[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER]
VOL. VIII.—NO. 377. MARCH 19, 1887. PRICE ONE PENNY.
THE BLIND GIRL AND THE SPRING.
BY SYDNEY GREY.
[Illustration]
_All rights reserved._]
Yes, it is true that I am blind (it was not always thus),
But oft it comes into my mind how God can comfort us.
For if of some good gift bereft, we bend before His will,
He ever has a blessing left which should our sorrow still.
This very morn I found it so; scarce had the day begun,
Ere with small pattering, restless feet that hither swiftly run,
The children came in joyous mood, and shouted, “Spring is here!”
And when they led me through the wood, I knew that she was near.
I felt her breath upon my cheek, and while we walked along,
A thousand times I heard her speak the rustling leaves among,
In tones as though a harp had thrilled beneath an angel’s touch,
And all my soul with rapture filled; yet when I said as much,
The others laughed and whispered low, “Nay, nay, it is the wind!”
To them, perhaps, it might be so; but ah! if folks are blind,
They learn in every sound that floats around their pathway dark—
The breeze, the brook, the glad bird-notes—some hidden voice to mark.
Therefore when spring begins to don her garments fresh and gay,
Because I cannot look upon her beauty day by day,
Nor see the pointed crocus flame above the garden mould,
Nor watch the snowy tips that frame the daisy’s heart of gold;
Because unto my longing eyes may never be displayed
The changeful glory of the skies, warm shine and soothing shade,
Nor the great sun’s far reaching rays which crown the day with light,
Nor yet the star-lit purple haze that comes before the night;
She breathes the tender tale to me, in accents clear and plain,
Until I nearly rend the veil and see it all again.
And though I’m blind, I know quite well, when to the woods we go,
The place to find the wild bluebell, and where the lilies blow;
Shy violets tell me, as I pass, their buds are at my feet,
And through the lengthening meadow grass run murmurs soft and sweet.
Oh! I thank God that He doth bring such daily joy to me,
For even I can welcome spring, like happy girls who see.
MERLE’S CRUSADE.
BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.
CHAPTER XXII.
UNCLE KEITH.
I had been obliged to defer my visit to Aunt Agatha for more than a
fortnight, and it was not until an early day in October that I could
find a leisure afternoon. I believe that only very busy and hard worked
people really enjoy a holiday—listless and half occupied lives know
nothing of the real holiday feeling and the joyousness of putting one’s
work aside for a few hours of complete idleness.
I felt almost as buoyant and light-hearted as a child when I caught
sight of the old bridge and the grey towers of All Saints. The river
looked blue and clear in the October sunshine; there were barges
floating idly down the stream; a small steamer had just started from
the tiny pier; two or three clumsy-looking boats with heavy brown
sails were moored to the shore; there was a man in a red cap in one of
the boats; two or three bare-legged urchins were wading in the water.
There was a line of purple shadow in the distance, little sparkles of
sunlight everywhere, yellow and red leaves streaming, a little skiff
with a man in white flannel coming rapidly into sight, omnibuses, cabs,
heavy waggons clattering over the bridge. Beyond the white arches of
the new bridge the busy hum of workers, the heaving of great cranes,
the toil and strain of human activity.
The sight always fascinated me, and I stood aside with others to watch
until a well-known figure in the distance recalled me with a start.
Surely that was Aunt Agatha crossing the road by the bridge; no one
else walked in that way—that quick, straightforward walk, that never
seemed to linger or hesitate, that could only belong to her. Yes, it
was she, for there was the dear woman holding out her hands to me, with
the old kind smile breaking over her face.
“I came to meet you, Merle; I did not want to lose one minute of your
company, but I was a little late after all, dear child. What a stranger
you are, all these months that we have not met!”
“It has seemed a long time to me, Aunt Agatha, so much seems to have
happened since I was last here.”
“You may well say so,” she returned, gravely; “we have both much for
which to be thankful. Your accident, Merle, which might have had such
grave results, and——” here she checked herself, but something in her
manner seemed strange to me.
“We need not walk quite so fast, surely,” I remonstrated. “How these
people jostle one, and I want to talk to you so.”
“And I to you. Never mind, we shall find a quiet corner under the
shadow of St. Mary’s.” And as she spoke we turned into the narrow
flagged path skirting the church, with the tombs and grey old
headstones gleaming here and there. There were fewer people here.
“Are you sure you are quite well?” I began, rather anxiously. “You are
looking paler than usual, Aunt Agatha, and, if it be not my fancy, a
little thinner.”
“Yes, and older, and perhaps a trifle graver,” she returned, rather
briskly; but I thought her cheerfulness a little forced. “We have not
yet learnt how to grow younger, child. Well, if you must know, and
this is why I came to meet you, that we might have our little talk
together. I have not been without my troubles; your uncle has been very
ill, Merle, so ill that, at one time, I feared I might lose him; but
Providence has been good to me and spared my dear husband.” And here
Aunt Agatha’s voice trembled and her eyes grew misty.
I was almost too shocked to answer, but my first words were to reproach
her for keeping me in ignorance.
“You must not blame me, Merle,” she replied, gently. “I wanted you
dreadfully; I felt quite sore with the longing to see you, but I knew
you could not come to me. Mrs. Morton was in Scotland; you were in sole
charge of those children. Unless things grew worse I knew I had no
right to summon you. Thank God I was spared that necessity; the danger
only lasted forty-eight hours; after that he only required all the
nursing I could give him.”
“Aunt Agatha, it was not right; you ought to have told me.”
“I thought differently, Merle; I put myself in your place—you could
not desert your post, and you would only have grown restless with the
longing to come and help me—the same feeling that made you hide your
accident from me led me to suppress my trouble. I should only have
burthened your kind heart, Merle, and spoiled your present enjoyment.
I said to myself, ‘Let the child be happy; she will only fret herself
into a fever to help me, and she must do her duty to her employers.’ If
Ezra had got worse I must have written; when he grew better I preferred
telling you nothing until we met.”
“I shall never trust you again,” I burst out, for this reticence
wounded me sorely. “How am I to know if things are well with you if you
are always keeping me in the dark?”
“It will not happen again, Merle; indeed, my dear, I can promise you
that it shall never happen. If you had been at Prince’s Gate I should
have summoned you at once, but, in your position, how could I ask
you to desert your post, Merle, when those who placed you there were
hundreds of miles away?”
I saw what she meant, and I could not deny that she had kept me in
ignorance for my own peace of mind. It was just her unselfishness,
for I knew how she must have longed for me; we were so much to each
other, we were so sure of mutual sympathy and help. Aunt Agatha cried
a little when she saw how hurt I was, and then, of course, I tried to
comfort her, and I very soon succeeded. I never could bear to see her
unhappy, and I knew it was only her goodness to me.
I begged her to tell me about Uncle Keith’s illness, and she soon put
me in possession of the salient points. He had worked a little too
hard, and then had got wet in a thunderstorm, and a sharp attack of
inflammation had been the result.
“He considers himself well now,” she continued, “but he is still very
weak, and will not be able to resume work for another week or two. His
employers have been very kind; they seem to value him highly. Oh! he
has been so patient, Merle, it has been quite a privilege to nurse him;
not a complaint, not an irritable word. I always knew he was a good
man, but illness is such a test of character.”
“But you have worn yourself out,” I grumbled; “you do not look well.”
But she interrupted me.
“Do not notice my looks before your uncle,” she said, pleadingly; “he
is so anxious about me; but indeed, I am only a little tired; I shall
be better now I have told you and got it over. You have been on my
mind, Merle, and then that horrid accident.” But I would not let her
dwell upon that. We had reached the cottage by this time, and Patience
was watching for us; she looked prettier and rosier than ever.
I found Uncle Keith sitting pillowed up in an armchair by the
drawing-room fire. I thought he looked shrunken, and there was a
pinched look about his features. He had not grown younger and handsomer
to my eyes, but as he turned his prominent brown eyes on me with a kind
look of welcome, and held out his thin hand, I kissed him with real
affection, and my eyes were a little wet.
“Hir-rumph, my dear, I am pleased to see you—there, there, never mind
my stupid illness; I am quite a giant now, eh, Agatha? It is worth
being ill, Merle, to be nursed by your aunt; oh, quite a luxury I
assure you! Hir-rumph.” And here Uncle Keith cleared his throat in his
usual fashion, and stirred the fire rather loudly, though he looked a
little paler after the exercise.
“But I am so dreadfully sorry, Uncle Keith,” I said, when Aunt Agatha
had taken the poker from him and bustled out of the room to fetch him
some jelly, “to think I never knew how ill you were.”
“That was all the better, child,” he returned, cheerfully. “Agatha was
a wise woman not to tell you; but there are not many people in the
world, Merle, who would come up to your aunt, not many,” rubbing his
hands together.
“No indeed, Uncle Keith.”
“How do you think she looks?” he continued, turning round rather
sharply. “Have I tired her out, eh?”
“She looks a little tired certainly.”
“Hir-rumph, I thought so. Agatha, my dear,” as she re-entered with
the jelly, “I do not want all this waiting on now; it is my turn to
wait on you! I must not wear out such a good wife, must I, Merle?” And
though we both laughed at that, and Aunt Agatha pretended that he was
only in fun, it was almost pathetic to see how he watched her busy
movements about the room, and how he begged her again and again to sit
down and not tire herself, and yet she loved to do it. I think we both
of us knew that. I was not disposed to pity Aunt Agatha as I had done
in former years. Perhaps I had grown older and more womanly in those
eight months of service, and less disposed to be critical on quiet,
matter-of-fact lives. On the contrary, I began to understand in a vague
sort of way that Aunt Agatha was garnering in much happiness in her
useful middle age, in her honest, single-eyed service. Love had come
to her in a sober guise, and without pretension, but it was the right
sort of love after all, no doubt. To youthful eyes, Uncle Keith was not
much of a hero; but a plain honest man, even though he has fewer inches
than his fellows, may have merit enough to fill one woman’s heart, and
I ceased to wonder at Aunt Agatha’s infatuation in believing herself a
happy woman.
We had not much talk apart that day. Aunt Agatha could not leave Uncle
Keith, but I never felt him less in the way. I talked quite openly
about things; he was as much interested as Aunt Agatha in listening
to my description of Marshlands and Wheeler’s Farm, and had not a
dissenting word when I praised Gay Cheriton in my old enthusiastic way,
and only a soft “hir-rumph” interrupted my account of Reggie’s accident.
It was Aunt Agatha who walked back with me over the bridge in the soft
October twilight. Tired as she was, she refused to part with me until
the last minute.
“You must come again soon, Merle,” she said, as we parted; “Ezra and I
are not young people now, and a bright face does us both good, and your
face has grown a very bright one, Merle.”
Was Aunt Agatha right, I wondered? Had I really grown happier
outwardly? Had the inward peace of satisfied conscience and a heart
at rest cast its reflection of brightness? I was certainly very happy
just then; my life was growing wider, friends were coming round me,
interests were thickening, there was meaning and purpose in each
opening day. I no longer thought so much of myself and my own feelings;
the activities of life, the needs and joys of others seemed to press
and crush out all morbid ideas. I had so many to love and so many who
seemed to need me and care for me.
I went more than once to Putney during the next two or three weeks. My
mistress was far too sympathising and unselfish to keep me from my own
people when they needed me; on the contrary, she was always full of
contrivances that I should be spared.
November passed very pleasantly. Mrs. Morton was recovering strength
slowly but surely; she was no longer a prisoner to her dressing-room,
but could spend the greater part of the day in the drawing-room or in
her husband’s library.
But she still continued her invalid habits and saw few people. I still
sat with her in the afternoon, and either Joyce or Reggie played about
the room. When Mr. Morton was absent I came down to her in the evening,
and read or talked to her. I prized these hours, for in them I learned
to know my sweet mistress more intimately and to love her more dearly.
At the beginning of December Gay came to us. I was looking forward to
her visit with some eagerness, though I knew my evenings would then
be spent in the nursery, as Mrs. Morton would only need her sister’s
society; but, to my great surprise, I was summoned to the drawing-room
on the evening of her arrival. She had come just in time to dress for
dinner, and we had not yet seen her. I could scarcely credit Travers’
message when she delivered it.
“Will you please go down to the little drawing-room, Miss Fenton? Miss
Gay wants to see you, and my mistress does not care to be left alone.”
She started up and came to meet me with outstretched hands. She looked
prettier than ever, and her eyes were shining with happiness.
“I am so glad to see you, Merle. I wanted to come up to the nursery,
but this spoiled woman—how you have all spoilt her!—refused to be left.
She said Hannah would be there, and that we could not talk comfortably.”
“Yes, but there was another reason,” returned my mistress, smiling; and
Gay blushed and cast down her eyes.
“I wanted to tell you the news myself, because I knew you would be
interested. Sit down, Merle, in your usual place, and guess what has
happened.”
I did not need to guess; the first look at Gay’s happy face had told
me, and then I had glanced at a certain finger. Opals tell their own
tales.
“Guess,” continued my mistress, mischievously. “Who was the guest who
came oftenest to Marshlands?”
“There were two who came most frequently,” I returned, looking steadily
into Gay’s blushing face, “Mr. Hawtry and Mr. Rossiter, but I do not
need to be told it is Mr. Rossiter.” And Gay jumped up and kissed me in
her impulsive way.
I could see that she was pleased I had guessed it.
“I told you it would be no news to her, Vi,” she said, breathlessly.
“Do you remember our talk in the orchard, Merle, when I told you I was
afraid of poverty?”
“Yes, but I knew you magnified your fears, Miss Gay.” But she shook her
head at that.
“I hate it just as much as ever. I tell Walter I am the worst possible
person for a poor man’s wife, and if you ask Violet she will agree with
me, but I was obliged to have him, poverty and all; he would not take
‘No’ for an answer.”
“I think Walter was very sensible,” returned her sister. “I should have
despised him for giving it up.”
“He would never have done that,” replied Gay, with decision, “until
I had married somebody else, and there was no chance of that. You
are grave, Merle; do you mean to forbid the banns? Why do you not
congratulate me?”
“I do congratulate you with all my heart; will that content you?”
“To be sure; but what then, Merle?”
“I ought not to say, perhaps, if you have made up your mind. I like Mr.
Rossiter. He is young, but he seems very good. But do you remember what
I said to you that evening, Miss Gay, when we were watching the moon
rise over Squire Hawtry’s cornfields, that your environment just suited
you; I can’t realise Marshlands without you.”
I saw the sisters exchange a meaning look, and then Gay said, in a low
voice, “What should you say, Merle, if I am not to leave Marshlands—if
my father refuses to part with me?”
“I do not think that would answer. Mrs. Markham would be mistress, and
you have told me so often that she does not like Mr. Rossiter.”
“There are to be changes at Marshlands, Merle,” broke in my mistress;
she had been listening to us with much interest, and I wished Mr.
Morton could have seen her with that bright animated look on her
face. “Adelaide will be mistress there no longer. A young cousin of
ours, Mrs. Austin, who was with Adelaide in Calcutta, has just lost
her husband. She is an invalid, is very rich, and very helpless, and
has no one except ourselves belonging to her. She is very fond of
Adelaide, and she has begged her to live with her, and superintend her
establishment. She has a large house at Chislehurst, and so Adelaide
and Rolf and Judson are to take up their abode with her.”
“Things have not been very pleasant lately, Merle,” observed Gay,
gravely. “Adelaide has set her face against my marrying Walter, and she
has worried father and tormented me, and made things rather difficult
for all of us. It is quite true, as she says, that Walter is poor,
and has no present prospects,” continued Gay, “and she has dinned his
poverty so incessantly into father’s ear that he has got frightened
about it, and has made up his mind that he will not part with me at
all—that Walter must make his home with us. There was a terrible scene
when Adelaide heard this; she declared she would not stop in the house
under these conditions. And then Amy’s letter came, and she announced
her resolution of living at Chislehurst. I do not like the idea of
driving Addie away, but,” finished Gay, with an odd little laugh, “I
think father and I will manage very well without her.”
We talked a little more on the subject until I was dismissed, and I had
plenty of food for my thoughts when I went back to the quiet nursery.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: EASTER TIDE
A PRAYER.
_Lord, by the stripes which wounded Thee,
From death’s dread sting Thy servants free,
That we may live and sing to Thee Alleluia!_]
EASTER EGGS.
The origin of the practice of connecting eggs with our Easter festival
is, I believe, lost in antiquity; but they are said to have been used
by the Jews at the Feast of Passover. In some Eastern countries there
is a very old custom, which still prevails, of presenting eggs at this
season of the year—some say because the egg is an emblem of creation,
or recreation, there being a tradition that the world was created in
the spring. In parts of Russia people present eggs to one another on
Easter day, saying, “Jesus Christ is risen,” being answered, “It is so
of a truth,” or “Yes, He is risen.” The Russians also serve red eggs on
that day, symbolising at the same time the resurrection and the blood
of the Saviour.
At the time of Edward the First the eggs to be given to the members of
the royal household on Easter day formed an item in the expenses. Over
four hundred eggs, which cost about one shilling and sixpence, were, we
learn, distributed on that day. Eggs used to be blessed by the Pope for
allotment throughout the Christian world, and the service of Pope Paul
the Fifth contains the following curious form of consecration:—
“Bless, Lord, we beseech Thee, this Thy creature of eggs that it may
become a wholesome sustenance to Thy faithful servants, eating it in
thankfulness to Thee, on account of the resurrection of our Lord.”
In some parts of the north of England, particularly parts of
Cumberland, decorated Pasch or Pace eggs are still sent to children,
so that the present fancy for ornamenting eggs is but the revival of
a very old custom. Some young readers of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER may be
disposed to try what they can do in this way. I will, therefore, tell
them some of the methods employed; but first let me mention that all
eggs to be decorated must be perfectly clean, for the least spot of
grease where it was not wanted would spoil the effect aimed at; and
they should be boiled hard.
To simply colour the eggs they need only be dipped in water, then
placed in a decoction of logwood for the various shades of purple;
of cochineal for red, or boiled with onion peelings, or in an onion,
for amber, or coloured with spinach juice for green. But superior to
these simple colourings are Judson’s dyes, which may be obtained of any
colour, and can be used as paints on the shells as well as dyes.
The eggs are dipped in water before being put in the dye, to make
them take the colour evenly. If it is desired to keep part of the
shell white—for instance, to have a name or motto in white on a red
ground—proceed thus: When the egg is warm after boiling take a small
piece of mutton suet, which, being hard, you can cut to a point almost
like a pencil. With this draw or write what you wish on the warm egg,
which you can then place in the dye. The part greased will not take the
colour, but when dry the fat is easily removed, and the white design
can be left or filled in with another colour, or with a little gold
or silver paint. A pretty way is to grease a delicate piece of moss,
a fine fern leaf, or a skeleton leaf, to roll either round a warm egg
so as to leave a greasy print on it, and then put it in the colour;
but great care must be taken in handling the work not to blur the
design. An egg spotted with grease then put in a yellow dye, the grease
removed, and then a pale blue dye used, produces an effect that would
puzzle a naturalist. Brown and blue dyes answer, used in the same way.
Eggs may be also simply treated by having small leaves or little bits
of moss bound on to them with various coloured wools, or ribbons (not
fast-coloured ones), before they are boiled, the wool or ribbons being
removed when they are dry again; the effect is often very good, but
there is great doubt about the results in this way of colouring.
A neater and much better way than greasing the design, for those who do
not mind the trouble, is to dye the egg all over, and then to scratch
out the motto, or whatever is required white, with a penknife. This is,
of course, a much more difficult process, and requires great care.
Eggs dyed pale blue, and a little cloud and sea with a tiny boat
painted on them, or dyed yellow and turned into a little sunset
picture, with a tree added, are very pretty. They can be done in oil or
water colours.
I have seen cupids and like subjects painted on them, but they are
quite unsuited for Easter eggs, which are not, and should not be used
as, adjuncts of Valentine’s day.
For more elaborate work, the eggs, having been boiled hard, can be
painted over with gold size, and then covered with gold, or any metal
leaf, which maybe again painted on with oil paints, or by using a
medium and body colours, with water colours.
A gilt egg, with a white lily on it, or a silvered one with a daffodil,
looks very pretty; violets and primroses, emblems of spring, are also
appropriate, while eggs with butterflies or small birds bearing mottoes
painted on them, are much appreciated by children. When painted in
water colours, the eggs can easily be varnished. On Easter day I once
saw the breakfast eggs which the cook had boiled, some with red and
some with blue dye in the water, sent to table in a nest of green moss
lined with a little white wool; the eggs were only cooked the usual
time, and were greatly relished by the younger members of the family.
I would recommend the use of Easter eggs to those girls who take
Sunday-school classes; they are very good mediums for giving precepts
or words of advice; a judiciously chosen motto or text may often do a
great deal in helping a child or person to correct a fault, and a motto
is more attractive on an ornamental egg than in a book.
I remember a little German book called “Ostereier” (Easter eggs), in
which a charming account is given of an Easter festival, when motto
eggs were distributed to a number of children. Some of the rhymes given
are very pretty; they lose in translation, but are such as “Goodness,
not gold, wins love and trust,” “For meat and drink the giver thank,”
“A good conscience makes a soft pillow.”
Such sentences as these do for quite small children, but a short verse
from a hymn or a text can easily be written on an egg. They look very
well coloured pale blue or mottled green and blue, as directed above,
and the words written on after with red, or blue ink of a darker
colour, and a little ornamentation round. For school-children water
colours should not be used in painting the eggs, for the warm and often
moist hands of the recipients of these little gifts would smear the
paint.
We must now come to another kind of egg I have found much appreciated,
as it is eatable, though imitation only. It is prepared thus: Procure
some half egg shells which you can colour or not, as you please, but
you must cut the edges as smooth as you can with a pair of small, sharp
scissors; next take one pound of ground almonds (they can be bought
ready prepared), mix with the beaten whites of three, or if small, four
eggs, add a teaspoonful of orange flower water, or a little more, if
needed, make into a paste, and stir in one pound of fine sifted loaf
sugar, and work with a wooden spoon into a smooth paste; next shake a
little icing sugar into the half shells, and fill them with the almond
paste, scoop a piece out of the centre of each half, and as you put the
two halves together insert a preserved apricot (dried) without a stone;
if the apricots are too large use half ones, but whether large or small
they must be pressed into suitable shapes before they are used, as they
have to represent the yolks of the eggs.
When the parts are joined together, a strip of tissue paper should be
fastened round the junction with white of egg, and then a ribbon or
ornamental paper put round and the shells decorated with a little water
colour paint. If preferred, the shells can be used as moulds only, and
removed as soon as the paste is dry, but if this is to be done the two
edges of the almond paste must be moistened with white of egg before
they are put together, or they would come apart when the shells were
removed.
The almond eggs must be put in a warm, dry place as soon as made; a
very cool oven will do to dry them.
If you remove the shells, cover the almond paste with icing sugar that
has been well worked with a little white of egg and lemon juice; this
is not an easy operation, but if the sugar is well worked before using,
it will cover the paste more neatly than if used quickly; if sufficient
smoothness is attained the sugar can be decorated afterwards with some
harmless colouring, such as saffron or cochineal.
To make sugar eggs, mix one ounce of raw arrowroot with one pound of
icing sugar, add the beaten whites of three or four eggs, according to
size, and a teaspoonful of lemon juice; work the mixture well; use the
egg shells as moulds and proceed as with almond paste, putting anything
that is liked in the centre, and joining the halves together with white
of egg; dry thoroughly, in some place not warm enough to melt the
sugar, before you remove the shells. It is easier to take the halves
off if they are slightly oiled before the sugar is sifted into them.
NOTES FOR APRIL.
It is very interesting in the spring to watch the gradual development
of a frog from the egg, through the tadpole stage of its existence,
till at last it assumes its final form.
The old frogs emerge from their winter hiding places in the mud, early
in the spring, and during March their eggs may be found floating on
almost every stagnant pond. A group of these eggs in their early stages
of development looks like a mass of clear white jelly, containing
numbers of black specks, each of which is really the germ of the future
tadpole.
In order to watch the development, a group of the eggs should be taken
and put in a shallow vessel of water, which, if kept in the house,
should have a bell-glass, or some other covering over it, to keep out
the dust.
The jelly-like mass which envelopes the future tadpole is so clear
that all its changes can be easily watched. First the head appears,
then a flat tail, and in course of time the nostrils, mouth, and large
eyes, till at length the completed tadpole bursts open its gelatinous
covering, and apparently not in the least embarrassed by its new
surroundings, begins swimming briskly about, looking for something
to eat. The time occupied in hatching varies in different countries,
according to the climate, from four days to a month. In England the
tadpole does not often appear till towards the end of April.
The following stages are even more interesting, especially for those
who can take advantage of the transparency of the parts to watch the
circulation of the blood through a microscope.
The body of the tadpole gradually gets broader, while the tail gets
thinner and thinner, till it finally disappears altogether; but before
that happens its place has been taken by two hind legs, which first
appear under the skin and then gradually push their way through. The
fore legs next appear, and so on through all the stages of development,
till in a longer or shorter time, according to the amount of warmth,
light, and food it can obtain, the complete frog appears.
But woe betide the unfortunate tadpole which, first of the shoal,
attains to the dignity of possessing limbs, for so ferocious are the
later ones, and so jealous of their precocious little brother, that
they almost always fall upon him, and, not content with killing, never
rest till every morsel of him is eaten. And unless several of the
tadpoles assume their final change about the same time, this proceeding
is repeated till their numbers are very considerably diminished, or,
as sometimes happens, till only one survivor is left, who, having
helped to eat all his brethren, instead of meeting with his deserts, is
allowed to live on in peace, till some day in the course of his walks
abroad, he, in his turn, is snapped up as a delicate morsel by some
hungry snake or waterfowl.
Insects and flowers are much more closely connected with one another
than we sometimes think.
Not only do many insects depend upon flowers for their food, but many
flowers also depend upon the visits of insects to carry their pollen
from one flower to another and so continue the life of their species.
There are some flowers, however, whose pollen is carried by the wind
instead of by insects, and which are therefore an exception to this
general rule. These, not needing to attract insects, are small and
insignificant, with neither scent nor honey, but with a very large
quantity of pollen. They generally flower early in spring, before the
leaves are out, as these would catch the pollen as it is blown along by
the wind, and prevent it reaching the flowers for which it is intended.
Notice, for example, the flower of the oak, elm, ash, and Scotch fir.
April is a busy month in the garden. Auriculas and polyanthuses in
bloom should be watered often, and shaded if the sun is very bright,
and sheltered when the weather is cold; tulips also must be sheltered
from severe cold, though they may safely be encouraged to grow now.
Seeds of perennials and biennials for flowering next year should be
sown now, such as wallflowers, carnations, and pinks. Heartsease for
autumn flowering should also be sown, and cuttings taken from old
plants. Hardy annuals should be sown not later than the middle of
April. Give them good soil, and do not cover the seeds too deeply with
earth (some of the smallest kinds should only be sprinkled on the top),
and when they begin to shoot up thin out the young plants vigorously;
amateur gardeners almost always leave them too close together, but the
more room they have the better and stronger they will grow.
If there is no greenhouse, or “heat,” half hardy annuals may be sown
out in the open garden towards the end of April, and if diligently
cared for they will grow well and thrive.
After a warm day, evergreens are benefited by syringing. Ivy that is
wished to grow close should be clipped all over; and grass should be
cut about once a week, and often rolled. It should not be allowed to
get long before cutting the first time, or it will be troublesome to
get into order again.
April is the month in which we welcome most of our spring bird
visitors. The nightingale and cuckoo have already come and begun their
song; the swallow and house-martin will arrive about the middle of the
month, and are soon busy making new nests, or patching up old ones. The
whitethroat appears towards the end of the month.
During the April showers the whole air seems full of song. Walking
through woods ringing with bird music, we are once more reminded of
the problem which so puzzled Daines Barrington. “Do the birds all
sing in one key? And if not, why do the songs harmonise instead of
producing unpleasant discords?” Perhaps it is the distance which lends
enchantment and softens the discords. No doubt if all the songsters
were in one room, the result would not be quite so happy.
Many eggs, larvæ and cocoons of butterflies and moths may be found this
month among heaps of dry leaves, on low bushes, or trunks of trees.
Grasses and rushes shelter several of the early species, which are
already flying about, and some rare insects may be found now which
cannot be obtained later in the season.
THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND.
OR,
THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.
BY EMMA BREWER.