from the tips of

which a sticky liquid oozes, so that the fly is practically glued to the

surface on which it is crawling. The claws are used to cling on to

uneven surfaces, on which they can get a good grip. In the next article

we shall say more about the way in which insects walk.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.

[Illustration: "There stood Captain Knowlton."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 175._)

During the meal Mr. Westlake talked about cricket, asking whether I

played, and I explained that there had not been enough of us at

Castlemore to make a proper eleven. He inquired further about Mr. Turton

and Mr. Windlesham, and gradually led the conversation round to the days

when I used to live in Acacia Road with Aunt Marion. I told him that she

had married Major Ruston, and gone to India, but that I did not know her

address nor Major Ruston's regiment.

'We can soon find that out,' he said, and sent the butler for the _Army

List_. When he had looked in this, he raised his eyes to my face again,

mentioning the number of the regiment, and explaining that it was at

present at Madras.

Then he turned to the book again. 'I don't find Captain Knowlton--didn't

you say that was the name?' he asked.

'Yes,' I answered, 'but he left the service when he came home from

India, four or five years ago. He came into a lot of money, you see.'

'And Captain Knowlton was your guardian?' he asked, fixing his eyeglass.

'Not exactly an ordinary guardian,' I explained. 'My father was a

soldier too, and Captain Knowlton said he saved his life, and that was

why he looked after me.'

After I had told him all about Mr. Parsons, he rose and went to the room

where I had first seen him, calling me to follow. I shut the door when

Mrs. Westlake had entered, and Mr. Westlake stood lighting a cigar.

'Upon my word,' he said, in his slightly drawling voice, 'there seems to

be only one thing that is possible to be done with you for the present,

Everard.'

'What is that?' I asked, with considerable misgiving.

'Naturally,' he continued, 'I shall write to Major Ruston and explain

the exact circumstances in which Mrs. Westlake found you, and I have no

doubt that when he hears what I shall tell him, he will make some sort

of arrangement for your future.'

'But it will take a long time to get an answer.'

'No doubt, but you seem to be placed in a very awkward position. As far

as I can understand, Captain Knowlton had every intention of looking

after you if he had lived----'

'Oh, yes!' I cried, 'because he told me I was to go to Sandhurst.'

'But, you see,' he said, 'he did not make a will. Is that right?'

'Yes,' I answered. 'Mr. Turton found out the address of his solicitor,

and told me there was no will.'

'So that, except your aunt in India,' he continued, 'there appears to be

no one upon whom you have the least claim. Yet, Mr. Turton----'

'I don't want to go back to Mr. Turton,' I cried, taking a step towards

him.

He took his cigar from his lips, and stood gazing for a few seconds at

the ash, which he then knocked off into the fender.

'That is all very well,' he said. 'I suppose no boy who ran away from

school ever felt any strong desire to return. But I understand that you

admit that Mr. Turton tried to find you--that, in fact, he would have

found you if Jacintha had acted as she ought to have done.'

'I don't want to get Jacintha into a row,' I exclaimed, and the

slightest of smiles lighted his face.

'I am certain you don't,' he answered, 'and you need not trouble

yourself on that score. But as Mr. Turton tried to find you, it is

pretty clear that he wished to take you back with him. Now, if he

wished to take you back, he could not have had any strong objection to

keeping you. You don't complain that he treated you brutally?'

'No,' I said, 'I never saw him give any fellow a licking; but,

still----'

'Anyhow,' Mr. Westlake continued, 'I have decided to write to Major

Ruston, and tell him all the circumstances, offering to do anything on

your behalf which he wishes; then I shall take a train to Castlemore the

first thing to-morrow morning and have a chat with Mr. Turton.'

'I wish you wouldn't,' I exclaimed.

'That is what I feel compelled to do,' he said, 'and what I hope will

happen is this. I hope that Mr. Turton will take you back and promise me

to treat you well until there's time to get an answer from Madras. If

that answer is unfavourable, though it is not in the least likely to be,

I shall see Mr. Turton again. In any case, we must have no more

wanderings. There has been enough of that. Supposing that Major Ruston

cannot do anything, and Mr. Turton declines to keep you, we must make

the best of a bad job. No doubt I can find you employment in a firm with

which I am connected, and you ought to have sense enough to see that

this is the very best thing to be done in the circumstances.'

'Couldn't you find me work at once, and not tell Mr. Turton?' I

suggested eagerly, while Mrs. Westlake fixed her eyes on his face. But

he slowly shook his head.

'Understand,' he said, 'I don't intend to lose sight of you again. At

the worst, you will have to work for your living; but, in the meantime,'

he added, 'I am going to put you on your honour. You must give me your

word not to attempt to leave the house alone until my return.'

Of course I gave my word, but I felt that my last hope had gone. All

that I had done, all that I had passed through, had been to no purpose.

I might as well--far better--have stayed at Castlemore, since there

seemed little doubt that I should be taken back to Ascot House

to-morrow. I could imagine Augustus's triumphant snigger, and all the

humiliation of the return.

'I should not be surprised,' said Jacintha, later in the afternoon, 'if

Mr. Turton refused to take you back, and if he does,' she exclaimed,

'Father is going to see whether Mr. Windlesham will have you until he

hears from Major Ruston.'

'I should not mind that,' I answered. 'I shall not mind anything if I

don't go back to Mr. Turton's.'

I went to bed early that night, and slept perfectly until one of the

maids knocked at my door the next morning. But when--as soon as we had

finished breakfast--Mr. Westlake was driven away from the door in a

hansom, I felt that my own departure might be only a matter of a few

hours. During the morning Mrs. Westlake took me out for a drive with

Jacintha, but try as I might it was impossible to show them a cheerful

face, and while I understood that Mr. Westlake was doing what he

considered the best for me, it seemed difficult not to regard him as an

enemy. That afternoon I sat in the dining-room, unable to attempt to

make my escape because of the promise which I had given Mr. Westlake,

yet feeling that there were few things I would not endure rather than

eat humble pie and go back to Mr. Turton.

Four o'clock had struck, and Mr. Westlake might arrive at almost any

moment with the news of my fate.

'Do you think,' suggested Jacintha, 'that Father will bring Mr. Turton

with him?'

'I should not be a scrap surprised,' I answered, dismally. 'Then I shall

sleep at Ascot House to-night.'

'Mind you write,' she exclaimed, 'and tell me everything that horrid

Augustus says, and all about things.'

A little later, as the clock struck half-past four, Mrs. Westlake

entered the room.

'I think Mr. Westlake must have missed the train which he expected to

catch,' she said. 'The next will not bring him home until about

half-past six.'

'We were wondering whether Father would bring Mr. Turton with him!'

cried Jacintha.

Mrs. Westlake came to my side, resting a hand on my shoulder. 'You

know,' she said, gently, 'that at the very worst you will only stay at

Castlemore until we hear from Mrs. Ruston.'

But, for some reason, I placed very little confidence in Aunt Marion,

who, I felt certain, had entirely washed her hands of me before her

marriage. Presently Jacintha suggested that we should go to another room

where there was a chess-table, but it was impossible to fix my thoughts

on the game, and she checkmated me twice in ten minutes.

'It's no good,' I exclaimed. 'I can't think of anything but Mr. Turton.'

When the clock on the mantelpiece struck six, I rose from my chair and

began to fidget about the room, looking every few minutes to see how the

time was passing.

'I think I heard a cab or something stop at the door!' cried Jacintha

presently.

'So did I!' I muttered.

'I wish I knew whether Mr. Turton had come,' she said.

'Can't you find out?' I suggested.

'Perhaps I can see from the hall,' she answered, and as the front door

bell rang again she left me alone in the room.

A few seconds later she hastily re-entered.

'There _are_ two!' she cried, excitedly.

'Is one of them Mr. Turton?' I demanded.

'I could not see distinctly through the glass door,' she said. 'Only I

am quite positive there are two.'

As she spoke, and I gave myself up for lost, the butler hastened past

the open door of the room in the act of thrusting his left arm into his

sleeve. The bell was rung a second time.

'Do have another look!' I urged, and once more Jacintha darted out of

the room, while I felt, for my own part, as if my feet were riveted to

one particular part of the carpet.

'It isn't Mr. Turton,' she exclaimed, returning the next instant, and

this was at least a reprieve.

'Perhaps he wouldn't have me back after all,' I answered, and then I

felt suddenly cold from head to foot, for the voice of Mr. Westlake's

companion sounded remarkably like one which I had never hoped to hear

again. Unable to restrain myself, I ran out to the hall, and there stood

Captain Knowlton giving his hat and stick to the butler.

'Ah, Jack!' he said, with one of his casual nods; and he took my hand as

if he had parted with me yesterday, and had been expected back as a

matter of course to-day. But I began to laugh and cry by turns, clinging

to his hand as if I were fully determined never to let him go again.

(_Continued on page 187._)

A SPARROW'S COOLNESS.

Our commonest bird is the sparrow, that plucky, impudent, little

creature which hops about in our gardens and yards, and twitters upon

our roofs all day long. It seems rather difficult at first to understand

why it should be so much more common than other birds. It is not large

or strong, or swift on the wing, and it seems to have none of those

advantages which would help it to defend itself against enemies. It is

not handsome, and it is not a sweet songster, so that man is not

disposed to give it much protection. He is often prompted to destroy it,

because of the injury which it does to his gardens and his crops.

But in spite of all its difficulties, the sparrow thrives, and brings up

a numerous family, because it has less fear of man than other birds

have. It frequents the haunts of men, while other birds are scared away

from them. It requires some courage to brave the noise and tumult of a

town, but the sparrow possesses this courage, and is rewarded

accordingly. As other birds are too timid to trust themselves to a life

among houses and streets, the sparrow needs no protection from them.

Ordinary as the sparrow is in almost every respect, we cannot but admire

its courage and its wariness. It is surrounded by many dangers, and it

is not only surprising how it braves them, but also how watchfully it

looks out for them, and how cleverly it learns to avoid them. We all

know how it watches the cats and the dogs, and even a man with a gun,

and seeks a place of safety at the first sign of danger.

One of the newspapers recently gave a very striking instance of a

sparrow's confidence and coolness. A passenger who was waiting for a

train in one of the Underground Railway stations observed a sparrow

hopping upon the rails in search of crumbs. A train came into the

station from the direction in which the passenger wished to travel, and

he had leisure to watch the sparrow. It allowed the engine to come

within a few feet of it, and then, instead of flying away, it quickly

hopped off the rail upon which it stood, and hopped into the space

between the rails. There it lay until the train puffed out of the

station, when it jumped upon the rails again, and resumed its search for

crumbs. Presently another train entered the station, and the sparrow was

seen to repeat its previous action, and to take refuge once more between

the wheels of the train.

W. A. ATKINSON.

[Illustration: "It hopped into the space between the rails."]

[Illustration: "The woodpecker fled in fear."]

THE INTRUDING SQUIRREL.

The squirrel in the woods is as full of frolic and play as a kitten. One

would think that it had not a care or anxiety of any kind to break in

upon its play. And yet it has food to find, a family to bring up, a

winter nest to make, and several stores of food to lay up ready for

those occasional days when it wakes up from its long winter's sleep.

This winter sleep of the squirrel, and some other animals, is something

very strange, which we do not thoroughly understand. With the first

touch of winter's cold, they curl themselves up, and fall into a sleep

which lasts until the return of spring. This sleep, or hibernation as it

is properly called, is a very useful habit for the animals which are

subject to it, because it enables them to live on at a time when their

food is very often scarce. During this sleep their bodies scarcely waste

away at all, and a few good meals, when they wake, soon put them right;

whereas, if they were always running about, they would be almost

incessantly hungry, and would probably die of starvation during the

winter.

Some animals remain torpid throughout the winter, while others wake up

occasionally, and enjoy a day's life every now and then in the midst of

their long sleep. The common squirrel is one of the latter. Whenever

there is a warm, mild day in winter, it wakes up, feeling very hungry,

and turns out of its nest for a run. If it trusted to chance for a meal,

it would have to return to its nest hungry. But during the autumn it has

gathered large quantities of hazel-nuts, acorns, beech-nuts, and

fir-cones, and has stored them away in various holes near its nest.

When, therefore, it has enjoyed one of its winter runs, it visits one of

these store-houses, makes a hearty meal, and then returns to its nest to

sleep for a few more days, or a few more weeks, until another warm day

comes round.

The squirrel selects for his storehouses various holes in the trunk of

the tree near his nest, which are often the deserted nests of some

wood-pecker. Indeed, he is not always content to wait until the

wood-pecker deserts her nest, especially as he relishes the taste of an

egg. A writer in the _Standard_ describes how he saw a wood-pecker

turned out of her house to make room for an impudent squirrel. The

squirrel, descending backwards down a tree-trunk, suddenly found his

hind legs in a hole. Probably he felt something sharp pecking at them,

for he drew them out quickly, and rapidly climbed to a branch

immediately above. A moment later a wood-pecker flew out of the hole.

The squirrel watched her out of sight, and then returned to the nest,

and helped himself to an egg or two, which he carried up to his perch,

and ate.

When these were disposed of, he descended once more to the wood-pecker's

nest and waited for the return of the bird. The moment she appeared at

the entrance to her nest, the squirrel flew at her like an angry cat.

The startled wood-pecker fled in fear, and the squirrel came forth

triumphantly and went away for a short time. Whilst he was away the

wood-pecker came again and looked into her nest. Something, however,

probably a broken egg, displeased her, and she flew away again. Shortly

afterwards her mate looked into the nest, but he, too, was dissatisfied,

and flew away. Many times they returned to the nest, but always with the

same result. At length they seemed to make up their minds that they

could never make their home in that nest again, and they flew away to

another part of the wood. The squirrel promptly took possession of the

deserted nest, and when autumn came he turned it into a store-house for

nuts.

W. A. ATKINSON.

THE GREAT PICTURE BOOK.

The world's a pleasant picture-book,

Wherein my eyes may daily look,

And see the things set there to please:

Mountains and valleys, rocks and trees.

Soft rivers where the sunbeams play;

The blue sky spread far, far away;

Bright flowers that blossom at my feet,

The tender grass, the ripened wheat.

Though I am young, I may grow wise

When on this book I turn my eyes,

And, as I look, with reverence see

The pictures painted there for me.

'Tis God Who made this book so fair,

Who gave the colours that are there;

Who paints the daisies red and white,

And in the sky sets stars at night.

FRANK ELLIS.

THE STORY OF SLATE.

Slates are not so much used in our schools as they were years ago,

exercise-books being cheaper now. Still, there are some schools where

the children have slates, and pocket-books are to be bought, containing

a slate tablet, on which you can write notes, and rub them out

afterwards to make fresh ones. Slates upon the roofs of houses are

objects familiar to us all. Probably few, young or old, who have to do

with slates, ever think what this substance is, and where it has come

from. Yet slate is one of the most wonderful things in this world of

ours.

Supposing the first question put to us was, 'What is slate?' our answer

would be, 'It is simply a sort of dried mud.' If the second was, 'What

is its place amongst the rocks of our earth?' we should say, 'Slate

belongs to the Cambrian formation.' This is a big series of rocks,

sometimes eighteen thousand feet thick. It contains in the middle what

geologists call _flags_ and _grits_, but the larger part of it is

slates. There is but one series of rocks more ancient than the Cambrian,

and that is the one called the Laurentian, which is said not to be found

in Britain.

'Cambrian,' some might say: there is a reason for that name, which of

course is only another word for Welsh. Though, in their first order,

these slaty rocks lie deep down, they have been lifted high up, and they

show us some of the grandest scenery we have in this island. The hills

and precipices of Wales, and the hollows where the mountain streams

flow, tell of the shakings and twistings that the Cambrian rocks have

gone through. Amongst them grow ferns and rare flowers, while many a

tourist draws in new strength as he mounts them. Sometimes, high up, the

rains and winds have made the rocks so bare that even mosses cannot live

upon them, and in the clear sunlight the slates appear of various

shades, from pink to deep blue.

One curious thing about slate is that the layers are often twisted or

wrinkled. This has been caused, partly at least, by their being thrust

up when half hardened, so as to cause a sort of fold or crease. This was

chiefly done by the still harder granite.

It is wonderful to think of the succession of plants and animals that

slate has had to do with; it was in existence when the coal forests were

forming, and it must have been trodden by the strange creatures of other

strata, which are now extinct, but of which relics are dug up. Another

remarkable fact is that the slate-beds have had wonderful ups and downs

over and over again during the earth's changes--being at one time under

a deep sea, at another lifted to form hills, as we frequently see them

now.

FROST-BITTEN IN THE RED SEA.

A strange accident happened a few years ago on board a large steamer in

the Red Sea.

One of the assistant-stewards had occasion to go to the ship's ice-room

to fetch something which had been forgotten when the day's provisions

were given out in the morning.

The man was not missed for some time, and, when search was made, the

poor fellow was found nearly frozen to death. Some one had thoughtlessly

slammed the door of the refrigerator, which could only be opened from

the outside.

The prisoner had a terrible experience, and after doing what he could to

attract attention, had sunk exhausted on the floor.

Fortunately, the head steward noticed that the key of the ice-room was

missing, and this led to the man's discovery. If he had not been found

till the following day, he would probably have been the first man to be

frozen to death in one of the hottest parts of the world.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 183._)

CHAPTER XXI.

With the return of Captain Knowlton the story seems to come to its

natural end; but, although he had heard from Mr. Westlake all about my

own adventures, there still remained, of course, a great deal to

discuss.

When he was presented to Mrs. Westlake, she insisted that we should both

dine in Grosvenor Gardens, and as it was difficult to refuse anything to

one who had shown me such kindness, Captain Knowlton apologised for his

travelling clothes and consented. Presently, when we were all sitting

down together, Mrs. Westlake begged for Captain Knowlton's story. He

leaned back in his arm-chair, beginning in an easy, conversational tone,

as if he were telling us about a walk from one part of London to

another.

'It was April when I left the Solent in the _Seagull_,' he said, 'making

for Gibraltar, where I picked up two or three men of my old regiment,

and cruised for a week or two in the Mediterranean. Early in May I

sailed for Madeira, touched at the Canaries, then steamed south, crossed

the line, and in due course reached Capetown. There the man who was to

have accompanied me for the whole trip found a telegram to the effect

that his father lay seriously ill in Vienna, so that I had to continue

the voyage without him. A few days out from Capetown we got into very

bad weather, which grew worse and worse until, in the middle of the

roughest night I ever experienced, we were run down by a huge liner,

which brutally went on her way, leaving us to our fate. The skipper

wanted to be the last to leave the _Seagull_, but I sent him off with

seven or eight of the crew, and, before the rest could get away, the

ship went down under us. I found myself in the water, one moment lifted

high on the crest of an enormous wave, the next sunk in the trough. I

gave myself up for lost, when something was washed against my arm, and

seizing it, to my great good fortune, I found that it was one of our

life-rafts, which had served as a seat on the _Seagull's_ deck.

'The night was the blackest you can imagine; from the moment the ship

foundered I saw nothing either of the boat's crew or of the men who had

been left with me. For what seemed an endless time I clung to my raft,

and I imagine that the tide must have carried me some distance from the

scene of the wreck. As the night wore on--it seemed as if it would never

pass--I grew weaker and weaker, but presently the sky became lighter,

and just as I was telling myself that I might as well let go of the raft

and bring things to an end, I saw a small schooner close by. After half

an hour of terrible suspense, I began to think she was bearing down upon

me, and, with such strength as I had left, I shouted. At last, thank

Heaven, I succeeded in attracting attention; a line was thrown, and

after some little trouble, more dead than alive, I was hauled on board.

'The schooner was a Spaniard bound for Valparaiso, but she had lost two

men--washed overboard in the storm--and been a good deal knocked about.

In fact, I began to think that my end had only been postponed for a few

hours. She had sprung a leak, the water seemed to be gaining, and after

a short rest I took my turn at the pumps with the crew. However, we rode

out the storm, and then, two or three days later, we lay becalmed for

three weeks. She was, at the best, the slowest craft I have ever seen,

and everything seemed to be dead against her. We were many miles out of

our course, the stock of provisions--such as it was--and of water ran

short, and although the captain seemed very little dissatisfied, I grew

more and more hopeless.

'Naturally,' said Captain Knowlton, with a glance in my direction, 'I

thought a good deal of Everard. I knew that there was no one but myself

to provide for him, and that in any case I should be given up for lost.

Even if (as happily proved to be the case) our skipper succeeded in

getting to land, he would be certain to report all the crew that were

not in his boat as drowned--as, in fact, they all were except myself. I

fumed and fretted to reach land, but that was all I could do, and when

at last we got to Valparaiso, I lost no time in sending Mr. Windlesham a

telegram.'

(_Concluded on page 194._)

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure in the North Sea and in China.

By H. C. MOORE, Author of 'Britons at Bay,' &c.

CHAPTER I.

'I want a North Sea fisherman's outfit.'

'Yes, sir,' the Grimsby shopkeeper answered cheerfully, suspecting that

his young, gentlemanly-looking customer required the things for a

fancy-dress entertainment or theatricals. In two or three minutes he had

produced for inspection a jersey, thick trousers--commonly called

'fear-noughts'--heavy top-boots, and a set of oilskins.

'I will try them on,' the lad said, and, retiring behind a screen,

changed his clothes. Then he looked round for a glass, anxious to

satisfy himself that he had the appearance of a North Sea fisherman. The

shopkeeper, unasked, assured him that he had, and, as there was no one

else there who could be consulted, the youth purchased the outfit.

'Do my other things up in a parcel,' he said to the shopkeeper. 'I will

keep these on.'

'But it's raining hard, sir,' the man exclaimed, not believing that his

customer wanted the clothes for real use.

'I don't mind that at all. I want a little of the newness rubbed off.

Now I come to think of it, I might just as well have had a second-hand

outfit.'

The shopkeeper rustled the brown paper, and pretended that he had not

heard what was said.

'May I send it home?' he asked when he had made a neat parcel of the

suit, cap, and boots which the boy had taken off.

'Yes. I will write the address.'

When the bill had been paid, the lad stepped out into the dirty Grimsby

street, and strode off in the direction of the docks.

The clothes _were_ meant for use after all. Charlie Page--for that was

the lad's name--was not going to a fancy-dress ball, but had purchased

his fisherman's outfit because, on the following morning, he was to

begin work as a deck hand on board the steam trawler, _Sparrow-hawk_.

How it came about that he was bound for the Dogger Bank needs

explanation. His father was a prosperous Lincolnshire man who had built

up a large export business, which was now about to be converted into a

limited liability company. Mr. Page was to become managing director of

the new company, but, unfortunately, he could find no suitable position

in the concern for his son Charlie. He determined, therefore, to

purchase, with a portion of the money which he would receive from the

company, a new business for his son.

He had heard that there were three Grimsby steam trawlers for sale, and

entered into correspondence with the respective owners. The price which

they asked for the trawlers was not high if they really earned what it

was asserted they did, but Mr. Page had a strong suspicion that the

amount of their profits was exaggerated.

'Shall I go to Grimsby and discover the truth?' Charlie said to his

father one evening rather suddenly. 'I might get a job on one of those

three trawlers and keep a sharp look-out all the while I was aboard her.

I could count the boxes of fish, and get all the information that I

could from the crew.'

'A good idea, my boy, but do you think that you could carry it out? A

North Sea fisherman's life is a terribly rough one. It would not be a

pleasure trip for you.'

There was a great deal of discussion before Charlie's daring plan was

finally adopted. Mr. Page was struck by his son's grit and keenness, and

knew, moreover, that the experience would do him good. In his own young

days, before he returned to Lincolnshire and settled down to business,

Mr. Page had spent three eventful years in South America, and although

he had had many decidedly unpleasant adventures, he by no means

regretted them. He was glad, too, to find that his son inherited some of

his love of adventure, especially as it was to be used, in this case,

for a good, sensible purpose. Charlie was only sixteen, but he was big

and strong for his age, and the sea air and hard life would probably do

him good physically as well as morally.

'I will give you ten pounds,' he said to Charlie on the following

morning, 'and as you are not likely to be away much more than a week, it

will, I think, be ample for your wants.'

Charlie thanked him heartily, and an hour or two later started for

Grimsby. He knew the town well, and making his way to the docks, had

little difficulty in finding where the _Sparrow-hawk_ lay. She was

coaling when he discovered her, and knowing that all hands would be

busy, he sat down on the black scaffold-like dock and watched from a

distance as truck after truck was tilted over, sending its load of coal

into the shoot, down which it ran with a rattle on to the ship's deck.

The trawler's men, black as niggers, shovelled the coal quickly into the

hold. Fortunately the greater portion of the load had been taken aboard

before Charlie arrived, and after waiting for about half an hour, he saw

the last truck-load shot down. He knew then that in about an hour's time

some of the _Sparrow-hawk's_ men would be coming ashore. He watched them

with interest as, having shovelled all the coal into the hold, they

turned the hose on the deck, and with brooms and swabs worked hard to

remove the coal-dust which coated everything. When this task was

finished, the men gathered around two buckets and washed themselves.

They needed washing badly.

[Illustration: "'I will keep these on,' he said to the shopkeeper."]

The first two men who came ashore had friends waiting for them, so that

Charlie had no opportunity of speaking to them. The third man to come

ashore had no one waiting for him. He was a short, bow-legged little

man, with a goatee beard and a small brass ring in the lobe of each ear.

Charlie spoke to him.

'Thank you, sir,' the man answered, as he took the tobacco which Charlie

offered. 'Smoking is not allowed here, so I will save it till I get

outside the gates.'

'Are you a Grimsby man?' Charlie asked.

'No fear. I come from Gorleston. If this was Yarmouth I should be able

to enjoy myself at home, but as it's Grimsby I don't expect to have much

of an evening.'

Charlie felt that he had come across the very man he wanted.

'Come to my hotel and have a chat,' he suggested. 'I want some

information about North Sea fishermen.'

'Certainly, sir. Are you a journalist?'

The bow-legged fisherman had a great respect for journalists, having on

one occasion received from a newspaper representative a good big 'tip'

for describing how a trawler worked.

Charlie could not, however, by the greatest stretch of imagination, call

himself a journalist, and so he ignored the question put to him. The

fisherman put his silence down to modesty.

The hotel at which Charlie had taken a room was close to the docks, and,

therefore, the manager and waiters were not horrified, as they would

have been at a London hotel, at seeing a rough fisherman brought into

the building.

After Charlie had seen that the man had some food, they went to his

sitting-room.

'I'm happy now, sir,' the fisherman declared, having lighted a pipe and

thrown himself back into a roomy chair.

For a few minutes there was silence. Then Charlie said, 'I should very

much like to make a trip to the North Sea on a steam trawler.'

'I should not advise you to do so, sir. A trawler is no place for a

gentleman.'

'Nevertheless, I mean to go out in one.'

'Ah! I see your game, sir. You have heard what a rough time we fellows

have in the North Sea, and you have come down here to get information,

and then put it in a London newspaper. But it's no good, sir. There's no

skipper in the North Sea who wouldn't guess what you were up to, and

make some excuse for not taking you aboard his ship. You must give up

the idea, sir.'

'I mean to get a job on a trawler, and go to sea as an ordinary

fisherman. Then I shall be able to obtain, from personal observation,

all the information I want.'

The bow-legged fisherman sat up in his chair deeply interested.

'That's a splendid idea, sir,' he declared, 'and I only wish you could

get a job on the _Sparrow-hawk_, for you would see enough on that

trawler to make you write till you wore out your pen. The skipper is an

old villain, and that crafty too----'

The bow-legged fisherman did not finish his speech, but nodded his head,

and raised his hands in horror, as if words were too weak to express the

real character of the skipper. Naturally, Charlie became more anxious

than ever to make a trip on the _Sparrow-hawk_.

'Can't I get a job on her?' he asked.

'No, sir. All the same hands are taken on for the next trip.'

'Couldn't I bribe one of them to stay away, and let me go aboard in his

place?'

'Pretending that you are he?'

'Yes.'

''Course you could. Take my place, sir.'

'I am afraid that is not possible,' Charlie remarked, thinking of the

fisherman's bow legs and goatee beard.

'Why not? It isn't hard to pretend you are bandy-legged. Lots of boys

pretend they are bandy-legged when they see me coming.'

'It would be rather tiring to have to continue the pretence for two or

three weeks. Moreover, I haven't a beard.'

'You could say you had shaved it off.'

'That would mean that I should have to shave nothing every morning, just

to keep up the deception. If I didn't, the crew would wonder why my

beard didn't grow. But, joking apart, I am very anxious to make a trip

in the _Sparrow-hawk_, and if you, at the last moment, will pretend that

you are too ill to go aboard, and will send me as a substitute, I will

pay you your wages, and give you a present as well.'

'I agree, sir,' the fisherman declared, promptly.

'When does the _Sparrow-hawk_ sail?' Charlie asked.

'In two days' time.'

'Then I must buy my outfit to-morrow. Where shall I meet you to-morrow

afternoon?'

'At the Fishermen's Home, sir.'

'Very well. I will be there at four o'clock, and here is

half-a-sovereign for you, to show that I am in earnest.'

'Thank you, sir,' the fisherman exclaimed, and departed, more than ever

convinced that journalists were the most generous fellows in the world.

(_Continued on page 198._)

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

V.--THE FIRST ASCENT IN ENGLAND.

Though the English people, on the whole, disbelieved the tales they

heard of the French balloonists, they became very interested when a

certain young Italian, named Vincent Lunardi (Secretary to the Naples

Ambassador), gave out that he was willing to build a balloon and make a

voyage in it. Those devoted to science contributed willingly to the

expenses, and large crowds paid to be allowed to see the balloon while

it was being made. When nearly complete, it was exhibited in the Lyceum,

and the arrangements made with the proprietor of that building very

nearly led to disaster. He proved to be a greedy, dishonest man, and

when Lunardi wished to move the balloon to where the ascent was to be

made, he refused to let it go unless he was paid half of all Lunardi

secured by the venture, and a large share in any profits that might be

made on future occasions. Here was a difficulty Lunardi had not

expected, and it came with many others equally unlooked for. When

Lunardi first made the proposal, he had got leave from the Governors of

Chelsea Hospital to ascend from their spacious grounds; but, while the

balloon was being made, a certain Frenchman had set up in opposition,

and announced that he would give a display immediately. This promise he

failed to keep, and the disappointed sightseers paid him back by

breaking up his machinery. The idea of such a thing being repeated

terrified the Governors of Chelsea Hospital, and they requested Lunardi

to go elsewhere. He had just got over this trouble by being promised the

ground of the Honourable Artillery Company, when the proprietor of the

Lyceum refused to release the balloon. The Artillery Company, thinking

themselves the victims of a fraud, ordered the apparatus, which had been

sent to them, to to be thrown off the ground unless Lunardi found

securities in five hundred pounds to cover any injuries their premises

might suffer at the hands of the mob. But the proprietor of the Lyceum

had overreached himself, and when the matter was explained he was

compelled to give up the balloon, which was forthwith taken to the

artillery grounds under a special guard.

Two days later the scene of action was thronged by a noisy crowd, and

Lunardi has spoken of the dread he felt lest anything should happen to

delay the ascent. While the balloon was being filled, he viewed the

assembly from the upper storey of the Artillery House. Windows, roofs,

and scaffoldings were crammed, while in the large square below, the

people were so closely packed that it 'looked like a pavement of human

heads.' And they were by no means orderly, for most had come with the

idea that they were to be deceived. The arrival of the Prince of Wales,

however, put them in a better humour, and in less than two hours after

the appointed time, Vincent Lunardi carried out his promise. He would

not risk a longer delay. Though the balloon was only two-thirds full of

gas, and he had to disappoint a friend who had arranged to sail with

him, he gave the signal and weighed anchor.

The grumblings of the fickle crowd turned to roars of applause, as the

balloon rose slowly over the house-tops. The noisiest and the roughest

there forgot the jests they had made at Lunardi's expense. And Vincent

Lunardi forgot them, too, for his worry was over, and his long labour

rewarded.

He had made his balloon without any valve at the top, and in order to

descend, had fitted it with long oars, shaped like lacrosse sticks.

These he now began to work in order that the vast crowds, who had not

been near enough to see him embark, might know that he was in the car.

But scarcely had he placed his hands upon them, when one of the oars

snapped off, and returned to the earth. It was instantly broken into

fragments by the crowd, the pieces being kept as relics by those who

were fortunate enough to secure them.

Lunardi then gave himself up to the enjoyment of his voyage, and watched

the great city spread beneath him till it became no more than a doll's

town.

Over the common of North Mimms Lunardi again plied his oars, and landed,

with the assistance of some country folk, in a field called Etna. Here

he released a cat which he had brought from London. It had felt the

coldness of the upper air considerably. A dog and some pigeons had also

accompanied him, and with these he continued his journey, finally

landing at Ware. A stone erected on the spot tells, to this day, the

story of his adventure.

As regards his mention of the oars, it has been pointed out that, since

Lunardi had to throw out ballast when rising the second time from Etna

field, it is hardly likely that his descent was due alone to the working

of the oars. It must have been through loss of gas, and he deceived

himself in thinking otherwise.

London was delighted at the news of his voyage. George III., who had

broken off an important state conference to peep through his telescope

at the wonderful balloon, afterwards allowed the young Italian to kiss

his hand at a brilliant levée. Military honours were bestowed upon him,

and with fewer obstacles in his way he now made fresh flights.

But perhaps his greatest triumphs were in Spain, the king of which

country gave him a residence in the royal palace at Madrid. Here, on

January 8th, 1793, he made a grand ascent, taking with him a number of

carrier pigeons. In the car of his balloon he wrote particulars of all

he saw, with as much ease as he would have done in his study. Carefully

folding the manuscript, he sent it on by one of the pigeons to the

governor of Madrid. It was the first time that the world had ever known

of a post-office in the sky, but, for all that, the letter was delivered

as promptly as any one could wish.

Lunardi's cruises in the clouds were sometimes attended by great danger,

particularly one he made in Portugal, on August 24th, 1794. It was a

windy day, and when, on nearing the earth, he threw out the anchor, the

rope snapped as it caught against a tree. The balloon rose to a height

of three miles, and fearing that he would be blown out to sea, Lunardi

pulled the valve-rope. Unfortunately this broke too, but enough gas

escaped to cause the balloon to descend rapidly. A quarter of an hour

later the car struck the ground with great violence, and a sack,

weighing twenty pounds, was jolted out. Relieved of this weight it rose

again, but less powerfully, and Lunardi found himself, a little later,

being dragged and bumped along the ground at a great pace. Some ignorant

peasants, terrified by the balloon, ran for their guns, and the poor

aeronaut was treated to a shower of bullets. Fortunately, the speed soon

carried him out of range; then, seizing an opportunity, he leapt from

the car, among a tumbling mass of ballast and scientific instruments.

When he found his feet, it was to see the balloon sailing at a great

height towards the sea, and a few minutes later it disappeared from his

sight for ever.

JOHN LEA.

[Illustration: The First Post-office in the Sky.]

[Illustration: ALL HANDS TO THE PUMP.]

[Illustration: "We were driven away from that truly hospitable house."]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Concluded from page 188._)

'There was nothing more to be done,' continued Captain Knowlton, 'till I

reached England. Of course I had no idea that Mr. Turton had taken Mr.

Windlesham's place at Ascot House. I reached Southampton yesterday,

travelled direct from there to Castlemore without touching London, and

saw Mr. Turton. It appears that he opened my telegram the day after you

ran away, Everard. By-the-bye,' demanded Captain Knowlton, 'I should

like to hear just why you did run away?'

'When they thought you were dead,' I answered, 'and that my school bill

would not be paid, and I should be left on their hands, they began to

treat me as if I were a servant. I did not believe I should ever see you

again; I knew I wasn't wanted there; I--I couldn't stand it, and I ran

away.'

'Well,' continued Captain Knowlton, 'Mr. Turton didn't seem to know

exactly what to say for himself. He explained, however, that he had paid

Mr. Windlesham a long price for the goodwill of the school, and that he

reckoned you as one of the most profitable pupils. He could ill afford

the loss of your account, to say nothing of your being left on his hands

to lodge and feed. Yet he assured me he had no intention to turn you

out, although he saw no harm, in all the circumstances, in making you

useful.'

'Still,' I exclaimed, 'he need not have made me black Augustus's boots.'

'That,' said Mr. Westlake, 'was evidently the last straw.'

I noticed that Jacintha watched Captain Knowlton's face with some

anxiety, thinking, perhaps, that he would show signs of displeasure at

my flight.

'Mr. Turton admits,' he continued, 'that since you had taken the law

into your own hands, he made no effort to overtake you until the arrival

of my telegram. Then, imagining you had turned towards London, he took

the train to various towns on the way, and no doubt did his utmost to

find you.'

'Oh!' cried Jacintha, abruptly.

'Well,' asked Mr. Westlake, 'what is it?'

'If I had told Mr. Turton where Everard was hiding,' she said, 'he would

have explained that Captain Knowlton was alive, and everything would

have been all right!'

'All's well that ends well!' remarked Captain Knowlton.

'Everard did not think it would end well the day before yesterday,'

cried Jacintha.

'The night is often the darkest just before dawn,' said her mother; but

for my own part I kept silent, for, looking back only a few days, and

recollecting what had been the outlook, I felt afraid of making an idiot

of myself if I ventured to open my lips.

'I gave Mr. Turton a cheque,' said Captain Knowlton, 'and I am afraid I

lost my temper. I saw the real state of affairs, and reckoned him up so

candidly that we did not part very good friends.'

'You certainly made an impression on him,' cried Mr. Westlake. 'He began

a long rigmarole when I explained my business this morning, but the main

point of it was that you had turned up and addressed him in language

which he really could not describe as polite.'

'No,' admitted Captain Knowlton, gazing at the tip of his cigar, 'I am

afraid he really couldn't.'

'He gave me the name of your hotel,' Mr. Westlake continued, 'and,

taking the next train to London, I was driven at once to Northumberland

Avenue, where luckily I found you at home.'

'I had just come back from an interview with my lawyer,' said Captain

Knowlton. 'Of course, I was very anxious to discover what had become of

this youngster, and, in fact,' he added, 'a private detective is already

looking for him, and to-morrow morning he will see himself advertised

for in every London newspaper.'

'A day after the fair!' cried Mrs. Westlake.

'And that,' said her husband, 'is about the end of the tale.'

'Not quite,' answered Captain Knowlton, rising from his arm-chair. 'The

most important thing remains to be done, and the most difficult.'

'That is all right, Knowlton,' said Mr. Westlake.

But Captain Knowlton paid no attention. 'I should very much like to

know,' he said, 'how to thank you kind people for all you have done.'

'Remember,' suggested Mrs. Westlake, 'that if Jacintha had acted

properly, the worst troubles would have been avoided.'

'In my opinion,' said Captain Knowlton, 'Jacintha is a brick. I

understand,' he continued, 'that you would rather not be thanked. All

the same I shall never forget your kindness, and I hope Everard will not

either.'

'No--no fear,' I muttered as I rose, trying to smile, and failing in the

most lamentable manner. But there seemed to be a general desire to treat

the affair lightly; we shook hands all round, the butler whistled for a

hansom, and appeared pleased with the tip which Captain Knowlton pressed

into his hand. So we were driven away from that truly hospitable house,

and that night I slept in a comfortable room at a great hotel in

Northumberland Avenue; the next morning being given up to various visits

to the tailor's, the hatter's, the hosier's, and so forth. After

luncheon, Captain Knowlton took me to his room and insisted that I

should once more relate my adventures from beginning to end; and, when

this was reached, we set out for New Scotland Yard, where in a private

room I was called upon to tell all I knew about Mr. Parsons and his

companions in the presence of an officer in plain clothes.

When I had finished, Captain Knowlton begged the police officer, if

possible, to dispense with my appearance as a witness. A few days later

we heard that Parsons, Loveridge, and another man had been arrested,

although I believe not at the house where I had passed so many miserable

hours. On investigation, it proved that there was evidence to convict

them without my aid, and although the trial did not take place for some

time, the three men were eventually sentenced to terms of imprisonment

which would prevent them from preying upon the public for many years to

come.

Captain Knowlton consulted Mr. Westlake about the choice of my next

school, with the result that a few weeks later found me settled at

Richmond with the 'crammer' who was expected to do great things for

Dick. Dick and I soon became the best of chums, and, later on, it

happened that we entered Sandhurst together, and were in due course

gazetted to our respective regiments the same month.

Shortly afterwards, we sailed for South Africa within a few days of each

other, and there, at Paardeberg, I received an unwelcome Mauser bullet

in my left thigh. While on sick leave at Capetown, waiting until it is

possible to rejoin my regiment at the front, I have passed the time by

writing this account of my adventures; and, now it is finished, it will

shortly be on its way to England, whither, if all go well, I hope,

before very many months have passed, to follow it.

THE END.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

9.--TRANSPOSITIONS.

These are the names of two famous soldiers, sailors, poets, novelists,

and two queens.

1. EGLLINNOTW.

2. ABGHMLOORRU.

3. ELNNOS.

4. ABEKL.

5. AAEEEHKPRSS.

6. ENNNOSTY.

7. COSTT.

8. CDEIKNS.

9. ABEEHILTZ.

10. ACIIORTV.

[_Answers on page 230._]

* * * * *

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 167.

8.--1. Cake.

2. Lake.

3. Rake.

4. Sake.

5. Take.

6. Wake.

A CENTRAL AFRICAN CAKE.

'Hiplay! lu--lu--lu--lu!'[3] some coal-black natives shouted joyously as

they stood by the shore of Lake Nyasa, and saw across the blue waters

what a European would have taken for water-spouts, or pillars of smoke.

But the natives knew better! Those great pillars darkening the air were

dense masses of that African delicacy, the Nkungu fly.

The men hurriedly seized the saucer-shaped baskets which they had with

them, and waved them round their heads till they were full of flies.

The next thing to do was to crush the flies in their hands, roll them in

leaves, and lay them to roast in the ashes of a wood fire.

When finished the mass looked rather like coffee-grounds, and tasted

like liquorice.

This is the only cake a Central African ever makes for himself. English

people would hardly want to rob him of it, but to him it is delicious.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] This is the Central African way of shouting 'Hurrah!'

THE WEATHER SPRITES.

LAST NIGHT.

The Weather Sprites in slumber lie,

'Tis plain as plain can be,

For clouds have hidden all the sky--

A mist is on the sea,

They laid the brooms of wind away

Before the day was done,

And left a curtain, dull and grey,

To hide the setting sun.

'Wake, Weather Sprites! oh, wake again!

You slumber all too soon,

And, look you, drawn by imps of rain

A ring is round the moon.

With all your might rub out the ring,

Mop all this rain away,

For such a night can only bring

An even duller day.'

THIS MORNING.

Then through the darkness, ere I slept,

I heard them passing by;

Across the roof their brushes swept,

Then cleared the misty sky.

They mopped away with all their might,

And dried the garden soon;

While busy dusters rubbed from sight

The ring around the moon.

And as I throw the shutter wide,

And look out at the dawn,

The garden paths are neatly dried,

And all the clouds are gone.

But hark, where in the morning light

Yon chestnut lifts its dome,

I hear the last, last Weather Sprite

Dragging her broomstick home.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

VI.--THE ROCK TEMPLES OF AJUNTA AND ELLORA.

On one of India's loneliest glens, called Ajunta, travellers come upon a

perfect settlement of buildings and temples, cut in the face of a

semicircle of cliffs about two hundred and fifty feet high. Over the

cliff leaps a brawling river, making seven distinct falls before

reaching the valley below.

From a distance only pillared fronts appear, but on a closer view the

real grandeur and beauty of the temples come to light. The inside walls

are covered with paintings, well drawn, and fairly well preserved. The

pictures chiefly illustrate the life of Buddha, and the sacred tree

beneath which he used to sit often appears in them, hung with rich gifts

from his followers. The good works which he did for the poor and

suffering are constantly painted. Other paintings show hunting scenes

and battles, drawn with great vigour and of huge size; others have

pictures of peacocks, elephants, apes, and other animals.

The architecture of these caves is very fine. We can hardly imagine the

enormous labour of cutting out the deep ribs of the roof, the light

twisted pillars, and elaborate framework for pictures which adorn the

galleries. The marvel is how human hands could have done such work,

especially when we remember that the natives of India, like those of

Egypt, who did great feats in rock architecture, had the smallest and

most delicately-shaped hands of all human races.

[Illustration: The Rock Temple of Kailus at Ellora.]

There are thirty-four distinct rock-temples at Ellora, near Aurangabad,

in India. Most of them are of the usual pattern of cave-temples, some

the work of Buddhists, others of a sect called Jains, who are famous for

kindness to animals. The more modern ones are built by Brahmins, and

these are the true marvels of Ellora, though they can hardly be

accounted as cave-temples, being cut bodily out of the rock outside as

well as inside. The way in which these monuments of industry were

probably built was as follows:--The builders first marked off a large

square of the cliff, and outside this square dug a wide deep trench,

leaving an immense mass of stone standing in the centre. Out of this

mass, which may or may not have contained natural caverns, they cut a

magnificent temple, standing on a raised platform, and adorned with

domes, galleries, colossal statues of animals and the richest forms of

ornament. Fancy the patient toil, lasting year after year, even when the

outside was finished, of scooping out the interior, with its great halls

and passages!

The most wonderful of these temples is called 'Kailus,' and is dedicated

to Siva the Destroyer. It has a great court, in which are ponds,

obelisks, figures of the Sphinx, and other ornaments, whilst in the

middle stands an immense group of elephants. Above these huge creatures,

rows of stately columns, in four tiers, one above the other, support the

actual temple, and the effect is so light that the building seems to be

hung in the air.

Kailus is the sacred mountain in Thibet, from which flow the four great

rivers of India, and every year thousands of pilgrims toil in solemn

procession round its ice-covered rocks, to bathe in the waters of the

sacred Lake Manseroeur, which lies below.

HELENA HEATH.

[Illustration: An Eastern Snake Charmer.]

EASTERN JUGGLERS.

Some True Anecdotes of Wonderful Feats.

Eastern kings and princes are careful, like those of Western countries,

that those visitors who come to them should have amusements. There is no

difficulty, at any time, in obtaining performers with snakes, for

serpent charmers and trainers are well-known and popular. The

fearlessness these men show is amazing; it has been said, indeed, that

they operate only with harmless snakes, or those deprived of their

fangs, but there seems to be evidence they can manage poisonous reptiles

in good condition for stinging. The charmers probably influence the

snakes in three ways--by music, by fumes arising from substances they

burn in a dish, and also by certain movements of their own bodies.

Sometimes they practise a sort of fortune-telling by snakes, the motion

of the reptile's head towards some object being supposed to give an

answer to a question.

A show of wild animals, too, often furnishes an entertainment, and

sometimes, after the animals have performed various tricks, or have had

mock fights, there is a second part consisting of conjuring and feats of

agility. A traveller in the East, describing one of these

entertainments, tells us of one Hindoo whom he saw, with very stout arms

but rather thin legs. He was bare to the waist, wearing white trousers

and a smart skull-cap of blue and yellow silk. A slight yet firm ladder

was placed upright; across the top was a strong pole, and at each end of

the pole a stout cord hung down. The ends of the cords were staked to

the ground, so that the apparatus could not give way. Having made a

salaam to the spectators, the Hindoo began his operations.

Rubbing his hands together, the juggler went to the ladder, and grasping

the first bar above his head, mounted with surprising activity, keeping

his feet motionless about six inches from the frame. Having reached the

top by the help of his hands only, he threw his feet upward, and was

seen resting upon his head with his arms crossed over his chest and his

legs closed. Thus he remained motionless for over a minute. Next, a cord

being flung to him from below, he caught it and drew up an iron ball

about six pounds in weight, enclosed in a netting of twine. Still

remaining upon his head, the Hindoo raised the ball to about three yards

from his hand, and then swung it circularly; after a few whirls he

launched it through the air, sending it a long distance over the heads

of the spectators. His next performance was even more startling. First,

he dexterously laid himself upon his back along the pole on top of the

ladder. Thus balanced, he had six native daggers, with broad,

double-edged blades, thrown to him, and caught each one in turn. Having

got them all, he threw them one by one several yards above his head,

catching them as they fell, and having always four in the air at the

same moment. After a few minutes he let all the daggers drop upon his

body, with the blades uppermost.

His next feat was, if possible, still more remarkable. An iron rod about

three feet long was stood upright on the pole; upon the top of it he

rested a large, shallow, wooden bowl, holding the rod balanced so

exactly that it kept quite perpendicular. With a sudden jump, the

performer seated himself in this bowl and caught twelve brass balls

thrown up to him. Projecting the whole lot into the air, he kept them

constantly in motion for several minutes, then sprang to his feet and

_stood_ in the bowl with the balls spinning round him. After a few

minutes he jumped upon the pole, letting the balls, the rod, and the

bowl drop to the ground. As a finish, the little man descended the

ladder upon his hands, going head first, and amid shouts of applause

bowed and retired.

J. R. S. C.

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.

(_Continued from page 190._)