The afternoon post had come in, and the Vicar of Renton stood in the
large bay window of his library reading his budget of letters. He was
a tall, thin man, with a close shaven face, which had no beauty of
feature, but which was wonderfully attractive all the same. It was not
an old face, but it was deeply lined, and those who knew and loved
him best could tell the history and meaning of each of those eloquent
tracings. The deep vertical mark running up the forehead meant sorrow.
It had been stamped there for ever on the night when Hubert, his
first-born, had been brought back, cold and lifeless, from the river
to which he had hurried forth but an hour before, a picture of happy
boyhood, in his white boating flannels. The Vicar's brow had been
smooth enough before that day; the furrow was graven to the memory
of Teddy, the golden-haired lad who had first taught him the joys of
fatherhood. The network of little lines about the eyes were caused by
the hundred and one little worries of every-day life, and the strain of
working a delicate body to its fullest pitch; and the two long, deep
streaks down the cheeks bore testimony to that happy sense of humour
which showed the bright side of a question, and helped him out of many
a slough of despair. This afternoon, as he stood reading his letters
one by one, the different lines deepened, or smoothed out, according
to the nature of the missive. Now he smiled, now he sighed, anon he
crumpled up his face in puzzled thought, until the last letter of all
was reached, when he did all three in succession, ending up with a low
whistle of surprise--
"Edith! This is from Mrs. Saville. Just look at this!"
Instantly there came a sound of hurried rising from the other end
of the room; a wicker-work basket swayed to and fro on a rickety
gipsy table, and the Vicar's wife walked hurriedly towards him,
rolling half-a-dozen reels of thread in her wake, with an air of fine
indifference.
"Mrs. Saville!" she exclaimed eagerly. "How is my boy?" and without
waiting for an answer she seized the letter and began to devour its
contents, while her husband went stooping about over the floor picking
up the contents of the scattered basket and putting them carefully
back in their places. He smiled to himself as he did so, and kept
turning amused, tender, little glances at his wife as she stood in the
uncarpeted space in the window, with the sunshine pouring in on her
eager face. Mrs. Asplin had been married for twenty years and was the
mother of three big children, but such was the buoyancy of her Irish
nature and the irrepressible cheeriness of her heart, that she was
in good truth the very youngest person in the house, so that her own
daughters were sometimes quite shocked at her levity of behaviour, and
treated her with gentle, motherly restraint. She was tall and thin like
her husband, and he, at least, considered her every whit as beautiful
as she had been a score of years before. Her hair was dark and curly;
she had deep-set grey eyes and a pretty fresh complexion. When she was
well and rushing about in her usual breathless fashion, she looked like
the sister of her own tall girls; and when she was ill, and the dark
lines showed under her eyes, she looked like a tired, wearied girl, but
never for a moment as if she deserved such a title as an old or elderly
woman. Now, as she read, her eyes glowed, and she uttered ecstatic
little exclamations of triumph from time to time, for Arthur Saville,
the son of the lady who was the writer of the letter, had been the
first pupil whom her husband had taken into his house to coach, and as
such had a special claim on her affection. For the first dozen years of
their marriage all had gone smoothly and well with Mr. and Mrs. Asplin,
and the vicar had had more work than he could manage in his busy city
parish; then, alas, lung trouble had threatened; he had been obliged
to take a year's rest, and to exchange his living for a sleepy little
parish, where he could breathe fresh air, and take life at a slower
pace. Illness, the doctor's bills, the year's holiday, ran away with a
large sum of money; the stipend of the country church was by no means
generous, and the vicar was lamenting the fact that he was shortest of
money just when his children were growing up and he needed it most,
when an old college friend, Major Saville, requested, as a favour,
that he would undertake the education of his only son, for a year at
least, so that he might be well grounded in his studies before going on
to the military tutor who was to prepare him for Sandhurst. Handsome
terms were quoted, the vicar looked upon the offer as a leading of
Providence, and Arthur Saville's stay at the Rectory proved a success
in every sense of the word. He was a clever boy who was not afraid
of work, and the vicar discovered in himself an unsuspected genius
for teaching. Arthur's progress not only filled him with delight, but
brought the offer of other pupils, so that he was but the forerunner of
a succession of bright, handsome boys, who came from far and wide to be
prepared for college, and to make their home at the vicarage. They were
honest, healthy-minded lads, and Mrs. Asplin loved them all, but no one
had ever taken Arthur Saville's place. During the year which he had
spent under her roof he had broken his collar bone, sprained his ankle,
nearly chopped off the top of one of his fingers, scalded his foot, and
fallen crash through a plate-glass window. There had never been one
moment's peace or quietness; she had gone about from morning to night
in chronic fear of a disaster; and, as a matter of course, it followed
that Arthur was her darling, ensconced in a little niche of his own,
from which subsequent pupils tried in vain to oust him.
Mrs. Saville dwelt upon the latest successes of her clever son with a
mother's pride, and his second mother beamed and smiled and cried, "I
told you so!" "Dear boy!" "Of course he did!" in delighted echo. But
when she came to the second half of the letter her face changed, and
she grew grave and anxious. "And now, dear Mr. Asplin," Mrs. Saville
wrote, "I come to the real burden of my letter. I return to India in
autumn, and am most anxious to see Peggy happily settled before I
leave. She has been at this Brighton school for four years, and has
done well with her lessons, but the poor child seems so unhappy at the
thought of returning, that I am sorely troubled about her. Like most
Indian children, she has had very little home life, and after being
with me for the last six months, she dreads the prospect of school, and
I cannot bear the thought of sending her back against her will. I was
puzzling over the question yesterday, when it suddenly occurred to me
that perhaps you, dear Mr. Asplin, could help me out of my difficulty.
Could you--would you, take her in hand for the next three years,
letting her share the lessons of your own two girls? I cannot tell
you what a relief and joy it would be to feel that she was under your
care. Arthur always looks back on the year spent with you as one of
the brightest of his life; and I am sure Peggy would be equally happy.
I write to you from force of habit, but really I think this letter
should have been addressed to Mrs. Asplin, for it is she who would be
most concerned. I know her heart is large enough to mother my dear girl
during my absence, and if strength and time will allow her to undertake
this fresh charge, I think she will be glad to help another mother by
doing so. Peggy is bright and clever like her brother, and strong on
the whole, though her throat needs care. She is nearly fifteen--the
age, I think, of your youngest girl, and we should be pleased to pay
the same terms as we did for Arthur. Now, please, dear Mr. Asplin, talk
the matter over with your wife, and let me know your decision as soon
as possible."
Mrs. Asplin dropped the letter on the floor and turned to confront her
husband.
"Well!"
"Well?"
"It is your affair, dear, not mine. You would have the trouble. Could
you do with an extra child in the house?"
"Yes, yes, so far as that goes. The more the merrier. I should like
to help Arthur's mother, but----" Mrs. Asplin leant her head on one
side, and put on what her children described as her "ways and means"
expression. She was saying to herself, clear out the box room over the
study. Spare chest of drawers from dressing-room--cover a box with
one of the old chintz curtains for an ottoman--enamel the old blue
furniture--new carpet and bedstead, say five or six pounds outlay--yes!
I think I could make it pretty for five pounds. The calculations lasted
for about two minutes, at the end of which time her brow cleared, she
nodded brightly, and said in a crisp, decisive tone, "Yes, we will take
her. Arthur's throat was delicate too. She must use my gargle."
The vicar laughed softly.
"Ah! I thought that would decide it. I knew your soft heart would not
be able to resist the thought of that delicate throat! Well, dear, if
you are willing, so am I. I am glad to make hay while the sun shines,
and lay by a little provision for the children. How will they take it,
do you think? They are accustomed to strange boys, but a girl will be
a new experience. She will come at once, I suppose, and settle down
to work for the autumn. Dear me! dear me? It is the unexpected that
happens. I hope she is a nice child."
"Of course she is. She is Arthur's sister. Come! the young folks are
in the study. Let us go and tell them the news. I have always said it
was my ambition to have half-a-dozen children, and now, at last, it is
going to be gratified."
Mrs. Asplin thrust her hand through her husband's arm, and led him
out of the room, down the wide flagged hall, towards the distant room
whence the sound of merry young voices fell pleasantly on the ear.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration:
OUR
PUZZLE POEM REPORT:
"PREPOSITIONS."]
SOLUTION.
PREPOSITIONS.
A preposition is a word
Which other words with nouns relates,
And as its name denotes is heard
Before the noun it dominates.
The noun, poor thing, objects in case,
And this may partly be because
It much dislikes the minor place
Assigned to it by grammar's laws.
But if you take away its noun,
The preposition's altered quite,
Into an adverb has it grown
Which puts things in a diff'rent light.
For now this lordly part of speech
Which erstwhile governed, needs must be
Slave to a verb, and this should teach
A lesson in humility.
PRIZE WINNERS
_Ten Shillings Each._
Lily Belling, Wribbenhall, Bewdley, Worcestershire.
Isabel Borrow, 219, Evering Road, Upper Clapton.
M. A. C. Crabb, c/o Miss May, 10, Beaufort East, Bath.
Edmund T. Loader, 5, Richmond Terrace, Brighton.
Nellie Meikle, 2, Newsham Drive, Liverpool.
M. Theodora Moxom, Hillside, Ilfracombe.
Hilda Pickering, 42, Linnæus Street, Hull.
Elizabeth Yarwood, 59, Beech Road, Cale Green, Stockport.
_Five Shillings Each._
Eliza Acworth, 9, Blenheim Mount, Bradford.
Nannette Bewley, 40, Fitzwilliam Place, Dublin.
M. S. Bourne, 14, The Broadway, Bromley, Kent.
Ellen H. Kemp, Haughley Vicarage, Suffolk.
Ethel C. McMaster, 23, Ross Road, Wallington, Surrey.
Mabel Wheeler, Holmesdale, Winkfield, Windsor.
_Very Highly Commended._
Rev. S. Bell, E. Blunt, J. A. Center, Edith Collins, R. D. Davis, E.
M. Le Mottee, Jas. S. Middleton, Alice M. Motum, H. W. Musgrave, J. D.
Musgrave, Mrs. Nicholls, Gertrude Smith, Ellen C. Tarrant, Violet C.
Todd, Horace Williams.
_Highly Commended._
Guy Baily, Elizabeth A. Collins, Eva Gammage, Mrs. A. D. Harris, Edward
St. G. Hodson, Edith L. Howse, Annie G. Luck, May Merrall, F. Miller,
Margaret G. Oliver, E. Phillips, M. G. Phillips, Alice M. Seaman, Katie
Whitmore.
_Honourable Mention._
Mrs. Adkins, Muriel V. Angel, Mrs. Astbury, Mrs. L. Bishop, M.
Bolingbroke, Louie Bull, Helen M. Coulthard, Constance Daphne, B.
Duret, Annie K. Edwards, C. M. A. Fitzgerald, Edith E. Grundy, Edith
M. Higgs, S. D. Honeyburne, J. Hunt, Ethel L. Jollye, Edith B. Jowett,
Carlina V. M. Leggett, Mrs. R. Mason, Wm. E. Parker, A. A. L. Shave,
Helen Singleton, Clara Souter, W. Fitzjames White, Emily Wilkinson,
Henry Wilkinson, Amy G. Wiltshire, Emily C. Woodward, Diana C. Yeo,
Sophia Yeo.
EXAMINERS' REPORT.
The general opinion seems to be that "Prepositions" was a very
difficult puzzle. It was certainly unpopular, judging by the number
of solutions sent in, but we were inclined to think that this was
accounted for by the subject. Who wants to learn anything about
prepositions in the middle of summer, and who would be so extremely
foolish as to spend any of the precious--not to say "honied"--hours
over a grammatical puzzle? In the summer of 1897 about fifteen hundred
individuals tried to unravel a page full of curious suppositions. But
then suppositions are always dear to the girl mind, while prepositions
seldom are, because they pertain to a science which the girl mind
(as a rule) little understands. So the subject repelled, and as the
difficulty also repelled, we begin to be surprised that there were any
solutions at all.
With these unpopular features to contend with, it was particularly
unfortunate that the puzzle should have been marred by two serious
mistakes. In line 11 no amount of solving ingenuity could convert gr
divided by rown into "grown," though a shrewd guess helped nearly all
the solvers to the right word. In line 15 the minus sign should have
been the sign of division, giving hold divided by u. The point of this
mistake was not so widely apprehended, and no wonder.
Of the rest of the puzzle little need be said. Probably the ninth line
was the most obscure, and it needed a truly expert solver to discover
that _lake_ plus a short line (inserted in the right place) becomes
_take_. The _waits_ were now and then taken for a German band, giving
the quaint reading, "But if you take a German noun." Obviously, the
alteration that an English preposition would undergo if tacked on to a
German noun would be extremely serious, though the precise nature of
it would not be easy to define. Many solvers failed to notice that an
e was left out of different in line 12. The word was intended to be so
written, with of course the addition of an apostrophe, because of the
rhythm.
We must not fail to thank M. T. M. for her exceedingly kind and
encouraging letter. Referring to our puzzles generally she writes:
"I am an invalid, and the diversion of thought and interest is very
welcome to me." It is indeed good for us to know that even our more
frivolous efforts can be so helpful, and no form of commendation could
give us more sincere pleasure.
We append our foreign award on Fluctuations. It is rather late, but
we have been anxious to include solutions from the remotest parts of
the world. One comes to us from Coomooboolaroo, wherever that may be,
and the author mildly suggests that she is afraid her solutions do not
arrive in time as she has never had honourable mention. Now that we
allow a reasonable extension of time, we hope the writer will continue
to solve, for if THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER can reach even a place with eight
o_s_ in it so can a Puzzle Poem Prize.
It is very odd, but a puzzle which is popular at home is certain also
to be popular abroad.
FOREIGN AWARD.
FLUCTUATIONS.
_Prize Winners (Seven Shillings Each)._
Charles Glasgow, 6A, Sleater Road, Tardeo, Bombay.
Clara and Edith Hardy, Finch Street, East Malvern, Victoria, Australia.
Ada F. Sykes, 1, Grant's Lane, Calcutta.
_Very Highly Commended._
Ivie D. Ashton, Gertrude Burden (Australia), Ethel Danford (Canada),
Lillian Dobson (Australia), Aveline Gall (Demerara), Maggie Glasgow,
Mrs. Hardy (Australia), Mrs. Manners, Maud C. Ogilvie (India).
_Highly Commended._
Evalyn Austin (Australia), M. C. C. (Ceylon), Mrs. F. Christian, Lily
Harman, Harry John (India), Philippa M. Kemlo (Cape Colony), Elizabeth
Lang (France), Frances A. L. Macharg (S. Africa), Grace Rhodes
(Australia), Frances E. Scott (Austria), Mrs. Sprigg, Mrs. F. H. le
Sueur (Cape Colony), A. G. Taylor (Australia), Dora M. C. Webbe (New
York).
_Honourable Mention._
Mrs. G. Barnard (Australia), Annie Barrow (Switzerland), Winifred
Bizzey (Canada), Mabel E. Broughton (Australia), Marcelle Crasenster
(Belgium), Elsie V. Davies, Barton Egan (Australia), Hattie L. Elliot
(Canada), Lena Gahan (Burma), Ethel L. Glendenning (New Zealand),
Dora von Grabmayr (Austria), Agnes Henderson (S. Africa), Violet
Hewett (Canada), A. Hood (France), Annie Jackson, Mabel C. King
(Canada), Blanche Kirkup (Russia), Mina J. Knop (India), Percival
Laker (Australia), Mrs. J. R. Lee (Burma), Annie Leipoldt (S. Africa),
Mrs. G. Marrett (India), Gertrude E. Moore, Amy F. Moore-Jones (New
Zealand), Annie Orbiston (Australia), E. Nina Reid (New Zealand), Hilda
D'Rozario (India), A. Shannon (Australia), Laura O'Suleivan (Burma), J.
S. Summers (India), Gladys Wilding (New Zealand), Elsie M. Wylie (New
Zealand).
TAME VOLES.
One day last August, when strolling in a secluded part of my garden, I
was surprised to see some little brown mice playing about and racing
after each other without at all regarding my presence.
I stood and watched these playful gambols, and soon discovered that the
little animals were short-tailed field-mice, or voles, as I believe
they ought to be called. Some differences in structure separate the
voles from the true mice and rats; they also differ in their food, the
voles being almost entirely vegetable feeders.
The water-rat, so called, is a vole and a perfectly harmless little
animal. I often endeavour to explain this fact to farmers and
working-men, who seem to think they have done something meritorious
when they have hunted to death one of these voles, whose harmless diet
consists chiefly of duckweed, flag, rushes, and other water-plants;
but, unfortunately, it looks like a land rat, and so it has to suffer
for the evil reputation of its relative.
There are two small voles, the red field-vole and this commoner
short-tailed species which inhabits my garden.
I had often wished to catch and keep these little animals as pets for
purposes of study; and, finding some specimens already so tame, I began
to entice them to come to a special place under a stone archway by
daily strewing at exactly the same spot some oatmeal and canary seed.
Very soon the tiny creatures would allow me to stand and watch them
feeding, and I drew nearer and nearer until I could almost touch them.
I then put a mouse-cage under the arch in the hope that they might
accept it as a home and thus be led into voluntary captivity. This new
idea met with a measure of approval, for one little vole scooped out
a small cavity beneath the cage and appeared to make itself quite at
home there, even allowing me to lift up the cage without moving, gazing
curiously at me with its small black eyes.
This went on from August until October. The voles and I grew to be
quite good friends; but, as the colder weather would soon be hindering
my daily visits, our friendship would have to cease unless I could
bring my small pets indoors.
[Illustration: VOLE, THIRTEEN DAYS OLD.]
It struck me that they might be coaxed into captivity by another
device. I placed a glass globe under the arch, containing their
favourite food, and a piece of wood leaning against the globe to enable
the mice to climb up and leap in.
When I went next morning there was a little vole inside the globe
and by no means frightened, for it allowed me to stroke its soft fur
without alarm.
[Illustration: VOLE, THREE DAYS OLD.]
I have had great pleasure in watching the graceful attitudes of this
small creature. It sits up like a squirrel holding a grain of wheat in
its paws; then, its meal over, it thoroughly cleans its fur, brushes
its whiskers, and performs a careful toilet before going to sleep,
curled up in a lump of cotton wool and moss.
My ultimate aim being to obtain some baby voles to be trained into
absolute tameness, I set to work to secure a mate, and placed the globe
as before, baited with tempting food.
In a few days' time I caught a second vole, and now Darby and Joan
live happily together in a square glass case where they have room for
exercise and where I can see and record their doings.
All this may seem to some readers exceedingly trivial and not worth
writing about; but, seeing that we cannot be all day out-of-doors
making observations about these and other subjects of study, there
seems some use in keeping creatures in happy captivity, because one can
thus become ultimately acquainted with them and learn many facts about
their life and habits which would otherwise be difficult or impossible
to observe.
I am now testing their liking for various plants, and after a time I
may be able to make a list of the weeds they consume which may possibly
be a set-off to the damage they do in other directions.
Voles have an acute sense of smell, as I learn in this way. The little
pair may be sound asleep in their bed of moss and wool, but I no sooner
place an earthy root of groundsel or chickweed in their glass case than
I see an inquisitive nose at the entrance of the dormitory sniffing the
air, and in another minute out comes mousie to enjoy the feast of fresh
greenery.
The winter passed by uneventfully, until on the morning of January
26th I heard quite loud growls and squeaks proceeding from the voles'
residence.
The cotton-wool quivered and was upheaved by unseen forces. Something
serious must evidently be going on, so I cautiously interfered.
In lifting the woollen mass I disturbed four little sprawling infants
of a bright pink colour and no particular shape! They were, of course,
speedily replaced, and I could well understand the state of affairs.
[Illustration: THE VOLE'S RETREAT.]
The father mouse must be removed somehow as he was evidently in the
way and quite upsetting the nursery arrangements, but how I was to tell
which was which was a real puzzle.
I thought I would try to learn a lesson from the wise king of old and
see whether maternal love would not prove a sure test. I thought I
would allow the vole that first returned to the nest to remain and
place the other in a separate globe.
The plan was successful, for the mother mouse went back to the nest
at once and set to work to repair the dwelling which I had somewhat
disarranged.
The young voles were by no means beautiful. Bright red in colour, the
thin hairless, almost transparent, skin allowed one to see the beating
of the heart and its circulation very plainly.
The head was nearly half the length of the body, and the eyes were, of
course, closely shut, yet, feeble though they were, when only two days
old the small creatures were full of life, and resented being touched
by giving angry little kicks and plunges. Indeed, I never knew any
family so forward.
I purposely stroked and handled the four small mites daily so that they
might grow up to be perfectly tame from their babyhood. In doing this I
noted one or two rather curious traits of instinct.
Whilst still quite blind, the young voles, if placed on a table, would
invariably creep backwards and continue a retrograde movement, until at
last they would have fallen over the edge of the table if I had allowed
them to do so.
I imagine nature teaches this evolution so that, in their native
burrow, these defenceless weak young creatures may invariably retreat
as far back as possible out of the reach of danger.
About ten days later, whilst I was holding one of the young voles in
my hand in order to take its portrait, it surprised me by sitting up
and beginning to clean its fur and whiskers as carefully and neatly
as if it had been a cat by the fireside, even licking each little paw
in succession until its toilet was complete. The creature was only
thirteen days old and still quite blind, so it shows how soon instinct
teaches the important lesson of cleanliness.
On the morning of the fourteenth day the little mice could see and
became quite enterprising, nibbling lettuce leaves and oatmeal and
roaming about their small domain. A little later on they could
feed themselves, and I believe I ought then to have taken away the
hard-worked little mother, for I imagine family cares and worries must
have accounted for my finding poor Joan had died on the very day when I
purposed letting her and her mate have their liberty.
I set Darby free in his old home under the archway, where no doubt
he will soon find another mate, and I shall probably discover by
their depredations in my garden that he has reared strong and healthy
families to prey upon my cherished plants and trees.
At present the young voles are by no means tame, and still indulge in
kicking, squeaking, and scratching if I attempt to stroke them, but I
have learnt a good deal about their domestic life and derived a great
deal of amusement from my experiment in vole-rearing.
ELIZA BRIGHTWEN.
[Illustration: DARBY AND JOAN.]
"OUR HERO."
A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.
BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the
Dower House," etc.