Charlie won the first game at draughts, and they had just begun a second
when the skipper suddenly appeared at the galley door. His face was
flushed, and there was a wild look in his eyes.
'The galley is not the place for playing draughts,' he said, and with
his hand swept the pieces off the board.
Charlie and Ping Wang made no remark. It was plain to them that he had
paid that visit for the sole purpose of bullying them, and they were
wondering what his next complaint would be.
'I want a mug of tea,' he said, seeing that the kettle was not boiling.
Charlie put the kettle on the fire at once.
'That's the result of playing draughts when you ought to be at work,'
the skipper growled. 'I always want some tea at this time.'
'In future it shall be ready, sir,' Charles replied, calmly.
'Future--eh?--I want it now. What's that Chinee doing here?'
'I thought you noticed that Ping Wang was playing draughts with me.'
'You're not paid to think. I do that for all the crew.'
Then the skipper turned his attention to prying into the pots and pans,
to see if he could discover anything which would give him an opportunity
to find fault. To his evident annoyance he did not succeed in
discovering anything, for Charlie had done his work thoroughly, and the
cooking utensils looked much cleaner than when he entered on his duties.
In a few minutes the tea was ready, and as soon as the skipper tasted it
he made a grimace, and exclaimed, 'Beastly wash!--Do you hear?' he
exclaimed, finding that Charlie did not speak. 'It's wash!'
'It is made in exactly the same way as the other tea you have had during
the day,' Charlie declared.
'Then I must have drunk wash before. But I won't drink this. Here,
Chinee, you drink it.'
'Me no want any, skipper,' Ping Wang answered.
'Don't want it, eh? What does that matter? Drink it at once.'
Ping Wang shook his head, and the skipper immediately flung the contents
of his mug full in the Chinaman's face. The tea was very hot, and with a
cry of pain Ping Wang ran at his tormentor. Stepping backwards quickly,
to avoid him, the skipper stumbled over the weather-board at the
entrance to the galley, and fell heavily on to the deck.
The mate, who had been pacing the deck, ran to pick him up. 'What's the
matter, skipper?' he asked.
'That Chinee has knocked me down,' the skipper declared.
'He did nothing of the kind,' Charlie declared, and related to the mate
exactly what happened.
'You'd better get an hour or two's sleep before we haul,' the mate said
to the skipper, and, taking his arm, led him away.
'I think we had better turn in also,' Ping Wang said, and Charlie at
once went forward with him.
The other men were already asleep. The ventilators were all closed, and
the foc's'le was so close and stuffy that Charlie thought, at first,
that he would have to go on deck again. But, being very tired, he
determined to stay where he was, and clambered into his bunk. He slept
soundly, in spite of the bad air, until Ping Wang aroused him. It was a
quarter to eleven, and the men were donning their oilskins, with a view
to hauling.
'You had better put the kettle on,' Ping Wang said to Charlie; 'all
hands will want tea before they turn in again.'
Charlie, wearing his oilskins, went to the galley at once. As he passed
along the deck he shivered, for a breeze had sprung up, and the air
struck cold, after the stuffiness of the foc's'le.
(_Continued on page 226._)
THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S HEAD GARDENER.
'We must not forget the gardener,' says a visitor, describing Walmer
Castle at the time when Wellington was Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports.
This gardener, a fine-looking, elderly man, was at the battle of
Waterloo, and when his regiment was disbanded, the Duke offered him the
post of head gardener at Walmer Castle.
The good fellow objected, for, to use his own words, he 'did not then
know a moss rose from a cabbage,' but the Duke was determined, and, as a
soldier, the man could but obey orders. 'But now,' he said to the
visitor, 'I get on pretty well.'
'And like it?' he was next asked.
'Oh, yes.'
'But suppose war were to break out--would you be a soldier again?'
'Why, that must depend on the Duke: if he said I must go, of course I
must.'
'How did you manage when you first came here?'
'Why, as well as I could. It was rather awkward.'
'Perhaps you studied hard--read a good deal?'
'No, I didn't read at all.'
'You looked about you, then?'
'Yes, I did that.'
'And now you get on very well?'
'Why, yes; but I am plagued sometimes: the names of the flowers puzzle
me sadly.'
'And what does the Duke say to that?'
'Oh, I have him there,' said the soldier gardener, 'for he doesn't know
them himself!'
The visitor also stated that the garden abounded in flowers--not rare
ones, but rich and luxuriant, with a well-kept lawn, in the midst of
which was a lime-tree, which the Duke always declared to be the finest
he had ever seen.
The experiment of turning a soldier into a head gardener seems to have
been quite successful.
TWO MEDALS.
A little English schoolboy was sauntering along the quay, looking rather
bored. It was a picturesque scene--this port of the Black Sea--with the
varied craft in the harbour, and the varied nationalities represented by
the groups of men who chattered and gesticulated, or lounged and slept
in the sunshine.
But what, he thought, were the summer holidays without cricket? Of
course, it was jolly to be with his people again, but Dick did wish they
lived in England. The boys at school had envied him because his journey
home would take him through the unrestful Balkan territory, and he might
have all manner of adventures. It was very hard that there had been
none, though the train after his had been held up, and had not got
through without some fighting.
He reached the end of the stone pier, where half-a-dozen men were
leaning over a low parapet.
'What is your pleasure, little Milord?' one asked him. This was their
nickname for the boy, who had been a favourite with them since he had
learnt to order them about in their own tongue when not much more than a
baby.
'My pleasure is a cricket match,' he answered, 'and as far as I can see
it is a pleasure I shall have to do without.'
'Would not little Milord like to fish?' asked another. 'See, one already
is trying his luck,' and he pointed to a boy about Dick's age sitting on
the parapet with his line in the water below.
'A foolish place to try, with the current running as strong as it does
round the end of the pier,' Dick said. 'He is not likely to get a bite
there.'
Even as he spoke the boy jumped up suddenly and turned round. No one saw
exactly how it happened, but he missed his balance, and with a scream
fell into the water.
For a minute Dick waited. He was such a little chap, and of course one
of those big men would jump in after the boy. But no! they stood staring
at each other with terrified faces, and never moved.
Then over the wall went Dick into the water beneath. The boy had risen,
and he struck out for him, reaching him easily enough, for the current
carried him. It was getting back which was difficult.
The men at the pier-head ran about and shouted in a frantic way. 'A
boat!' shouted one. 'A rope!' called another; while a third wrung his
hands and moaned, 'They are lost! they are lost!'
And Dick battled and battled against the current with the dead weight of
the boy hindering him from making any perceptible way. It never even
occurred to him that by letting his burden go he might at any rate save
himself. And his English pluck came to his help. He wouldn't be beaten.
He just _had_ to get to land somehow, and he must not let himself think
of anything else. The men, too, had at last found a rope and were
flinging it to him. If only he could get near it! Once it was just
within his grasp, but he was beaten back again. Then, with a final
tremendous effort, he struck out again and reached it, and held on like
grim death, though the singing in his ears and his struggling, panting
breath warned him his strength was nearly exhausted. By this time,
however, a boat was nearing them, and soon the boys were on land, though
the lad Dick had saved was with difficulty brought back to
consciousness.
Dick himself was rather white and limp, but otherwise not much the worse
for his adventure.
'Why didn't one of you go in after him? I gave you a chance,' he said to
the men.
'The water was too cold,' muttered one.
'Too deep!' said another.
'Too dangerous!' growled a third.
And the small schoolboy shrugged his shoulders and went home, to be made
a great fuss over by his mother and sisters, which he thought absurd;
but he liked the quiet look of pleasure his father gave him when he came
in after hearing the news in the town, though he only said, 'Good
business, my son!'
And although he is very shy of showing them, I think Dick is rather
proud of his two medals: one of the country where the courageous act was
performed, and that other of dull bronze which the Royal Humane Society
presents to England's brave sons and daughters.
Dick thought it took far more courage to walk up and receive this medal
amidst the cheers of the boys and their gay company on Prize-day, than
it did to jump in to the rescue of the boy in the Black Sea.
ANIMAL MAKESHIFTS.
True Anecdotes.
I.--INSTEAD OF A HAND.
[Illustration: "The elephant uses his nose as a hand."]
The wonderful contrivances by which animals manage to do beautiful work
without tools, to walk without feet, to fly without wings, to talk
without a voice, and to make their wants known not only to each other
but to their human friends, without understanding or speaking human
words, would fill a large book. No creature boasts of a hand like our
own; even that of the monkey, though his fingers resemble man's, has a
thumb which is nearly useless. The American spider-monkeys prefer to use
their long tails as hands, plucking fruits with the tips and carrying
them to their mouths. The elephant uses his nose as a hand (for his
trunk is nothing else but a long nose), and with this makeshift hand he
can pick up either a heavy cannon or a sixpence from the ground. The
horse uses his tail as a hand to drive off flies which he cannot
otherwise reach. On board ship a hen was once seen to use her neck as a
hand. She and the other fowls used to quarrel over the laying-boxes, and
though the nests looked all alike to a human eye, this hen coveted one
special box, and would lay nowhere else. One day her master took the
china nest-egg out of the box and put it into another one, to see what
she would do. He watched her through the chink of a door, and saw her
hunt till she found the egg, curl her neck round it like a big finger,
lift it thus, and carry it back to the old box, where she sat on it in
triumph.
Stories of rats who have been seen to carry off eggs, embracing them by
their tails, are common enough, and everybody has watched animals of
different kinds using their mouths to carry things from place to place.
Not only lions, tigers, wolves, and bears carry their young in this way,
but rabbits, squirrels, mice, and many other creatures. The mother-whale
tucks her little one under her huge fin, using it as a hand and arm in
one; in time of danger she carries him off thus at the risk of her own
life from under the very harpoons of the whalers.
All young animals have an instinct which prompts them to run to their
parents for protection when frightened, trusting not only in the older
and wiser heads, but in the faithful hearts which have never failed
them. Though sheep, cattle, deer, and such-like, have no notion of using
their jaws as hands, or of lifting their little ones, many of the young
will use their limbs to cling to those who are stronger and swifter
than themselves. The four-footed elders will perish rather than desert
the youngsters, and will, if possible, contrive to beat a retreat,
helping along the weaker ones as best they can.
A very touching story of the devotion of deer to their fawns comes from
America. While two men were riding along a creek in California, they
saw, some distance ahead, a doe and her fawn drinking from the river.
The bank was very steep, and the river deep at that point. When the deer
saw the hunters they were startled, and in trying to turn, the little
one lost its balance and fell into the creek. The water was running very
swiftly, and of course the fawn was carried down-stream. At this the
poor mother seemed to lose all fear of the men, and ran wildly along the
bank, trying to reach her little one with her head, but in vain. She
next ran forward for a short distance, plunged in, steadied herself by
planting her feet firmly among some rocks, and waited. Presently the
fawn was washed against her, and, as it was being swept by, caught hold
of its mother, stretching out its forelegs and clasping her neck, much
as a little child uses his arms in clinging to his nurse. The doe then
carefully stepped ashore with her precious burden. She lay down beside
the baby deer, and, although the hunters were not thirty yards away, she
licked and fondled the little thing till it rose to run, when she too
sprang up, and the pair trotted off unharmed to the woods.
[Illustration: "He saw her curl her neck round the egg like a big
finger."]
Many birds use their wings as arms and hands when flight will not serve
their turn. A partridge was seen to hustle and drive her little troop of
chicks into the shelter of a rabbit-hole with her wings, out of the way
of a hawk whose shadow had fallen on the grass at their side. Here she
kept them prisoners till all was safe.
[Illustration: "The fawn caught hold of its mother, clasping her neck."]
The lesson to be drawn from such stories is that even wild, untaught
creatures do not use their limbs in a senseless way as parts of a
machine, without thinking, but are able to turn them to a variety of
uses in times of difficulty. We shall, of course, find that tame animals
such as the horse, dog, and cat act more wisely in such ways than their
wild relations. The dog, for instance, turns his rough idea of using his
mouth for carrying food or young ones, to fetching and carrying for his
own benefit or his master's. A handsome brown spaniel lately noticed
that his mistress, in carrying a bowl of water, upset some of the
contents on the floor. Off dashed Master Jack, intent on 'making himself
generally useful,' and quickly returned with the house flannel from the
kitchen. This he laid beside the pool, with an intelligent, uplifted
look which said, 'There! wipe it up.' Did not this sensible fellow's
mouth become a splendid makeshift hand, and his glance an excellent
speech?
EDITH CARRINGTON.
THE PITCHER-PLANT.
The leaves and flowers of plants often grow into very strange shapes.
The flowers of various kinds of orchids are very remarkable for the
peculiar forms which they take. Some of them have a great resemblance to
bees, flies, or butterflies, and this resemblance is at times so great
that we wonder whether it is only an accidental likeness, or whether it
serves some useful purpose. One of the oddest shapes which any plant
takes, however, is that of the leaves of the pitcher-plant; and in this
case naturalists, who have studied the plant carefully, are able to show
us that the strange shape of the leaf really serves a purpose.
The pitcher-plants are most abundant in the islands of Borneo, Java, and
Sumatra, and in the Malay Peninsula. Though not so plentiful elsewhere,
they are also found in Ceylon, Madagascar, the Moluccas, and one or two
other places. The plant is a kind of creeping or climbing shrub which
runs along the ground, or climbs up other shrubs and short trees. It
seems to thrive best upon the mountaintops, and the summits of the
mountains of Borneo are often gaily decked with it.
There are thirty or forty different kinds of pitcher-plants, varying in
size a great deal. But the strange thing about all of them is that the
ends of their leaves are shaped like pitchers, or perhaps it would
describe them better if we said they were like jugs with lids. It is
from this peculiarity that the plant takes its name. The leaf is the
shape of any ordinary leaf until it reaches its point, where it is drawn
out into a long stalk or tendril, at the end of which is the jug or
pitcher, which, you must remember, is formed out of the leaf itself.
Each plant has its own shape of jug, and the jugs vary in size a good
deal. Some are long and slender; others are broad and shallow. Some are
tiny jugs only an inch deep, while others are perhaps twenty inches
deep. Their colour is green, but the mouth of the jug and the under side
of the lid, which is always open, are spotted with red or purple,
somewhat like a flower.
Not only do these strange leaves look like jugs, but they are also used
as jugs. Each of them contains a little supply of water, varying with
the size of the jug from a few drops in the smallest, to as much as two
quarts in the largest of them. Thirsty travellers have sometimes
quenched their thirst from these natural jugs, when no other water was
to be found. Though the water itself is palatable, it is a little warm,
and it is always full of insects.
If any one were to watch one of these jugs of the pitcher-plant for some
time attentively, he would soon find that it served as a trap for flies
and insects. One by one the little creatures alight upon the outside of
the jug, and creep into the open mouth, and few or none of them ever
return. They slip into the water at the bottom of the jug and are
drowned.
If we examine a jug carefully, in order to learn why the insects enter
it, and how it is that they cannot get out again, we shall be surprised
at the clever way in which the trap is made. The mouth of the jug has a
thick ring round it, which makes it firm, and keeps it always open. The
lid stands over this mouth, and seems to be always raised a good deal,
so that insects and flies may enter freely; but it covers the mouth in
such a way as to prevent anything from falling accidentally into the jug
from above. The underside of the lid and the mouth of the jug are often
gaily coloured, so as to attract insects, as brightly-coloured flowers
do. Some of the jugs even make a little honey, which, forming just
inside the mouth, attracts insects by its scent. Within the jug, just
below the mouth, there is a row of stiff hooks, which have their points
turned inwards towards the bottom of the jug. Below the spikes the sides
of the jug are so smooth and slippery that few insects could stand on
them.
It is easy to see how the trap works. Insects are attracted to the
pitcher by the bright colours of the lid or the scent of the honey. They
creep into the mouth, and crawl between the hooks, whose sharp points
are set the other way, and they step upon the smooth and slippery inside
of the jug. In another instant they have slipped into the water at the
bottom of the jug. Do what they will, they cannot climb up the slippery
sides of the pitcher, or pass the row of sharp hooks, whose points are
turned against them. They are caught.
Now all this is very strange and wonderful, and it makes us wish to know
why Providence has given the plant this clever machinery. We cannot help
asking ourselves why the pitcher-plant entraps these insects. I am
afraid that you would hardly be able to answer this question for
yourself, however carefully you might watch a pitcher-plant. Indeed, it
is only a few years since clever men, making careful experiments, were
able to find out the real truth. The fluid at the bottom of the pitcher
_digests_ those insects, and the pitcher-plant feeds upon them. Just as
the juices of our stomach dissolve meat, so that it may pass into the
blood and nourish us, so the fluid in the jug of the pitcher-plant
dissolves the flesh of the insects which fall into it, and makes that
flesh fit to nourish the plant. This strange plant lives, in part at
least, upon flesh; and all the clever mechanism of its jug is used
simply to get a meal.
ONE AND ONE MAKE TWO.
As through the busy world you go,
Remember this is true,
That though one seems a little thing,
Yet one and one make two.
The task one could not do alone,
Is done with help from you,
For though you are a little one,
Yet one and one make two.
The thread that's rolled the reel around,
That baby's hands can break,
When with it other threads are bound,
The strongest rope doth make.
The rope thrown by some helping hand,
And drawn the waters through,
May bring a drowning man to land:--
So one and one make two.
The minutes grow into the hours,
The hours into the day,
The days to weeks, to months, to years,
And thus time flies away.
And deeds of good by children done,
Though small they seem to you,
May grow into a mighty sum,
For one and one make two.
CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.
VI.--THE GIANT AND ITS ADVENTURES.
Two hundred needlewomen were busy for a month making the 'Giant's' coat.
It contained twenty thousand yards of white silk, of double thickness,
at six shillings a yard, and when finished measured ninety yards round
and sixty yards in height. When it was filled it held 6098 cubic yards
of gas. M. Nadar, its master, introduced it to the people of Paris in
the hope that the money they would pay to see it would enable him to
carry out his experiments with flying machines. On October 4th, 1863,
the Giant was ready to make its first voyage in the clouds, and nearly
five hundred thousand people assembled to see it start.
It was like a cottage made of wicker-work, and mounted on small wheels.
In two of the four walls there was a door with two small windows each
side of it, and inside there was a little world of wonders. The
'cottage' was only fifteen feet long, twelve wide, and eight high; but
it was divided up so carefully by thin partitions that there was room
for a small printing-office, a photographic department, a
refreshment-room, a compartment for the captain's bed and passengers'
luggage, and another at the opposite end, with three beds in it. Outside
all this, but inside the walls of wicker-work, was an inflated rubber
lining, so as to prevent it from sinking if, by any mischance, the
'Giant' should fall into the sea. Thus, according to circumstances, the
building could be either the car of a balloon, a ship at sea, or a
caravan being drawn by horses upon the wheels already mentioned along a
country road. From the inside a narrow stairway led on to the roof, or
deck.
When all was ready, M. Nadar, leaning from the deck, gave the word. The
ropes were let go, and the Giant rose solemnly towards the sky. Fifteen
voyagers waved their hats and handkerchiefs over the bulwarks, returning
the greetings of the crowd till carried beyond sight and hearing.
Though the launch was a success, the poor Giant had been served very
badly by some careless persons, all unknown to those on board. The
pilot, a clever aeronaut, named Godard, was a little surprised that very
soon after leaving the ground he had to begin throwing out ballast, to
stop them from sinking. This went on for some hours, and when darkness
had fallen, and all the world had disappeared, it became clear that the
balloon must descend. They had attained a height of many thousand feet.
It was nearly nine o'clock, and supper on deck was over, when Godard,
finding that the descent was becoming too rapid, called out, 'Hold to
the ropes!'
Every passenger seized some portion of the ropes, so that the shock of
contact with the earth might be somewhat lessened. Down came the Giant,
a great deal more swiftly than it had risen; and the last bags of
ballast were emptied over the side with little effect. The blow was
tremendous, and the wonder is that the passengers escaped with their
lives. An inquiry was held, and the Giant itself was proved blameless.
The valves for allowing the escape of gas had never been properly
closed! Thus, from the very moment when they left Paris, the gas was
pouring out at the top; and it was only through the enormous quantity
used that they succeeded in rising at all.
A fortnight later M. Nadar was ready to sail again. This time the Giant
had nine passengers, who were destined to make an eventful voyage.
Anchor was weighed in the evening, and very soon, at a great height, all
eyes were turned to watch the beautiful sunset. As the shadows of night
gathered round them, however, more than one traveller looked anxiously
at the gigantic ball above. Supposing anything should go wrong with it!
It looked such a tremendous distance down to the earth.
When day dawned again at last, after a night during which no one had
closed his eyes, they found themselves hanging over the fens of Holland,
many miles from Paris. Fearing that the wind might carry them out to
sea, they agreed to descend. But, on reaching the lower air, the huge
balloon was caught in what proved to be almost a hurricane. It drove
them towards the ground at a long angle, until, like a falling kite, the
Giant struck the earth head foremost, dragging the car behind it at a
terrible speed. The travellers hung on for dear life. Again and again
the car struck, and rebounded thirty or forty feet into the air. With
the first blow the valve-rope was jerked beyond reach, so that it became
impossible to let the gas escape.
Mile after mile they tore through the country, crashing into trees, and
scattering herds of cattle right and left. All the anchor-ropes, dropped
one after the other, had been snapped like thread, the last catching in
the roof of a cottage, and tearing it open before giving way. Then, to
the horror of the passengers, a railway-train appeared a short distance
ahead, spinning along at great speed. A collision seemed inevitable; but
with one united effort they shouted to the driver. He heard them, and
reversed his engine, and the next moment they whirled by, dragging
telegraph wires and poles after them. And now a hero came to their
rescue. Jules Godard, the pilot's brother, after many fruitless
attempts, climbed into the network and secured the valve-rope. The gas
was now slowly discharged, and before the bag was empty the passengers
had either jumped or been jolted from the car, bruised and shaken, but
happily without loss of life.
After making such a wonderful name for itself, the Giant took a short
sea voyage on board a real ship, and crossed the Channel to England,
and, blown out with harmless air, hung under the great glass dome of the
Crystal Palace for visitors to admire. After this it made only one or
two more journeys to the clouds, and ended its career as a poor captive
balloon in the gardens of Cremorne.
[Illustration: "The driver heard them, and reversed his engine."]
[Illustration: "One of the fishermen prevented him from sneezing
again."]
AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.
A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.
(_Continued from page 219._)
Much to his relief, Charlie found that the galley fire had not gone out.
'I kept it going, cook,' a grimy young trimmer declared. 'It would have
gone out long ago if I hadn't looked after it. And I've filled the
kettle for you. Got a bit of grub to give me?'
Charlie took out a chunk of bread, dabbed a spoonful of marmalade on top
of it, and gave it to the lad.
'Any time you want anything done, I'll do it,' the trimmer declared, and
departed.
As there was nothing to detain Charlie in the galley he went forward to
assist in hauling. The skipper was on the bridge; the mate was working
the donkey-engine, which was fast drawing in the long wire ropes
attached to the net, and the deck hands stood at the starboard-side
gunwale, watching for the net to appear. An electric light was hung up
at the bridge, so that the men could see to do the work they had in
hand. For a moment or two Charlie stood at the foot of the bridge,
waiting for the skipper or the mate to tell him what to do.
'Stand here,' Ping Wang said, quietly, but loud enough for him to hear.
Charlie nodded his head and took up his position about three feet away
from the Chinaman. Soon the net appeared above water, and the men,
bending over the gunwale, grasped it with their hands, and, tugging all
together, pulled it slowly but surely upwards.
'Where are the fish?' Charlie asked, surprised at seeing none in the
part of the net at which they had been tugging.
'For'ard,' Ping Wang answered, and as he spoke the donkey-engine started
panting and puffing, and the part of the net to which the Chinaman had
pointed was now raised high above the gunwale. It resembled a huge
cooking-net which had been lifted out of a gigantic pan. It was crowded
with fish, and as it was pulled in and suspended over the pound made on
the deck, the very small fish, mostly dead, fell through. Others, with
wide-opened mouths, were caught in the meshes. A fisherman now stepped
under the dripping net, untied it at the bottom, and sprang quickly
aside as the catch of fish fell with a thud into the pound.
'What a mixture!' Charlie exclaimed as he gazed at the fish jumping,
wriggling, and sliding about in the pound. 'What are they?'
'Cod, plaice, haddock, and turbot,' Ping Wang replied, but he only named
a few of them. The catch included also ling, sole, whiting, dab, gurnet,
oysters, crabs, whelks, cat-fish, star-fish, and a large amount of ocean
scrapings.
Charlie stood watching the struggling mass, deeply interested, but Ping
Wang whispered to him, 'Come away, or you'll have the skipper at you. We
are going to shoot now.'
Charlie bestirred himself at once, and assisted in shooting the gear.
When that had been done without a hitch, the work of sorting, cleaning,
and packing the fish was begun. Three men stepped into the pound,
trampling on the fish until they had made a clear space for their feet.
'Give a hand there, cook!' the skipper shouted, and Charlie stepped into
the pound. He had not the heart to tread on the still living fish as the
others were doing, and in his anxiety to avoid hurting them, he slipped
and fell against the gunwale, his sou'-wester falling overboard. The
other men stopped work at once, and looked at him in a by no means
friendly way. The skipper abused him loudly and fiercely.
'It was my own sou'-wester,' Charlie declared, unable to understand why
the skipper should be so excited over the loss.
'Then why don't you jump overboard and save it? We will fish you up next
time we haul.'
The men laughed heartily at this grim joke.
'Take the skipper's advice, mate,' one of them said. 'I want some new
boots badly.'
'It is thought a bad omen if a fisherman's sou'-wester is blown
overboard,' Ping Wang explained in a whisper, whereupon Charlie laughed
loudly at the superstitious idea.
'Stop that row,' the skipper shouted, 'and start cleaning the fish.'
Charlie took out his clasp-knife, and seized a plaice.
'Don't cut that,' Ping Wang warned him. 'Put the plaice in the box just
as they are.'
Charlie hesitated, for the fish was not yet dead, and he did not like
the idea of packing it away while it was alive.
'Here, stow it away,' a fisherman growled, and snatching it out of his
hand flopped it in the box and smacked a dead fish on top of it.
The plaice were the only ones which had not to be cut open. As each fish
was cleaned it was tossed into another pound, and when the whole of the
catch, with the exception of the plaice, oysters, whelks, and the
useless fish, were in this, the hose was turned on to the silvery mass.
When the fish had been thoroughly cleansed with water, they were packed
away in boxes, which were at once stowed away in the hold between layers
of ice.
Charlie was not required to assist in the work in the hold, and
therefore he hurried to the bucket, on which was painted 'All hands,'
and indulged in a wash. He was fortunate in being first, for fresh water
is not plentiful on a trawler, and one bucketful has to suffice for the
whole crew.
From the bucket, Charlie went to the galley and made the tea. Every one,
from the skipper to the ship's boy, had a mugful; some had two. The
North Sea fishermen are inveterate tea-drinkers.
Having drunk their tea, the men threw off their oilies and turned in
again with all their clothes on.
'It isn't worth while undressing,' Ping Wang said to Charlie. 'In about
three hours' time we shall have to turn out again. If you don't undress
you will have a little longer time to sleep.'
Charlie did not undress, and consequently he was ready to start work at
once when the time came. He put on a peaked cap in place of his lost
sou'-wester.
'Don't forget the tea, cook,' one of them said to Charlie as he climbed
up on deck. 'Let's have it before we start hauling.'
Thanks to the trimmer the kettle was boiling, and Charlie was therefore
able to bring the men mugs of hot tea in less than five minutes from
turning out.
'Cook is one of the right sort, after all,' one of the fishermen
declared as he returned his empty mug to Charlie, and the others
assented by nods and grunts. But before long Charlie was again in hot
water. As he was assisting to haul in the net he sneezed loudly. In a
moment one of the fishermen placed his big, dirty hand over his mouth
and effectually prevented him from sneezing on the net again.
The skipper, looking down from the bridge, broke into loud abuse.
'What harm is there in sneezing?' Charlie answered, angrily.
'None of your back answers, or I'll clap you in irons.'
'If you do, you'll have to pay for it dearly when we get back to
Grimsby. I insist upon knowing what harm I have done.'
'It is thought very unlucky to sneeze on a trawl,' the mate explained
quietly, anxious to save Charlie from any further bullying. 'It is
supposed to bring bad luck to the trawler. Now, grab hold of the net.'
Charlie again tugged at the net, and, when the catch was emptied into
the pound, it was found that it was an exceedingly small one.
'That comes of having you aboard!' the skipper declared, pointing at
Charlie.
'I don't see how my sneezing could have affected this catch,' Charlie
answered, 'considering that it was almost on board when I sneezed.'
'But how about your sou'-wester last night? That was what ruined this
catch, and your sneezing will spoil the next one.'
Charlie laughed openly at this prediction, but it was rather unfortunate
for him that, when the next haul was made, it was found that the catch
was still smaller than the previous one.
'I told you so!' the skipper declared, white with rage.
'It is a coincidence,' Charlie replied, calmly. 'If I sneeze on the net
now you will probably have a fine catch next time.'
'No back answers. Don't you try to teach me anything. Get away to the
galley at once, and be careful what you do.'
Charlie returned to the galley, hardly knowing whether to be angry or
amused. It was very galling to have to submit to the abuse of an
ignorant, blustering fellow like the skipper, but, at the same time, he
could not take the man's superstition seriously.
'I would not have believed, unless I had seen the skipper, that it was
possible for there to be such a superstitious Briton living at the end
of the nineteenth century,' Charlie said to the mate, about half an hour
later.
'Oh, there are many like him in the North Sea,' the mate answered, 'and
all the arguing in the world won't convince them of their foolishness.
After a time you will not find his ignorance and superstition amusing.
However, what I want to say to you is this: the men in the foc's'le
declare that the grub isn't well cooked, and that you haven't given them
plum duff yet. You must let them have it to-morrow.'
'I will,' Charlie declared, as if plum duff were the easiest thing in
the world to make.
When the mate left him, Charlie took out the bow-legged cook's written
instructions to see what ingredients were necessary. His idea was to
make and boil the pudding that evening, so that, if it turned out a
failure, he would have time to make another one. If it proved to be a
success, he would be able to warm it up on the following morning. But,
just as he began to read the recipe, he noticed that the fire had burnt
low and needed instant attention. In his anxiety to prevent it from
going out, he put down the flimsy little book and began shovelling coals
on the fire. While he was doing that a gust of wind swept through the
galley, and carried the recipe-book out through the porthole and into
the sea.
Charlie, gazing out at it, saw it float for a moment or two, and then
lost sight of it.
'Well,' he muttered, ruefully, 'I don't know how I am going to make plum
duff now!'
(_Continued on page 238._)
THE TRUMPET AND THE DRUM.
Said the Trumpet to the Drum:
'Less noise, good fellow! come!
For nobody can hear
My voice, when you are near.'
'Boom! boom!' the Drum replied,
'The fault is on _your_ side;
You blow with such a sound
That _my_ poor voice is drowned.'
And after that, all day
They blew and boomed away,
In contest so absurd
That _neither_ could be heard.
Now, when you want to speak,
O children, never seek
To drown in noisy tone
All voices but your own;
But learn to shun in life
The Drum and Trumpet's strife.
JIM'S SHOWER-BATH.
The kitchen was very hot, and Aunt Christy, the old black cook, was very
busy. With her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, and her cap all awry,
she bustled about, hurrying the slow movements of the girls who were her
helpers, and scolding the four little dusky children whenever they got
in her way. She declared that they were all as full of mischief as they
could be, and that there was not a pin to choose between them. But if
one of the four _did_ happen to be worse than the others, that one was
certainly Jim.
Jim was nearly seven; his young mind was full of eager questions; he
wanted to know the reason of everything, and it was really because he
was so curious and prying that Aunt Christy thought him worse than the
rest.
[Illustration: "Jim got a terrible drenching."]
On that morning he poked about the kitchen, opening baskets and peering
into dishes, until his eyes fell upon a large bright pail, which was set
upon a stand too high for him to reach.
'That's a new pail. Why's Aunt Christy got a new pail? Wonder what's in
it? I will see.'
So said Jim to himself; and when he found that, even by standing on
tiptoe, he could not reach, the little rascal trotted off for his
three-legged stool, mounted on that, put his chubby arms as far as they
would stretch round the pail. A three-legged stool, however, is but a
treacherous support, and this Jim found to his cost. As he stood there,
it slipped from under his bare feet, and the pail, which was full of
warm water and vegetables, suddenly overturned.
Poor Jim got a terrible drenching; it was lucky for him that the water
was not very hot, or he would have been sadly scalded. As it was, a big
turnip hit him on the head, and the handle of the pail hurt him. Wet and
bruised he crept away, a sadder and a wiser boy, inwardly resolved to
have nothing more to do with things which did not concern him.
C. J. BLAKE.
[Illustration: A Cliff-dwelling of North America.]
WONDERFUL CAVERNS.
VII.--THE CLIFF-DWELLERS OF NORTH AMERICA.
If you take a map of North America, and trace the line of the Rocky
Mountains downwards, you come to the State of Colorado, with New Mexico
and Arizona lying below; and if you tried to explore this country you
would find yourself in a perfect network of mountains. In Colorado there
are magnificent snow-peaks, with richly wooded valleys lying between
them, whilst in New Mexico and Arizona the land is much more bare,
mountain ridges, often covered with stones and pebbles, dividing flat
table-lands of great extent.
Common to all three States are wonderful gorges, or splits in the
cliffs, of immense depth. Sometimes from below one can hardly see the
sky between the precipices; at other times the gorge may open out into
quite a broad valley; but, whether narrow or wide, we may be quite sure
that wherever there is a canyon (as these rock-splits are called in
Western America) there will be a river running down it.
One of these rivers, named the Colorado, travels for more than three
hundred miles along a channel of its own cutting, never less than a mile
below the level of the surrounding country. If we remember that we take
from fifteen to twenty minutes to walk a mile, and then fancy that mile
standing on end like a pole, we may get some idea of what the cliffs are
like in these canyons.
The currents of the mountain rivers, like those of all waters flowing
from high lands, are very strong and swift; and when the snows are
melting, or after heavy rainfalls, the force of the stream is enormous.
The result is that the channel is worn deeper and deeper, whilst the
cliffs at the side are eaten away in places. The hardest rocks remain in
jagged points and ledges, and the softer parts are in time washed away,
leaving caverns of all shapes and sizes.
The kind of people who lived in this country of highlands and canyons
were tribes of American Indians, whose food was chiefly found in
hunting, and whose main interests lay in making war upon their
neighbours. Some tribes were strong, and others weak, so that by degrees
the powerful folk drove away the less warlike people from the rich
hunting-grounds and wooded country into the barren rocks. Now, if these
hunted tribes were to exist at all, it was clear they must find some
means of protecting themselves; thus it may have happened that
scrambling up the cliffs one day to avoid their foes, some fugitive
Indian came into one of the dwelling-places hollowed out in bygone ages
by the river which roared below. What joyful news he would carry home to
his friends when he ventured to go back to them! Shelter from rain, and
snow, and wind! Homes easily defended from marauding foes! What a new
life of ease for the persecuted people! One by one families would climb
the cliffs, until at last a great population looked down from their
eyries in certain gorges of Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, where
only eagles or mountain-goats might be supposed to dwell.
The table-lands above the ravines were, as a rule, fairly fertile, and
the Indians were able to grow maize, or Indian corn. When they were
obliged to give up the roving life of hunters, animal food must have
become a scarce luxury.
Being an industrious race, they were not long content to live in the
rugged caverns as nature made them, but with wonderful labour built
walls, floors, and roofs, to make their homes more comfortable, and to
keep out the icy winds which howled up the canyons. The marvel is how
they reached their homes, which are often at great heights; and one
shudders to think of how many stray babies, clambering children, and
nervous folk of all ages, must have stumbled and fallen over the rocky
platforms to certain death. Every drop of water, every bit of fuel, and
all food of every kind, must have been carried up those awful
precipices, usually on ladders placed from ledge to ledge, and drawn up
after the climber. That any people should choose such dwelling-places
shows how unsafe life down in the plains must have been, and later on we
will try to see how far the Cave Indians contrived to secure peace and
comfort in their cliff houses.
HELENA HEATH.
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
10.--OBLIQUE PUZZLE.
Each word is one letter shorter than the one before. The initials, read
downwards, give the name of a South American city.
1. The highest degree of respect.
2. Bitter hatred.
3. A common and useful covering for the floor.
4. A model of excellence.
5. A woman's name.
6. A sharp instrument.
7. A curved structure.
8. Congealed water.
9. An adverb.
10. A vowel.
C. J. B.
11.--CHARADE.
My first is thick and dark; my second is connected with the sea; my
whole is an acid concrete salt, or some one keen and irritable.
C. J. B.
[_Answers on page 263._]
ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 195.
9.--1. Wellington.
2. Marlborough.
3. Nelson.
4. Blake.
5. Shakespeare.
6. Tennyson.
7. Scott.
8. Dickens.
9. Elizabeth.
10. Victoria.
ANSWER TO 'WHAT AM I?' ON PAGE 214.
Dun-dee.
DECEIVING THE HORSE.
An omnibus, in the course of its journey, had to be taken up a long and
toilsome hill. Frequently passengers, out of pity for the poor horse,
would get out at the bottom and walk up a part of the way, so as to
lighten its load. In time, the sagacious beast got to expect this, and
would sometimes stop of its own accord, as if to let them descend from
the vehicle.
One day, a gentleman, travelling up the hill for the first time in this
conveyance, was much annoyed by the conductor frequently opening the
door, even when no one wanted to get out, and banging it close again.
He inquired of the man what he meant by such conduct, when it was
explained that it was done to deceive the horse, which, each time the
door was banged, thought another passenger had alighted, and pulled away
with more will in consequence.
H. B. S.
THE TEETH OF HYENAS.
Hyenas have stronger jaws than any other animals in the world. They have
a large tooth at each side of the upper jaw, which bites against the
keen edge of a tooth like it on the lower jaw, thus forming a pair of
shears sharp enough to cut paper and strong enough to crack the
thigh-bone of an ox.
Hyenas live entirely on meat. A lion, on the contrary, eats a large
quantity of fresh grass when it can get it, and in captivity will lap
milk from a pan with as much greediness as an ordinary pussy.
THE GATE-KEEPER OF RAMBOUILLET.
It is difficult for Englishmen to realise the intense devotion which
Napoleon the First inspired in the hearts of his French soldiers.
Ambitious and utterly careless of human life as he undoubtedly was,
these men overlooked all this in their admiration for the victorious
General.
As a rule, Napoleon certainly behaved as the Father of his soldiers, and
seemed to feel both with them and for them. Here is an account of the
way he cheered an old 'Sapeur' whom he find lying in the ward of a
military hospital.
'How now, my friend?' said the Emperor, halting at the soldier's
bedside. 'You are one of my Sapeurs, I see! I thought that regiment
prided itself on never being ill?'
'I am not ill, your Majesty!' said the soldier, proudly, as he saluted
his chief; 'but the doctor wants me to have my leg cut off, and I do not
wish it.'
'Why not?' asked Napoleon. 'Are you, who have faced death so often,
afraid of an operation of a few minutes?'
'Afraid, Sire!' said the man, with a quiet smile. 'Fear is not a disease
that attacks Sapeurs, as your Majesty knows; but if I change my leg of
flesh for a wooden stump, I shall never be able to return to the
regiment, and I would rather be buried entire than bit by bit.'
'Where were you wounded?' asked the Emperor.
'At Wagram, Sire.'
'Have you received your medal?'
'No, Sire,' said the soldier, eagerly. 'I was in the ambulance when you
distributed the medals.'
'Suppose I were to give you the medal now?' said Napoleon, looking
fixedly at the soldier.
'Oh, Sire!' said the man, almost leaping up in his delight. 'I should be
quite well then, I know.'
'Well, then, I give it you,' said the Emperor: 'but on one condition:
you must let the surgeon cut off that leg.'
'Just as you order me, Sire; if you wish my head cut off I am ready!
Only I can never serve you again, if I have a leg off.'
'How do you know that, you foolish fellow?' replied the Emperor,
smiling. 'Make haste and get well, and I appoint you gate-keeper of my
castle of Rambouillet.'
The soldier said no more. His heart was too full of joy and gratitude,
for that was indeed a post of honour.
Some months later the Castle of Rambouillet had a new gate-keeper, an
old wooden-legged sergeant of Sapeurs, wearing the coveted medal on his
well-brushed uniform!
X.
THE CASHMERE STAG.
India is rich in animals of the deer kind. To name only a few, there are
the Sambur, the beautiful Axis Deer, the small, but fierce, Hog Deer,
the Rusa Deer, the Bahrainga Deer, and the noble Cashmere Deer. The
habits of these animals are exceedingly varied. Some live upon the
hills, while others frequent the low lands and the jungles, and are
never seen upon the higher ground. Several of the species are nocturnal,
and are so rarely seen in the daytime that any one might think they were
scarce animals, although they are really very common.
The Cashmere Stag or Deer is one of those which live on the high lands,
upon the slopes of the mountains of Cashmere, Nepal, and the countries
to the north-west of India. It prefers forests and well-wooded country,
in which it finds shelter and seclusion. It rarely descends to the lower
and more open country, and it is in fact so retiring and alert that it
is seldom met with. By day it hides itself in the woods, but in the
early morning it is tempted forth to drink at the lakes and pools which
lie upon the skirts of the forest. It changes its pasture-grounds with
the seasons, climbing the mountains in summer, probably to enjoy the
cool, fresh air of the upper regions, and returning to lower ground in
winter in search of food.
The male is a fine animal, with large branching horns, somewhat like
those of our own stag or red deer, but not quite so large. In a fine and
well-developed specimen the horns will often display sixteen branching
points. The general colour of the stag is a rather dark grey or brown,
with patches of yellowish white upon the haunches, and for some little
distance along the back. The neck of the male is covered with longer
hair somewhat resembling a mane. The female is very similar in colour to
the male, but she is smaller, and has neither horns nor mane.
The Cashmere stag is sometimes called the Nepal stag, and it has also
other names, mostly derived from the localities where it is found. Many
of these are native names conferred upon it by the inhabitants of
various parts of the north of India, and when they are taken up and
repeated by sportsmen and travellers they prove very confusing to
naturalists, who cannot always be sure that they all refer to one
animal.
All stags are very attentive to their mates, and the least cry of the
female will draw her companion to her side. A hunter once saw a fine
male come running up at the cry of his mate, which had just been shot.
The poor thing was dead, but the stag stayed by her body, and would not
be frightened away until he was quite sure there was no life left in
it.
[Illustration: "The stag stayed by his mate's body."]
[Illustration: The Black Leopard.]
THE BLACK LEOPARD.
There are few animals more beautiful than the leopard, which inhabits
India and Africa. Looking at its handsome fur, we cannot fail to be
struck with the regular way in which the black spots or rings are
arranged upon the reddish-yellow ground, and how regularly they vary in
shape and size in different parts of the body.
Besides the ordinary spotted leopard there is, however, a black leopard.
It is found in India and some other countries of southern Asia where the
ordinary leopard lives, and seems most common upon the high lands. It is
very much scarcer than the ordinary leopard, and is, indeed, very rare.
The natives of India have a great dread of it, for they think it is more
cunning, more ferocious and stronger than the spotted leopard, which is
one of the fiercest and most active of the flesh-eating animals. It
climbs trees and sports among the branches with all the agility of a
cat. It is as ferocious as the tiger, and though not so large, its
activity and strength make it a very dangerous foe.
Though the black leopard is different in colour from the ordinary
leopard, it is in other respects very similar, and naturalists now
regard it as only a variety of the spotted leopard. After getting
together all the information which they can about the colours of the
leopard and similar animals, they have come to the conclusion that the
leopard family has a tendency to turn to black. This does not mean that
full-grown spotted leopards sometimes turn black quickly, but that the
cubs are occasionally born black, or grow dark soon after they are born.
The leopard is also known to show other variations of colour, but
examples of these are very much rarer than black ones. All animals are
liable to occasional variations of colour, which cannot be
satisfactorily explained. In the leopard these variations occur more
frequently than in most other animals, and the colour is nearly always
black.
THE POET CRABBE'S FIRST SCHOOL.
Crabbe, the poet, whose _Village Tales_ were the delight of a past
generation, was sent to a boarding school whilst still so young that he
had not even learnt to dress himself.
When he awoke in the morning after his first night away from home, he
saw the other boys dressing, and was much disturbed. He whispered to his
bedfellow (for all schoolboys slept at least two in a bed in those
days), 'Master George, can you put on your shirt? for--for I'm afraid I
cannot!'
This school, though only for small boys, seems to have been a very
severe one, for Crabbe and his friends were punished for simply 'playing
at soldiers.' He was condemned, with his friends, to be shut in a large
dog-kennel, known by the terrible name of 'the Black Hole.' Little
Crabbe was the first to be pushed in, and the rest were crowded in on
top of him, till at last the kennel was so full of boys that they were
all but suffocated. Crabbe in vain cried out that he could not breathe,
but no notice was taken of him until, in despair, he bit the lad next
to him violently in the hand.
'Crabbe is dying! Crabbe is dying!' roared the sufferer, and the
sentinel outside at length opened the door, and allowed the boys to rush
into the air.
Crabbe, when telling this story to his children in after years, always
added, 'A minute more and I must have died!'
X.
MY PICTURE-BOOK.
Oh, what a pretty scene is this,
Of meadow, hill, and brook,
I wish that I was small enough
To get inside the book.
Upon this stream I'd launch my boat;
I'd pluck this willow wand;
Then round that reedy curve I'd float,
And past the mill beyond--
If I were only small enough.
Then where the meadows are so green
I'd moor my boat again,
And overtake that little boy
Who's trotting down the lane.
I'd ask him to be friends with me,
I'd take him by the hand,
And through my pretty picture we
Would go to fairy-land--
If I were only small enough.
ULRICH'S OPPORTUNITY.
The Thirty Years' War was raging, and Europe was torn by bitter party
strife. All over the country men ranged themselves under their
respective leaders and fought grimly to the death.
At the time of this story, the little German town of Bamburg had
remained loyal to the Emperor Ferdinand, and had in consequence been
closely besieged for many weeks by the troops of the Elector of Saxony.
The flag still floated from the tower of the Town Hall, and a bold front
was shown to the enemy; but in reality the inhabitants were in sore
straits, when news reached them that if they could hold out one week
longer help would come.
A council was summoned, and all who could bear arms were called to hear
the glad news and to form fresh plans for the further defence of the
town. Shrewd and cautious advice was sorely needed, and none was fitter
to give it than stout old Karl Sneider, the keeper of the water-gate. So
to-night he was not in his place in the little watch-tower that looked
out over the broad river that flowed by the wall of the little town.
His watch was taken by Oscar Halbau, the clock-maker, who, although he
was not a Bamburg man by birth, had lived there so long that the good
people had come to regard him as one of themselves. Upstairs, in a
quaint little room with sloping roofs and curious corners, lay Karl
Sneider's crippled son Ulrich.
Usually bright and cheerful, to-night Ulrich was sadly depressed. To-day
was his fifteenth birthday, and were not boys of fifteen allowed to take
their places in the council? Caspar Shenk and Peter and Johann Hofman
had run up to see him on their way to the Rathhaus, and had joined with
him in begging his father to allow him to go, too, for with the help of
his crutch and a friendly arm he could make his way to the Cathedral,
and the Town Hall was not much further away.
'Nay, my son,' said his father firmly, 'a council is not like a service
at church. Stay quietly here, and when I return I will tell thee all.'
He spoke cheerfully, but his heart ached to see the boy's disappointment,
and when the other lads had gone he bent tenderly over him, saying,
'Only wait patiently, my son; thy turn will come, bringing the bit of
work Providence means thee to do. There is work for every one if only we
wait quietly for it.'
Long after he had gone, Ulrich thought over these words. They might be
true, but it seemed as if there could never be work for him to do. His
life seemed bounded by his couch and his chair by the window. Sometimes
he went out, it was true, but at best it was a slow and painful
business, and lately he had fancied the children laughed to themselves
when he passed.
He was roused from these sad thoughts by something coming sharply
against the window. He listened, and the sound was repeated again.
Someone was throwing stones at the glass. Who could it be? and what
could they want at that hour?
Stretching out his hand for his crutch, he moved softly across the room
and peered out. There was just enough light to enable him to see a boat
moored to the steps which ran up to the gate. He opened the window
gently, and was about to speak when he heard the clockmaker's voice
saying cautiously, 'Is that you, Captain?'
Ulrich knew then that the stranger had struck his window by mistake;
clearly it was the guard-room window he had aimed at, and if that were
so, why had the stranger chosen the very night that his father was away,
and how did Oscar know him? As quickly as he could he put out his lamp
and listened breathlessly. Oscar was speaking again.
'All is going well--better than I dared to hope. The fools think I am as
loyal as themselves, and they have left me to guard the gate. The
council will not be over till near midnight, and in half an hour the
moon will be gone. I will open the gate when it is quite dark and admit
your men, and the game will then be in our own hands.'
'You are a good fellow, Oscar, and shall be remembered,' replied the
stranger. 'To-morrow, when the town is ours, your name shall be on every
one's lips, and your pockets shall be filled with gold.'
He then turned back to his boat, and Ulrich leant back in his chair sick
with horror. To think that here, in his father's house, sat a traitor,
and that unless help came soon the town would be lost!
What could he do? It was useless for him to crawl downstairs and
confront Oscar. He had only to carry him back to his room and lock the
door to ensure safety. It was no less useless to cry for help, for a
long row of warehouses separated the guard-room from any other dwelling.
Oh! if he had only been like other boys, how easily he could have
stolen downstairs, and rushed to the Town Hall and given the alarm! It
seemed absolutely impossible for him to do it as he was. He had never
gone downstairs alone in his life; his father had always been there to
help him; even if he managed to crawl down he could not take his crutch
with him, and he could not walk without it. No, clearly it was
impossible.
And yet, as the slow minutes dragged away, and as he thought of the
shame it would be if the town were lost, he decided to make the attempt.
Slowly he crawled across the room and down the narrow, twisted
staircase. He was trembling from head to foot, and his breath seemed to
come in great gasps. What if Oscar heard him? His door was ajar, and the
lamp threw a ray of light on the landing outside; but Oscar was deep in
his plans, and did not notice the black shadow that moved slowly across
the lamp-lit space.
At last Ulrich was outside, and he breathed more freely in the open air.
If he had only had his crutch now, things might all have gone well, but
how was he to crawl along the long Breite Strasse, and round the corner
and up the still longer Gast Strasse to the Town Hall? His heart failed.
Still, he could only try his best. Perhaps he might meet some one....
Alas! all who were not at the council were safely in their houses, and
there was no one to notice the bent figure slowly dragging itself along,
or to hear the feeble knocks as he tried to reach the great brass
knockers, which were just too high for him to reach.
At last he came to the Cathedral, where he sometimes attended service,
but he had his father's strong arm to lean on then, while now he was
alone and quite exhausted. He could never reach the Town Hall in time;
but the church door was open, perhaps some one was inside who could take
the message. But the church was closed; it was only the porch which was
open.
With a sob of despair the boy entered and sank down on a low bench by
the door. After all it was no use; he could go no further, and even now
the traitor might be opening the gates.
As Ulrich raised his hand to wipe away the big tears that would fall, he
struck something soft hanging above his head; in the darkness he felt
it. It was a rope.
Instantly his strength came back with a rush. There was hope yet! Was
not the bell of the Cathedral the loudest in the town, and was it not
used as an alarm in cases of fire? He grasped the rope and pulled with
all his might. It was hard work, but soon the sound came--crash! crash!
crash!
That would surely rouse the town. And so it did. Soon hasty footsteps
were heard, and a watchman ran in, frantically waving his lantern.
'Where is it? What is it?--a fire? Speak, boy!' but Ulrich seemed to
have lost his tongue. It was not until several others had gathered round
him that he managed to gasp out, 'The water-gate--quick! Oscar is
letting in the soldiers!'
The words flew like wild-fire, and off the crowd rushed--men, boys,
burgomaster, and watchmen, just in time to capture the traitor and to
drive back the enemy.
[Illustration: "'What is it?--a fire? Speak, boy!'"]
So his father had been right after all, and Ulrich's bit of work had
been ready for him, and nearer than he thought. And he did his best, and
doing his best saved the town. For help did come, and Ulrich was thanked
by the Emperor himself, who put him under the care of his own doctor.
The doctor, although he was not able quite to cure him, did him so much
good that he was able in the course of time to walk without a crutch.
E. W. GRIERSON.
[Illustration:
Fig. 1.--Aphis, showing "Tracheæ" (greatly magnified).
Fig. 2.--"Tracheal Filaments" of Aphis (greatly magnified).
Fig. 3.--"Spiracles" of Water Beetle (greatly magnified).
Fig. 4.--Section of Crayfish, showing gills (magnified).]
INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.
VII.--HOW INSECTS BREATHE
Animal life cannot be sustained without breathing, though, strange as it
may seem, many of the lower animals have no special breathing organs. By
breathing, we mean supplying the body with the life-giving oxygen
contained in the air. Animals which live in the water breathe by taking
in the oxygen held in solution in the water.
In the simplest animals which live in water, the body is only a small
'blob' of jelly, so small that the oxygen passes directly into the body.
The bodies of some worms are so delicate that the oxygen easily passes
through the outer layers and mixes with the blood within.
In more complicated animals this life-giving gas is conveyed all over
the body by means of the blood, which is brought into contact with the
water, or the air, by structures known as gills. In the crayfish, for
example, the gills are placed above and rise from the bases of the legs,
being saved from injury by a broad shield lying behind the head. (In
fig. 4 this shield has been cut away so as to show the gills, marked G,
which it really covers.) By means of the circulation of the blood, the
crayfish breathes. This blood is carried to the gills and bathed by a
constant stream of fresh water, which enters behind the covering and
shield, and passes forwards till it comes out on each side of the mouth.
The blood, thus refreshed by the oxygen in the water, is carried again
all over the body, and in its course loses more and more oxygen, and
becomes more and more charged with poisonous gases, which are got rid of
on the return of the blood to the gills. The letter S in this figure
marks the stump of the leg, which, for the sake of clearness, has been
cut off.
In ourselves, the work of breathing, or of purifying the blood, is done
by means of the lungs. The lungs are large, spongy organs in the chest,
and are continually supplied with fresh air, which passes in through the
nose and mouth and down the wind-pipe, by what we call the act of
breathing.
Insects take in oxygen in a way quite different from that of the
crayfish or mankind. In some larval insects, which live in water, as in
some worms, the body is so thin that no special breathing organs are
necessary; others breathe by means of gills like those of the crayfish,
but arranged differently--sometimes along each side, and sometimes at
the tail end of the body. But in the ordinary adult insect the work of
breathing is carried on by means of a system of tubes, known as
'tracheæ,' which run all over the body. Into these tubes the air is
drawn through a number of holes on the surface of the body, called
'spiracles,' or breathing pores. The tracheæ or tubes are everywhere
bathed by the blood, which is thus constantly 'aerated,' or kept fresh.
One very remarkable thing about these tubes is the way they are kept
open. A horny, spirally-twisted thread runs through them, and thus they
are prevented from closing up by pressure, or by the bending of the body
or limbs. In fig. 2, this thread is marked C. This plan of keeping open
the passage in a tube likely to be blocked by sudden bending, has been
imitated by mankind, in making rubber gas tubing, for example. As a
plain rubber tube is easily bent, the gas would be in constant danger of
being cut off. To prevent this, Nature's patent is usually imitated, and
a coil of wire is placed along the inside of the tube. Thus, a sharp
bend, such as would instantly obstruct the passage of the gas, is
prevented.
The openings at the end of the breathing tubes, on the surface of the
insect's body, are known, as we have said, as 'spiracles,' or
'stigmata.' They can be closed at will by special muscles, and, to
prevent dust from getting into the tube, the rim of each spiracle has a
more or less complicated fringe or strainer. In fig. 3 the spiracle is
shown open, the opening being marked by the letter O. When closed the
fringes interlock like clasped fingers.
Fig. 1 shows the position of the breathing tubes in the aphis or green
fly. The spiracles or pores are marked O, the breathing tubes T.
Some insects which live in water, such as the water-beetle, breathe air
in the same way as their relatives who live on land. To do this they
have to come frequently to the surface of the water to take in fresh
supplies of air. In the great Dyticus water-beetle this is done in a
curious way. The creature, rising to the surface, first thrusts its tail
up into the air, and then bending it downwards, lets the air rush in to
fill the space between the body and the upper wing-cases. This done, the
tail is pressed back again, and the beetle returns to the depths, where
the imprisoned air is taken in through the pores into the tubes.
Besides the system of tubes just described, many insects possess a
wonderful system of air-cells, which give extra help in breathing during
flight. These air-cells are largest in insects which fly most. It is a
curious fact that birds have an exactly similar system; in many cases,
even the bones of birds are filled with air. It is generally stated,
indeed, that birds with the strongest flight have the most 'pneumatic'
bones. This not quite true, for the swallow, for example, has the long
bones of its wing filled with marrow, and not with air. Other birds,
however, like the storks, which fly much, and the owls and nightjars,
have all the bones in the body thus filled with air which they obtain
from the air-cells.
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.
A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.
(_Continued from page 227._)