From the clothes shop Charlie went to the Fishermen's Home, where he
found his bow-legged friend.
'Well,' Charlie said, when they were alone, 'what do you think of my
rig-out?'
'No good at all, sir,' the fisherman declared.
'Why not?' Charlie asked, somewhat astonished.
'Because, when you are cooking, the fewer things you have on the better
you work. When you have a oven each side of you----'
'Are you a cook, then?' Charlie interrupted.
'Yes, sir.'
'Then why did you not tell me so? I can't go aboard the _Sparrow-hawk_
as a cook, for I have never cooked anything but chestnuts in my life.'
'That doesn't matter, sir. North Sea fishermen are not very particular.
The great thing to remember is always to serve up a meal at the proper
time. If it isn't done, don't keep them waiting, but let them have it
underdone. Never let your fire go out day or night, and always keep your
kettle boiling.'
'Do the fellows ever want pudding?'
'Plum duff three times a week.'
'I shall have to give up the job, then, for I couldn't make plum duff to
save my life.'
'That's just what I used to say when I first went as cook aboard ship,
but I had a shot at it, and a nice mess I made of it. But when I came
home from that trip I gave another cook a shilling to teach me how to
make a few fancy things, and now I'm thought as good a cook as any in
the North Sea.'
'But you know how to make plum duff. I don't.'
'I will tell you. When I discovered how to make anything, I put the
particulars down in writing in a little book. I will lend you the book.'
The bow-legged cook put his hand in his pocket and drew out a grimy,
paper-covered note-book.
'Plum duff comes first,' he said, as he handed the book to Charlie. 'Can
you read it?'
'There are a few words which I can't quite understand,' Charlie replied,
for the cookery-book was an extraordinary work. The writing was bad, the
spelling was worse, and the abbreviations were confusing. But the cook
went right through the book with him then and there.
'Now you'll be able to cook anything,' he declared, when they had got to
the end.
'I'm not so sure of that,' Charlie answered; 'but anyhow, I shall have
some idea of how to set to work. What time to-morrow shall I have to be
aboard?'
'At six in the morning.'
'Won't the skipper discover me before we get out of the river?'
'No. He doesn't often pop his head into the galley. Anyhow, he cannot do
without a cook, and if he does see you, he won't turn you off when he
finds that I am not aboard. I will write a letter to the mate for you to
give him, and perhaps he won't say a word to the skipper about you.
Don't you worry yourself, you will be all right.'
Charlie slept that night at the Fishermen's Home. He had a clean and
comfortable bed for ninepence, and a good breakfast for a few coppers.
The bow-legged cook met him in the morning outside the Home, and gave
him a letter to the mate.
'It took me two hours to write,' he declared, 'and when I finished it I
didn't think it was worth while going to sleep. But that doesn't matter;
I shall get plenty of sleep during the next few weeks. I'm going to live
like a gentleman for a time.'
Charlie smiled, and drew his purse out of his pocket. 'Here is three
pounds,' he said. 'The other three I will give you when I return.'
'Suppose you don't return, sir? Accidents happen at sea as well as on
land. If you got washed overboard, should I lose my three pounds?'
'Oh, no. I have written to my father, telling him the agreement I have
made with you, and if I should not return he will pay you the money.
Here is his address.'
'Thank you, sir, very much,' the cook answered. 'And now, as it's a
quarter to six, you had better hurry off to the _Sparrow-hawk_. Light
the fire and put the kettle on it directly you get aboard. The chaps
will want some tea long before they have their breakfast.'
'I'll remember,' Charlie promised; 'good-bye.' And with his bundle of
belongings on his shoulder, he hurried off to where the _Sparrow-hawk_
lay.
'Where is the mate?' Charlie inquired of a boy who looked at him sharply
as he went aboard the _Sparrow-hawk_.
'For'ard,' the boy answered.
Charlie went for'ard, and seeing a man standing with his arms folded,
watching three men who were working hard, concluded rightly that he was
the mate, and handed him the cook's letter.
'Who is it from?' the mate asked.
'The cook, sir,' Charlie answered.
The mate tore open the envelope and glanced at the letter. 'He wrote it
with a toasting-fork, I should think,' the mate declared, after looking
at it for a few moments. 'He says he is ill. At any rate, he has not
turned up. So you're his substitute? Well, take your things below and
get into the galley sharp. I want a mug of tea as soon as possible.'
Charlie went down into the foc's'le--a small, dark, stifling place where
eight men slept. The thought of having to spend his nights in that
dirty, close den made him half-inclined to jump ashore before the boat
started. Quickly overcoming the thought, he set to work to discover
which was his bunk, and while he was searching for some sign that would
help him to settle the matter, a Chinaman came below. He was dressed in
ordinary North Sea fishermen's clothes, and his pigtail was wound
tightly round the top of his head. Charlie mistook his natural
expression for a friendly smile, and therefore smiled in return.
'Which is the cook's bunk?' he asked immediately, and the Chinaman
pointed it out to him.
The Chinaman watched Charlie as he stowed his things away and donned his
cook's apron. Then he exclaimed suddenly, 'You no sailor-man!'
Charlie looked at the Chinaman in surprise. 'How can you tell?' he
asked.
'Never mind,' the Chinaman answered, now smiling in reality; 'me no
tellee any one. Me likee you first chop.'
Charlie's knowledge of 'pidgin' English was slight, but he concluded
that 'first chop' meant 'very much,' and was pleased to find that he had
made one friend so quickly.
'My name Ping Wang,' the Chinaman continued, 'but sailor men callee me
Chinee. Skipper Dlummond welly bad man. Callee me tellible bad names.
Good morning; no can stop.'
Ping Wang went on deck, and a few moments later Charlie followed and
hurried to the galley, where his difficulties commenced. In spite of all
his efforts he could not light the fire, and, remembering the bow-leg
cook's injunction to keep the kettle always boiling, he began to think
that he was making a very bad start. He left the galley in order to ask
one of the men to show him how to make the fire burn, and met Ping Wang.
'Can tellee me how lightee fire?' Charlie asked.
Ping Wang nodded his head, popped into the galley, and pointed out to
Charlie that he had omitted to pull out the damper. Then he relaid the
fire, and, when he lighted it, it burned up quickly.
'You no sailor-man; you no cook!' Ping Wang whispered merrily, and then
hurried away.
'Ping Wang and I will get on very well together,' Charlie said to
himself as he filled the huge kettle with water. The kettle boiled
quickly, and almost immediately after the ship had left the dock the
mate's mug of tea was ready.
'Have you given the skipper any?' the mate asked; and when Charlie
replied 'No,' he exclaimed, 'You had better be quick and take him some,
then.'
Charlie filled another mug with tea and took it up on the bridge, but,
just as he reached the top step of the ladder, he stumbled, and, to
prevent himself from falling, dropped the mug. It fell with a crash on
the bridge, and the tea splashed the skipper's shore trousers, which he
had not yet changed.
Skipper Drummond, a short, stout, ill-tempered fellow, was thoroughly
disliked by every one who knew him. He glared at Charlie for a moment as
if he had committed some terrible offence, and then shouted fiercely
'What did you do that for, you idiot?'
'It was an accident,' Charlie answered bluntly, indignant at being
abused.
'Saying it was an accident won't mend the mug.'
'I will pay for a new one,' Charlie rather unwisely replied.
'Pay for it, will you? So we have got a millionaire aboard, I suppose. I
wonder you ever came to sea. Why did you? Do the police want you?'
Feeling that if he remained on the bridge he might speak his mind too
freely, Charlie turned to go, but the skipper called him back.
'Come here, you ape!' he shouted. 'Do you think I am going to pick up
these pieces? Gather them up and throw them overboard.'
(_Continued on page 202._)
[Illustration: "The mug fell with a crash on the bridge."]
[Illustration: "The skipper glanced at his watch."]
AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.
A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.
(_Continued from page 199._)
As soon as Charlie had filled another mug with tea, he hurried back to
the bridge.
'You have been a fine long time getting this,' the skipper declared,
anxious to resume bullying. But Charlie was determined not to give him
an occasion for fault-finding, and therefore he made no reply; but, as
he walked back to his galley, he vowed to himself that, do what he
might, the skipper should not have the satisfaction of making him
miserable. Already he had come to the conclusion that the man was
dishonourable, and was more than ever determined to find out to what
extent he hoped to defraud his father. He found that the galley
contained very few cooking utensils, but the need of them was not likely
to be felt that voyage, as the provisions consisted almost entirely of
tinned meats. There was not even one joint of fresh or salted meat
aboard. Charlie, therefore, did not have much difficulty in preparing
the dinner, as each tin of provisions bore instructions for the cooking
of its contents. Punctually at one o'clock he took a plate of
mock-turtle soup to the skipper, who was then in his cabin under the
bridge.
As Charlie entered, the skipper glanced at his watch hanging on a nail
at the side of his bunk; but, finding that he could not abuse him on the
ground of being late, he contented himself with scowling. But, a few
moments later, he pretended that he had a real cause for complaint.
When Charlie returned with the next course the skipper said, sharply:
'Look here, young fellow, don't you be so generous with other people's
things. There is enough meat for two men here. I'll eat it this time,
but remember I won't have any waste on this trawler. I know exactly what
provisions you have, and if they go too quickly, I shall give you in
charge for robbery. So just you be careful.'
Charlie had not given the skipper a very big allowance of food, and was
naturally surprised at the reprimand which he had received. Had he known
that the skipper had a private stock of provisions, kept under lock and
key in his cabin, he would not have been surprised at his small
appetite.
'Can I bring you anything more, Sir?' Charlie asked.
'No,' the skipper replied, 'and don't you come bothering for these
things until after two o'clock.'
That order was given so that Charlie should not return until he had
removed all traces of his private provisions.
Glad to have finished for a time with the skipper, Charlie, with the aid
of the ship's boy, carried the men's food to the foc's'le. There was no
mock-turtle soup for them, but simply tinned meat, boiled and floating
in brown liquid.
The crew of the _Sparrow-hawk_ were a brutal, low-minded set of men, and
their conversation sickened Charlie even more than the discomfort of his
life; so, after swallowing a few mouthfuls of the food, he went on deck,
and, going aft, sat down on a coil of rope to think.
When he had been there about ten minutes Ping Wang joined him.
'This is the first time you have been to sea on a trawler,' the Chinaman
declared as he sat down beside him.
'How do you know?' Charlie asked, astounded to find that Ping Wang could
speak excellent English.
'I could see that you were surprised at the way in which the men eat and
talked. If you had known that they behaved in that manner, you would not
have come to sea.'
'That is very likely,' Charlie admitted.
'Why have you come?' Ping Wang inquired.
'One must do something for a living.'
'You could have got a better job ashore. I am certain of that. You have
come to sea for fun.'
'If I had, I fancy that I should be disappointed.'
'The skipper has been bullying you, I suppose. He bullies every one.'
'Yes, he has been bullying me, but I will let him know very soon that I
won't stand much of it.'
'I advise you not to quarrel with him. I should not have come aboard
this trip had I known that he was coming. He told us last voyage that
that was his last trip.'
'Where did he expect to be? In jail?'
'No,' the Chinaman answered, smiling; 'he said that he was going to
retire. He was going to sell the trawler to some rich old fellow who
knows nothing about such things. The mate told me that the skipper hopes
to get half as much again as the trawler was worth. Last trip he cut
down expenses, and he is doing the same again now, so that the gentleman
who is buying her will think the cost of running a trawler is less than
it is. We are a hand short this trip.'
'Is the trawler a sound boat?'
'This is the only one I have ever been on, but the fellows on the
foc's'le say that she is the rottenest trawler on the North Sea. The
engines are patched up, and they have to be very careful of them.'
'Then the skipper intends to swindle the man over the sale of her?'
'Of course he does.'
'I hope that the man won't buy her.'
'So do I, but the skipper is confident that he will. If he doesn't, the
skipper's temper will be worse than ever next voyage. I shall take very
good care not to make another trip with him.'
'Do you like a fisherman's life?'
'No. I dislike it very much indeed.'
'Then why are you aboard this ship?'
'Did you not tell me that one must do something for a living?'
'That is true; but, at the same time, I cannot understand why an
educated Chinaman should travel so many thousands of miles to become a
fisherman.'
'I came to England to make my fortune,' Ping Wang declared. 'I thought
that when I got to London, I should be able, having an English
education, to get employment in the office of some merchant doing
business with China. But I soon found that nobody wanted me. The only
offers I received were not to my liking. One was a place in a laundry,
and the other was to stand outside a tea merchant's and distribute
bills. No one seemed to think that it was possible for a Chinaman to be
a gentleman, or to have any self-respect. At last, when all my money was
gone, I got a job as steward on board a pleasure boat. The owner became
bankrupt, and I was paid off at Yarmouth. I walked from Yarmouth to
Grimsby, and, after I had been hanging about the docks for a few days,
the skipper of this boat took me on.'
'Then he is not such a heartless brute as I imagined,' Charlie remarked.
'It was not out of compassion that he took me,' Ping Wang answered. 'He
said that as I had never been on a trawler, he would have to give me
small wages. After I had been at sea three days I could do my work as
well as any of the other men, but I only received half the wages that
they did. He knew very well that I should be able to do my work after a
few days' practice, and by taking me on he made a saving in his wages
bill. This trip he is giving me three-quarters of what he pays the other
men. We were only in dock for two or three days, and I had no time to
find another job, but I have made up my mind never to go to sea again on
a trawler, even if I have to starve. When we get back to Grimsby I shall
go to London, and see if the Chinese Embassy or the Home for Asiatics
will pay my passage home. I am afraid, however, that they will not
believe my story of being able to repay them, and I do not desire
charity. In fact, now I come to think of it, it would be very foolish of
me to tell my story to the people at the Embassy.'
'Is it, then, such a wonderful story?'
'An Englishman would think so, but a Chinaman would not.'
For a few minutes Ping Wang was deep in thought, and Charlie got up to
look at a passing Norwegian ship. When he returned to his seat on the
coil of rope, Ping Wang said to him suddenly, 'Have you any Chinese
friends?'
'No.'
'Have you any English friends living in China?'
'No.'
Ping Wang gave a slight sigh of relief.
'Then, if you will promise not to repeat what I tell you,' he said, 'you
shall hear my story.'
'I promise,' Charlie answered. 'But I hope that you are not going to
tell me any anti-European plots.'
(_Continued on page 214._)
RICE-PAPER.
Chinese rice-paper is a thing which we frequently hear of, but do not
often see. It is very curious and pretty, but far too frail for most of
the uses to which we put our English paper; and, for this reason, it has
no commercial value in European countries, and is only brought away by
travellers and traders as a curiosity.
The rice-paper which I have seen was cut into small squares about three
by two inches, each of which had a beautiful coloured picture of a
Chinese man or woman. The paper was very white and thin, slightly rough,
like blotting-paper, stiff and brittle. It was impossible to fold it,
as the least effort to bend the sheet broke it in two. The pictures upon
these little sheets had evidently been painted by hand, and were very
beautiful and interesting. The surface of the paint was bright and
clear, and the paper was transparent enough to permit the picture to be
seen from the back, with all its colours and details only a little
dimmed, as if seen through a thin sheet of ground glass.
Notwithstanding its name, rice-paper has really nothing to do with rice.
It is not made from rice, nor even from the rice plant, but from the
pith of a kind of ivy, the _Aralia papyrifera_, which grows abundantly
in the island of Formosa. This _Aralia_ is not much like our English
ivy. It is, in fact, a small tree, which may attain a height of twenty
or thirty feet, and is crowned with a number of large leaves, shaped
like those of the sycamore. It bears clusters of small, pale yellow
flowers, which contrast beautifully with the dark green foliage. The
stem is ringed with the marks of the fallen leaves, very like the stems
of the castor-oil plants which are often seen in pots in England.
The stem of the rice-paper plant is hollow, and filled with a pith
which, though it is rather broken in the centre, is firm and compact
outside. After the tree has reached a certain age, the pith becomes less
serviceable, and so the tree is usually cut down when it is about twelve
feet high, before it has attained its full growth. The stem is cut into
lengths of nine or twelve inches each, and the pith is pushed out by
inserting a stick at one end, and hammering it through the core of the
tree. The little rolls of pith obtained in this way are placed in hollow
bamboos, which permit them to swell a little, but prevent them from
curling up as they dry. When properly dried, they are ready for the
cutting, which is the really skilful part of the making of rice-paper.
The man who cuts up the pith has a long, sharp knife, which he places
against the side of the roll of pith in such a way that it will take off
a thin paring as he turns the roll round and round. It is like paring
off the bark of a log by rolling it round against a sharp knife, with
these differences, however, that the paring is as thin as paper, and
that it is part of the log itself, and goes on until the broken centre
is reached. The parings, or sheets, when stripped off, are about four
feet long, and they are placed one upon the other and pressed, after
which they are cut into squares like those described above. The squares
are made up into packets of one hundred each, which the Chinese sell for
five or six farthings a packet. Many of these little squares are dyed or
stained different colours, and are used for making little artificial
flowers; others, as we have already seen, are covered with little
pictures, representing sometimes the people and the costumes of China,
and sometimes the birds, butterflies, and animals of that country.
There are a few other trees or plants which yield a pith from which
rice-paper can be made; but the _Aralia_ is the most important. Though
the tree grows best in the northern part of Formosa, the paper is made
less by the Formosans than by the Chinese, who barter their goods for
the rice-paper trees or logs.
[Illustration: "How it tasted--well, I've never heard!"]
TOO TEMPTING TO BE LOST.
A fox one day had left his cosy den,
And wandered forth amid the haunts of men.
What did he want? Of course he wanted food--
A tender duck, or something quite as good;
But though he wandered far and wandered near,
No duckling could he see his heart to cheer.
Through fields and copses did the poor fox go,
With hungry longings and a heart of woe.
Thought he, 'It's very plain that dainty food
I cannot find to-day; still, something good
May yet turn up. But stay! what's that I see
Hanging asleep upon the old ash-tree?
'I do declare the creature is a crow--
Not very tempting to the taste, I know;
But still, if nothing better can be had,
Perhaps it may not taste so very bad.
So up at once he jumped, and seized the bird,
But how it tasted--well, I've never heard!
M. K.
[Illustration: A Corner of Hyde Park.]
THE PARKS OF LONDON.
I.
I wonder if you who read this are a Londoner, and, if so, whether you
have ever sailed paper boats on the Serpentine? Can you remember
watching your fleet of snowy paper spreading their white wings and
sailing away into the far distance, after the manner of Christopher
Columbus or Vasco di Gama? Or have you seen your toy ships driven by
fierce winds on to a lee shore bristling with cruel crags and yawning
clefts?
A very ocean it is, no doubt, to the feathered creatures that float upon
its waters, shelter beneath its rush-lined banks, and spend their whole
family life within its borders. Here the babies are born, and here the
tiny birds take their first airings--some perched on their mother's
back, some swimming beside her without a thought of danger. Nothing is
more delightful to the children of all classes who daily throng the park
than a family of ducklings having their first lesson in the way to take
care of themselves. One way or another, the duck tribe come in for more
practical attention than all the other birds put together; for most
people like to have their kindness warmly met, and no duck ever says
'No' to an offer of food.
Once in a way a stately swan may condescend to pick up a bit of bun or
biscuit, but it is done with such a proud air, that the duck's ready
gratitude and eagerness is more attractive. Here and there, in very
quiet nooks overlooking the water, may be seen a group of bunnies,
nibbling some dainty weed, and far too much at home to pay attention to
the warlike looks and noisy cries of Father Duck, who clearly thinks his
family is in danger.
On the right of the Serpentine towards the north, a wide slope of grass
and trees above the water has been fenced off for the benefit of the
Peacock family, and these are objects of great interest to admirers of
all ages. The males come in for most attention, owing to their beauty.
It is a very droll sight to see Mr. Peacock, with gorgeous tail and
crest fully outspread, his richly coloured breast and neck gleaming in
the sunlight, bowing, strutting, and scraping before the peahen whom he
admires. On this same ground moorhens and other shy aquatic birds make
their home in bush and sedge, from time to time crossing the open grass,
evidently aware of their safety, but taking little interest in the
lookers-on.
Memories of the past have very much to do with this oldest of the
national parks. The Serpentine recalls to us one of London's lost
rivers, the Westbourne, the current of which still helps to swell its
volume of water. Rising in the Hampstead heights, and passing the
villages of Paddington and Kensington, this stream flowed through and
often overflowed the pleasant Manor of Hyde, which then belonged to the
rich Abbey of Westminster, and from which the present park takes its
name.
Good Queen Bess thought her own amusement and that of her courtiers of
more importance than the enjoyment of the common folk, and filled the
park with antlered stag and timid deer, while for many a long day the
merry 'toot, toot' of the hunter's horn echoed amongst its glades, until
merriment vanished before the grim tragedy of King Charles's execution
in 1649. Then for twenty years and more the stately avenues were quiet
and peaceful, and little children played beside the river until Cromwell
died and Charles II. 'came to his own again.' Nothing less than turning
the park into a race-course would content the new king, and the
enclosure echoed with the sound of galloping horses, whilst an army of
men with pick and shovel cleared and cut out the circular drive now
known as Rotten Row, a name which is supposed by some to be a
corruption of the French 'Route du Roi' (King's Way).
North-east of the park, close to where the Marble Arch now stands, was a
plot of ground connected with more horrors than could be found elsewhere
in England. This was the site of the famous Tyburn Tree--London's
hanging-place in the days of old, when even a child might be hanged for
stealing a few pence. Many a procession of carts came from Newgate in
the City, laden with men, women, boys, and girls, followed by an excited
crowd eager to watch the execution. Round the gallows galleries were
erected and let out at high cost to fashionable folk--fine ladies and
gay gallants all ready for the show. Happily humanity has made progress
in the last century, and such dreadful sights have long been done away
with.
William III., like most of his Dutch relations, was a great gardener,
and cut quite a large slice out of Hyde Park to improve the gardens of
Kensington Palace, where he and Queen Mary made their home. At the same
time he made a great many improvements in the actual park, although for
the Serpentine we have to thank Queen Caroline, wife of George II.
Since then Hyde Park has always been the playground of the rank and
fashion of the United Kingdom, and nowhere else in England can such
numbers of magnificent carriages and horses be seen as here in the
season. The alleys bordering the drives are filled on summer afternoons
with thousands of well-dressed people--many perhaps admiring the
splendid clumps of rhododendrons, which form one of the sights of the
park in early summer. The rich, too, are not the only people who
appreciate this national playing-place. Thousands of poorly-clad women
bring their white-faced children from crowded courts and alleys to enjoy
the fresh air, and unlimited room in which to play.
Turn where we will, Hyde Park is, in our times, a scene of peaceful rest
both of body and mind for weary citizens. Yet matters far less suitable
to its beautiful surroundings have often disturbed its peace. In the
days of duelling, the north side beneath the trees was a favourite place
of meeting. Here on a Sunday in 1712, the first Duke of Hamilton, a
statesman who could ill be spared by his country, engaged Lord Mohun,
and both adversaries were carried dead from the field.
As we stand on the bridge, looking down and watching the quiet water,
with all its living things, and the rabbits in their corner, it seems
hard to believe that we are in the midst of a maze of human dwellings,
and that miles and miles of busy streets surround us. But pause and
listen awhile, and you will hear, above the music of the birds, the ring
of voices and echoes of children's laughter, above the dull hum of
well-hung carriages and pattering of horses' feet, a never-ending
roar--the sound of the greatest city the world has ever seen. All round
us, shut off only by a little space of grass and trees, lie its
pleasures and its miseries.
SERVED HER RIGHT.
Founded on Fact.
Not long ago there was a story told of a young girl whose kindness to an
old man brought her a great reward. She was in the crowd upon the
occasion of Queen Victoria's first Jubilee, and observed a rather
shabbily dressed old gentleman who appeared to be ill. Taking him by the
arm, she made a way for him through the dense throng of people, and got
him safely into a quiet street. There he explained to her that he had a
weak heart, and that he had foolishly ventured out sight-seeing, but the
excitement and the closeness had made him faint. He thanked the girl
warmly for her help, and asked for her name and address, which she gave
him.
A few years after this little adventure, the girl received a letter in a
big blue envelope. It was a communication from a lawyer, who informed
her that the gentleman whom she had so kindly helped on Jubilee Day had
died, and had left her by his will the greater part of his large
fortune.
There is another story rather like this, but about a different sort of
girl. A gentleman happened to read the above tale out of a newspaper as
he sat with his family at breakfast. His little daughter, as she
listened to her father, thought how nice it would be if _she_ could win
a fortune thus easily. So the next time she saw an old man shivering on
the brink of a crossing, she went up to him, and, with a sweet smile,
said in her politest tones: 'May I have the pleasure of assisting you?'
But the man chanced to be a cross-grained old fellow, and, thinking that
the girl was making fun of him, he brandished his stick at her,
whereupon, in a great fright, she ran away as fast as she could.
I think you will agree with me that the little girl quite deserved this
rebuff, because of the unworthiness of her motive.
E. DYKE.
THE FLOWER-GIRL.
'Fine window-plants! Who'll buy?' shouted the man with the flower-laden
donkey-cart; but it was Mary, his daughter, who did most of the selling.
She stood on the edge of the pavement, a plant in each hand, and smiled
at the passers-by, and few could resist the pretty picture she made.
They would stop and admire the flowers even if they could not afford to
buy, and Mary had smiles for all, though perhaps the brightest were kept
for those who made a purchase.
And yet the girl's heart was heavy, and tears lay very close behind the
smiles. Trade had not been very brisk of late, while illness in the home
had made the expenses heavy. Her favourite little brother was still
ailing, and seemed to make no progress. The doctor had said he needed
change of air and nourishing food; but how could the doctor's orders be
obeyed when money was so scarce?
The morning was getting on, and still the cart had not lost much of its
load. Smiles were more difficult to manage as the hope of being able to
take home something dainty for Dicky's supper grew less.
A lady with her little boy had just passed, but looks of admiration were
all they gave. In the distance an old gentleman appeared, and he was
even a more unlikely customer. He peered through his spectacles, and
seemed too much wrapped up in his own thoughts to spare attention for
anything else.
As he was passing the cart he slipped, and would have fallen had not
Mary put out her arm quickly to steady him. But, alas! in doing so the
flower-pot she was holding fell, and lay in fragments on the pavement,
with the delicate blooms of the azalea quite ruined.
'Thank you, my dear,' the gentleman said. 'It was kind of you to come to
an old man's help.' But he did not notice the broken flower-pot, and
passed on, while Mary gazed in dismay at what meant a loss they could so
ill afford.
'Run after him, my girl,' her father said. 'Tell him he must pay for
that flower. A fine thing to come damaging other folk's property, and to
slip off without a word!'
But at that moment a girl came hurrying along the pavement. 'Oh,' she
cried, 'I saw what happened. That is my grandfather, and he is nearly
blind. I must overtake him, and I am sure he will come back and repay
you.'
Mary watched anxiously, and when they arrived, the old man leaning on
the girl's arm, her spirits rose again.
'My grand-daughter says I always get into mischief when she leaves me
for a minute,' he said, smiling. Then he put his hand in his pocket and
took out a few coins. 'Will this make good the mischief I have done?' he
asked.
'Oh, sir, it is too much,' Mary said. 'The price of the flower was only
eighteen-pence.'
'But I must pay for my rudeness in running away without apologising, and
you can buy a ribbon for yourself with the extra money.'
'I shall get something a great deal more useful than that,' she said.
'You seem to be a sensible young woman for your age. I wonder what this
useful purchase will be?'
'Something to make my little Dicky strong,' Mary said softly.
'And who is Dicky?' asked the pretty grand-daughter; and she looked so
sympathetic that somehow the whole story came out, for Mary's heart was
full, and words came readily in response to this touch of kindness.
'I shall call and see him,' the girl promised, when she had inquired
where Mary lived. And so the misfortune of the broken flower-pot turned
out to be the best bit of good fortune Mary had ever enjoyed. Not only
did her new friend come laden with delicacies for the invalid, but she
interested herself in having him sent with some other children for a
month to the sea-side. And when Dicky returned, brown and rosy, and full
of life and spirits, Mary felt she could sell her flowers with a smiling
face again, and look forward to the future with a light heart.
M. H.
[Illustration: "'Who'll buy?'"]
[Illustration: "Just as Lord Massereene was leaving the prison, he was
arrested."]
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1805.
V.--LORD MASSEREENE'S IMPRISONMENT.
'Truth is stranger than fiction,' says a very old proverb, which is
certainly illustrated by the following tale of an eccentric nobleman's
life.
Lord Massereene was born in 1742, and in due course sent to Cambridge
University, where, however, he learnt next to nothing except how to row
on the river, and this he did to perfection.
On coming of age, he started off to do the 'Grand Tour,' as it was
called--a leisurely visit to the various capital cities of European
countries. This was a custom much in vogue amongst the young men of the
wealthier classes a hundred years ago. Our young friend, however, went
no further than Paris, for that fascinating city was too much for the
foolish fellow, and he spent his money right and left, till he was
almost penniless. He then fell into the hands of an unscrupulous
adventurer, a native of Syria, who put before him a plausible tale of
how easy it would be to make a fortune by importing salt from Syria to
France. Lord Massereene, in the hope of regaining the money he had
wasted, invested all he could lay his hands on in this wild scheme, and
of course, as it was a fraud, lost every penny.
The next misfortune that happened to him was an arrest for debt, and he
made acquaintance with the inside of 'La Châtelet,' one of the largest
prisons in Paris. He could, however, have satisfied his creditors, and
been released from prison, had he been willing to allow his estates to
be charged with his debts; but this he persistently refused to do.
There was at that time a law in France permitting debtors who had
suffered twenty-five years' imprisonment to be allowed to go free, with
all their liabilities discharged, and this extraordinary young man
actually decided to do this, and to settle his debts by undergoing a
quarter of a century of prison life!
Beyond the inability to leave the prison, Lord Massereene seems to have
suffered at first but few privations, for cheerful society was not
denied him, and he managed to woo and wed the daughter of one of the
principal officials of the place.
A plan of escape was at length made, and as the young lady's father was
able and willing to help in the matter, it was very nearly successful.
But not quite! For, just as Lord Massereene was leaving the door of the
prison to enter the carriage which was in waiting for him, he was
arrested, and taken back to the prison. It appears that the Governor's
suspicions had been aroused by seeing a carriage and pair loitering
about the gate. As soon as he had caught the escaping prisoner, he
ordered him to be lodged in the dungeon, a gloomy cell, below the Seine,
on which Le Châtelet was built.
Lord Massereene now knew all the rigours of a French prison. He was left
to languish in damp and darkness, with no companions but the rats, and
only the coarsest food.
When at last the twenty-five years were ended, and his release came, he
was indeed a pitiful object: gaunt, yellow, with a long unkempt beard
reaching below his knees.
But his wife had remained constant to him, and together they set out for
England. On landing at Dover, Lord Massereene was the first to step on
shore, and falling on his knees, he exclaimed fervently,--
'God bless this land of freedom!'
* * * * *
He lived nearly twenty years in the enjoyment of the estate for which he
had suffered imprisonment for so long, and died in 1805.
THE SAGO-TREE.
Sago is made from the pith of a tree-trunk. This tree--the sago-tree--is
a kind of palm, like the date-tree and the cocoanut-tree. It is found in
the East Indian Islands, where it gives food to many thousands of
people, particularly in the large island of New Guinea, where a great
part of the population is almost entirely dependent upon it.
The sago-tree grows in swampy places, either by the sea or in little
hollows by the hill-sides. It is thicker than the cocoanut palm, but it
does not grow quite so tall, being about thirty feet high when full
grown, and perhaps twenty inches in diameter. What looks like the root
of the sago-tree is really a creeping underground stem, from which a
spike of flowers grows up when the tree is about ten or fifteen years
old. For some years, while the plant is young, the upright growing stem
is covered and completely hidden by very large spiny leaves. These are
rather like enormous feathers, of which the centre stems, or midribs,
corresponding to the quill of the feather, are from twelve to fifteen
feet long, and, in their widest part, as thick as a man's leg. They are
used like bamboo by the natives, for building houses, and also for
making the roofs and floors of houses that are built of other kinds of
wood.
The bases of the midribs widen out and wrap round the stem like a kind
of sheath, as almost all leaf-stalks do to some extent. But the sheaths
of the sago-tree are so large that, when they are broken off and
trimmed, they are like large baskets or troughs--wide in the middle,
where they have grasped the stem, and narrow at the ends, where they
have joined the tree or are rolled up to form the midrib of the leaf. It
is interesting to remember this, because the natives actually use the
sheaths as baskets and troughs.
The hollow stem of the growing sago-tree is not more than half an inch
in thickness, and it is filled with a light, pithy matter, from which
'sago' is made. This pithy matter varies in colour from a rusty tinge to
white, and is rather like the eatable part of a dry apple. Strings of
harder, woody fibre run through it like straight veins, and these are of
no use for making sago. The pith is best for use when the tree is full
grown and just about to flower, and it is then that the natives cut it
down.
The tree is cut close to the ground, and, as it lies on the soil, its
leaves are cut off, and a portion of the bark is shaved away from the
upper side of the trunk so as to lay the pith bare. A native takes a
club with a sharp stone in the end of it and beats the sago-pith with
it. By this means he breaks up the fibres and the pith into little
chips, taking care that they are kept within the trunk. From time to
time these chips are loaded into one of the sheaths of the midribs, and
carried away to be cleaned. The beater continues to break up the pith
until there is nothing left but the hollow tree-trunk.
The sago is separated from the fibres in the pith by the aid of water.
The natives take two sheaths of the sago-plant and make them into
water-troughs. They set them up upon little frames, one sheath a little
higher than the other, with one of its narrow ends projecting like a
spout over the lower sheath. A kind of net-like bark or skin, obtained
from the cocoanut tree, serves as a strainer or sieve, and is stretched
across the upper sheath or trough. They empty the broken pith into the
trough above the strainer, and pour water upon it. The soft part of the
pith is a kind of starch, which dissolves in the water, and so flows
through the sieve and down the spout into the lower trough, but the
fibres are held back by the sieve. In order to get all the sago-starch
out of the pith, the sago-maker kneads and squeezes the pith until
nothing but fibre remains. This is waste, and is thrown away. When the
sago-laden water falls into the lower trough it rests awhile, and the
sago sinks into the bottom of the sheath as a soft reddish sediment,
while the clear water rises to the top, and by and by trickles over the
end of the sheath. When this trough is nearly full the sago-starch is
taken out, made into rolls, and wrapped in the leaves of the tree.
The sago thus prepared is known as raw sago, and is used by the
islanders without being further refined. They boil it in water, and eat
it with fruits and salt, or they bake it into cakes in a little clay
oven. When these cakes have been well dried they will keep for years; a
man can make in a few days sufficient sago-cakes to last him a whole
year. It has been calculated that a single tree will produce about
eighteen hundred of these cakes.
The sago which we use for our puddings is made by refining the raw
sago. When our grandfathers and grandmothers were young, the best raw
sago used to be mixed with water and rubbed into small grains before it
was sent to Europe. At the present time the sago, after being moistened,
is passed through a sieve into a shallow iron pot, placed over a fire,
and in this way the round pearly sago which we use is produced. As this
sago is half-baked in this operation, it will keep for a very long time.
The Malays call the sago-tree the _rumbiya_ and its pith _sagu_ from
which word we get our name _sago_. We have here an instance of a Malay
word which is in daily use in the English language.
FAITH AND SIGHT.
A little story is told which helps to show the difference between faith
and sight.
The master of an infant school told a boy to move a stool in such a way
that he was not seen by the little ones himself. Then he taught them
this lesson.
'You cannot see any one moving the stool; is it not alive?'
'Oh, no, sir! it never was alive. Some one _must_ be moving it.'
'But you cannot see anybody; perhaps it moves itself.'
'No, sir; though we don't see anybody, that makes no difference. It
cannot move itself.'
Then he told them of the moon and stars, which, though we see no one
move them, certainly do move, and no one could do it but God, whom we do
not see.
'Yes!' they said; 'it must be God.'
'But then we cannot see Him.'
'Please, we must believe that it is He.'
'You do believe it, then?'
'Yes sir.'
'Then this is Faith.' He added: 'If you have little faith, what will you
do then?'
'I will shut myself up in a corner,' said one little mite, 'and pray for
more.'
INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.
VI.--HOW INSECTS WALK.
Grown-up insects seem to be very short of legs compared with many of
their distant relatives. Thus, while no member of the insect tribe--when
grown up--has more than six legs, the Centipede or the Millipede may, as
their names imply, possess a far greater number--as many, indeed, as two
hundred and forty-two! But there is one curious likeness between the
legs of the insects and those of their relatives--the number of pairs of
legs is always odd. The insect has three pairs; the centipede and
millipede have a very variable number, ranging from fifteen to one
hundred and twenty-one pairs!
We have seen how wonderful the foot of the fly is, with its two sticky
plates for smooth surfaces, and its two claws for rough ones. The
Honey-bee has very similar feet, but the two plates are joined to form
one! As in the fly, when climbing rough surfaces the flat plates are
raised up, and the claws used instead; but when a smooth or slippery
place has to be crossed, the claws are pulled backwards and the plates
are brought down.
The legs of insects vary much, according to the purpose for which they
are used. Thus, the Gnats, which spend the greater part of their time on
the wing, have long slender legs, suitable for breaking the shock of
alighting. Whilst in other insects the legs are used for all kinds of
work, such as seizing prey, carrying it, climbing, digging, and so on.
When this is the case the legs are provided with spines, or bristles.
In the Mole Cricket (fig. 1) the fore-legs are very strong, being short
and broad, and ending in a broad comb-like plate, which is used for
digging. They are very like the great digging paws of the mole.
The exact way in which insects walk is not easy to describe, and much
study has been given to this most puzzling subject. Many devices have
been adopted to make the insect draw a map of its course. In one
instance the legs of a slow-walking beetle were painted, and the insect
was then made to walk upon a clean sheet of paper; the track made by
each leg being distinguished by the use of a different colour.
From this and other experiments it appears that there are always three
legs in motion at the same time, or nearly so; meanwhile the remaining
three legs support the body. First (as in fig. 2) the left fore-leg
steps out, then the right middle-leg and the left hind-leg. Then the
movement is taken up by the legs of the opposite side of the body, and
so on.
If the movement of the legs in the six-legged insects is difficult to
find out, what shall we say when the centipede (fig. 3) and millipede
come to be examined? These, though not insects, are nearly related to
the insects, and since they are common in our gardens, must be referred
to here.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Mole Cricket (magnified).]
According to the lines of a humorous poem, the centipede was said to
have been--
'Happy till
One day a toad, in fun,
Said, "Pray which leg moves after which?"
This raised her doubts to such a pitch
She fell exhausted in the ditch,
Not knowing how to run.'
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Beetle walking.]
The last pair of legs in the centipede and millipede are never used for
walking, and are generally much longer than the rest. In a South
American species they are provided with delicate nerves, and are used as
antennæ or 'feelers,' so that the animal is armed with organs of touch
at each end of the body! In one kind of millipede, in the male the last
pair of legs has a sound-producing apparatus, consisting of a ridged
plate, which, by being rubbed against a set of tiny, bead-like bodies
set in the surface of the last shield covering the body, produces a
peculiar noise.
[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Centipede (magnified).]
Centipedes and millipedes generally shun the light, and hide under
stones and in crevices during the day. But there are some which love the
sunlight. These kinds are remarkable for the great length and
slenderness of the legs, which they part with readily when handled! Most
of these long-legged species are brightly coloured with black and yellow
stripes or spots. In their native haunts these creatures may be seen
darting about after their prey in the sun, heedless of the notice they
attract by reason of their pretty colours. Few birds or beasts would
think of eating them, for these creatures have a providential instinct
which tells them that the gaudily-coloured animals are generally very
nasty to the taste!
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
[Illustration]
THE MAN WITH THE GLASSES.
So common is short-sightedness nowadays that military officers, and
sometimes private soldiers, are allowed to wear spectacles. Formerly
this was not the case. Where, by special permission of the authorities,
exceptions had been made, the unfortunate wearers of glasses in the army
came in for the ridicule of their comrades.
At the time when the French were fighting the Algerian chief,
Abd-el-Kader, there was in a battalion of foot-chasseurs a spectacled
adjutant named Duterbre. His companions made great fun of him. A man
who wore glasses could not, in their opinion, be much of a hero. One day
Duterbre, engaged in a reconnoitring expedition, was slightly wounded,
and taken prisoner by the enemy. He was brought before the Arab chief.
The remainder of the French force had, in the meantime, taken refuge in
a walled enclosure close by.
'Go to your companions,' said Abd-el-Kader to Duterbre, 'and tell them
that their lives shall be spared if they will surrender. Yours, in that
case, shall be spared also. But if they refuse to surrender, I will
utterly exterminate them, and I will have you beheaded. And understand
this clearly: I send you to your people on one condition--that whether
or not they accept my terms, you are in any case to return to me. Do you
accept my conditions?'
'I do,' replied Duterbre.
Duterbre left the Arab camp, well aware that his only chance of life lay
in the surrender of his battalion. If the French soldiers resolved to
fight on, he was bound in honour to go back to death.
Duterbre returned to his companions. He had always been a man of few
words, and he said very little on this occasion. But what he said was to
the point. It was this: 'Chasseurs! If you do not surrender, the Arabs
are going to cut off my head. Now die rather than yield, every one of
you!'
Then the brave fellow turned his back, and went straight to the Arab
camp, with the message that the French refused to surrender.
The chief carried out his threat. The adjutant was beheaded, and his
head--spectacles and all--was carried round the camp upon a pole for
public exhibition. None could say that it was not the head of a brave
man.
E. D.
WHAT AM I?
No one can be pleased with me,
I am dark and dull to see;
Those whom money troubles tease
Hate me, for I spoil their ease.
Welsh am I, and English too,
Scottish, in another view;
Wide and narrow, small and great,
Dreary, too, and desolate.
Let him think of me, who eats
Marmalade, and other sweets;
Full of work am I, and wealth,
Though too closely packed for health.
[_Answer on page 230._]
AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.
A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.
(_Continued from page 203._)