The weather suddenly changed. It had continued fine and hot for several
weeks, and there was no sign of any break in the succession of cloudless
days. The great heat was bound, however, to end in a thunderstorm. The
air became very sultry, and yet there was a sighing among the leaves of
the trees.
'There is plenty of rain coming,' said Colonel De Bohun, as he stood by
Lady Coke's side, and watched the children going in rather languidly to
their tea. 'We want it badly.'
He was right. That night the greatest storm the children had ever heard
startled them out of their beds. Georgie took refuge with Marjorie, and
even Alan came and sat on her bed, a blanket wrapped round the three of
them, because it 'was more comfortable to be all together,' while the
thunder crashed overhead, and the vivid lightning lit up the room, in
spite of the candles which burnt upon the dressing-table.
All the next day the children had to amuse themselves in the house, and,
truth to tell, they were not sorry for one whole day to settle various
little matters which had been neglected during the fine weather. One of
these was the aquarium. This kept them well employed; but when on the
following morning they found the rain still falling, and the heavy,
ragged clouds gave no promise of the sky clearing, Georgie's patience
gave way.
'What can we do to-day?' he asked, dismally, as he traced the course of
the drops on the window-panes with a damp finger. 'I'm tired of this
rain. Why can't it stop now?'
'It won't stop just to please you,' said Alan, who was examining the
quality of the water in his aquarium.
Georgie turned round angrily, but Marjorie came to the rescue hastily.
'The rain is nothing. We can amuse ourselves just as well in the house.
Can't we go over to Aunt Betty's, and play with Estelle, Miss Leigh?'
Georgie gave a bound of delight towards the door, and even Miss Leigh
smiled, and got up quickly.
'A capital idea!' she said, rolling up her work. 'Go and put on your
macintoshes, and we will run over as quickly as we can. We shall not get
wet enough to hurt us.'
Alan, however, was not pleased. He wanted to change the water of his
aquarium, and required Marjorie to help him. They had already put fresh
water into two compartments, but the third was to have some of the rain,
which they were collecting especially for the purpose. The small frogs,
sticklebacks, and mud-lampreys were already enjoying themselves, and
Alan was determined that the tadpoles and newts should be as happy. The
newts were specially disliked by Georgie, and now, to make matters
worse, Alan placed two of them on the floor. He intended to make them
run races, regardless of the effect of their wet bodies on the carpet.
'They don't do any harm,' he asserted, when Miss Leigh objected; 'not a
bit of it. Water never hurts anything.'
'It is very unpleasant to have them on the floor, to say the least,'
returned the governess. 'And you know Georgie does not like them.'
'Then he needn't, the baby,' retorted Alan, with a withering glance at
his brother.
'I don't mind frogs half so much,' explained Georgie, with a look of
disgust at the newts struggling in Alan's grasp.
'What a little silly you are,' said Alan, placing the creatures on the
ground, and a tiny red worm in front of them. 'What's the matter with
you? Are you afraid they will bite?'
'It's those dreadful legs! And the nasty way they eat.'
'Come, we must go,' said Miss Leigh, with some irritation. 'Come along,
Georgie. Marjorie, just see that you and he are well wrapped up, and
have goloshes on. The paths will be like rivers.'
But Alan, who had moved to allow the governess to leave the room,
objected strongly to Marjorie going with her.
'She's got to stay and help me change the water,' he declared.
Miss Leigh had grown impatient, however; and she insisted on Marjorie
accompanying her and Georgie, and swept her out of the schoolroom with
them, leaving Alan to overcome his wrath as best he could.
(_Continued on page 63._)
KINDNESS CURED HIM.
Some time ago a soldier at Winchester Barracks went before his colonel
for punishment. He was the worst man in the regiment, in spite of his
continual imprisonment in the guard-room.
The colonel, who was tired of sentencing the man, said to the sergeant:
'Here he is again. Guard-room, disgrace, solitary confinement--in fact,
everything has been tried; but all to no purpose.'
'There is one thing you have not tried,' said the sergeant, 'and that is
"forgiveness."'
The colonel had never thought of that, and when the soldier was brought
in he asked him what he had to say to the charge.
'Nothing, sir,' was the reply, 'only I am sorry for what I have done!'
Turning a kind and pitiful look on the man, who expected nothing else
than that his punishment would be increased with the repetition of his
offence, the colonel addressed him, saying: 'Well, we have tried
everything with you, and now we are resolved to--forgive you!'
The soldier was struck dumb with amazement, and left the room without a
word. The new plan, however, was too much for him; it broke his hardened
heart, and he became one of the best soldiers in her Majesty's service.
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
2.--LIBRARY PUZZLE.
British authors may be classed in various ways: some are philosophers,
like (a secure fastening, and a vowel) and (a breakfast eatable). Some,
again, are poets, like (painful results of a devouring element) and
(expressive sounds, and true value). There are essayists like (hardened
metal, and a vowel) and (young and tender meat); and others, like (a
kind of swallow), who are of less amiable character. These stand side by
side with writers of novels, like (some one north of the Tweed, and an
upright and crosspiece); or of stories, plays, and verses, like (a
precious metal, and a hard worker).
C. J. B.
3.--BURIED CITIES--ENGLISH AND FOREIGN.
1. Go to the King's Court and plead there for deliverance.
2. The verdict was 'Not proven.' I ceased to hope for a conviction.
3. The house is good, and the garden very large.
4. Did the voyage tire you? Not an atom; I landed as fresh as when I
embarked.
5. Hangings of a rich amber lined the apartment.
6. I acknowledge no superior, be he pope, king, or emperor.
7. Remember, gentlemen of the jury, the advanced age of the prisoner.
C. J. B.
[_Answers on page 75._]
* * * * *
ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 15.
1.--_Matriculation._
_I_ raised the _curtain_ and looked out. The _mail-train_ was about to
start. '_Alicia,' I_ cried, _trial_ and _toil_ lie before me. _Rail
not_, lady, at my shabby _coat; a nation's_ eyes follow me. _In_ this
_curt Latin_ letter my instructions are written; armed with _it I am a_
happy _man_.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
II.--CURIOUS MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS OF INDIA.
[Illustration]
Most Anglo-Indians, after living many years in India, return to their
native country with the idea that the music of Hindostan consists of the
noisy twanging of stringed instruments, jangling of ankle bells, and
banging of drums. Very few have troubled themselves to consider the
important part played by music in the lives of the various nations
occupying the vast territories between the Himalayas and Cape Comorin.
Foreigners are treated by the natives to noisy performances because they
are thought to be lovers of harsh sounds, possibly owing to the
prominence of brass instruments in our military bands, the only European
music with which they are familiar. Moreover, we must take into account
that the scales and chords, which make the harmonies so pleasant to
Western ears, sound just as discordant to Eastern nations as their
musical combinations do to ourselves.
The Vedas, or sacred books of the Brahmins, give very strict directions
about the music of the various religious festivals. It is ordered to
consist almost always of soft, mild melodies, dying dreamily away,
accompanied by the gentle tinkling of cymbals. The Vedic chant, sung by
the priests, was written some three thousand years ago, and has still a
wonderful effect on the minds of educated Hindus.
[Illustration: The "Bin."]
In very early times the art of music was reduced to an elaborate system,
and the study of it seems to have been general until the first
Mohammedan invasion in the eleventh century. From this time the whole
country was a scene of war between rival princes, and amid fighting and
bloodshed for many centuries the peaceful arts had little chance of
flourishing.
[Illustration: The "Kimmori."]
Aurungzebe, the last great Mogul emperor, put an end to the Court music,
which had probably reached a very low level in his day. It was his
custom to assure his people of his safety by showing himself daily to
them at a certain window, and some musicians, thinking to arouse his
sympathy, brought beneath this window a funeral bier, and set up a
doleful wailing. Distracted by the noise, the emperor appeared and
demanded what it all meant? 'Melody is dead,' was the dejected reply,
'and we are taking it to the graveyard.' 'Very good,' answered the
annoyed ruler; 'make the grave so deep that neither voice nor echo may
ever again be heard.' And so Court ceremonials were deprived of music
for the future.
The 'bin,' or 'vina,' may be regarded as the national instrument of
India. Legend says that it was invented by Nareda, the son of Brahma. In
painting and sculpture Nareda is usually represented as playing on this
instrument. One of the old Pâli books, written about the time of our
Lord's birth, gives a description of the 'vina,' and the carving of the
most ancient instruments differs little from that of those made at the
present time.
The 'bin' is made of wood, and has seven strings, two of steel, the rest
of silver, and these are plucked by the two first fingers of the
performer, who wears little metal shields made for the purpose. It is
tuned by pegs, and has two gourds suspended below, each usually
measuring about fourteen inches across. These, being of irregular shape
and gaily coloured, give a very picturesque look to the instrument.
Another favourite instrument is the 'kimmori.' This also derives its
sounding powers from gourds, of which three are usually slung from the
tube forming the body. It is said by the natives to have been invented
by one of the singers of the 'Brahma Loka,' or heaven of the Brahmins.
The 'kimmori' is made of a pipe of bamboo or blackwood, with frets or
screws, which should be fashioned of the scales of the pangolin, or
scaly ant-eater, though more often they are made of bone or metal. It
has only two strings, one touching the frets, the other carried above
them. The tail-piece is always carved like the breast of a kite, and the
instrument is frequently found sculptured on ancient temples and
shrines, especially in Mysore, in the south of Hindustan.
In the Old Testament, mention is made of a musical instrument called
kimor, which was probably the same as the kimmori, both being of great
antiquity, and most likely of Aryan construction.
HELENA HEATH.
[Illustration: "Mag raised her shrill note of warning."]
FEATHERED FRIENDSHIP.
A True Story.
Mag was seldom at rest: from morning till night she hopped about, in her
smart black-and-white coat--her bright eyes shining, her head a little
on one side, and her chatter constantly to be heard.
Those bright, bead-like eyes of hers saw everything that was to be seen;
but, of all the creatures that met her view, Mag admired the pheasants
most. She thought there never were such fine and noble birds, and she
could not tire of looking at them, and noticing how the rich greens and
blues and browns of their soft plumage shone in the autumn sunshine.
She proved her interest once in a remarkable way. The pheasants--several
of them--were pecking amongst the bracken, and Mag, perched on an oak
bough overhead, was looking round, as was her custom, when her glance
fell upon a fox, lurking treacherously amongst the long grass, evidently
making ready to spring upon the stately birds.
What was to be done? To cry out would be to draw Master Reynard's
attention away from the pheasants to herself; but Mag did not hesitate
for a moment. At the risk of her own life she raised her shrill note of
warning, and the pheasants, roused to the danger, scuttled away, just in
time.
The disappointed fox tried hard to get at the magpie, but her strong
wings stood her in good stead, and she, too, managed to reach a place of
safety.
THE MOLES AND THE MOUNTAIN.
Two moles once dwelt together in a hole at the foot of an enormous
mountain. They had long lived a quiet life, and now wished to make a
noise in the world, so they caused a report to be spread about among the
animals that they intended moving the mountain on a certain day. The
beasts thought it a wonderful thing that two little moles should move a
great mountain, and they never stopped to ask if it was possible or not.
On the day appointed, they came together with one accord to see this
extraordinary feat of strength. Not only animals came, but men too, who
had provided themselves with sacks, bags, and wheelbarrows to carry away
the gold and silver and other precious metals which they fancied were
inside the mountain. After waiting some time, the moles came out, and
said: 'Dear sirs, the sight of so many of you here to-day does our
hearts good. We have lived a very quiet life hitherto, and now desire to
make a name in the world. We will, therefore, perform the wonderful task
of moving the mountain as we promised; but before it can be
accomplished, we shall require you all to bring a large waggon and place
the mountain on the top of it ready for starting. Until you have done
this, we shall not be able to move the mountain.'
Then the moles retired to their hole to watch the effects of their
speech. The animals saw at once that they had been deceived, and they
tried to tear down the place, but could not, for the wily moles lived
too far under the ground to meet with any hurt.
MORAL: Do not be taken in by the vain promises of those who only wish to
make a name for themselves. (From H. BERKELEY SCORE'S _Original
Fables_.)
TOO MUCH FOR THE WHISTLE.
When I was a child about seven years of age, my friends one holiday
filled my pockets with half-pence. I went directly to a shop where toys
were sold for children, and being charmed with the sound of a whistle
that I saw on my way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered
him all my money for it. I then came home, and went whistling over the
house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My
brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain which I had
made, told me that I had given four times as much for it as it was
worth. This put me in mind of what good things I might have bought with
the rest of the money, and they laughed at me so much for my folly that
I cried with vexation. My reflections on the subject gave me more
chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.
This little event, however, was afterwards of great use to me, the
impression continuing on my mind, so that often, when I was tempted to
buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, 'Do not give too much for
the whistle,' and so I saved my money.
From '_Benjamin Franklin's Life_.'
THE BEE.
A little Bee, one sunny day,
Through garden beds sped on its way;
It went from flower to flower.
As on its busy way it flew,
It entered blossoms white and blue,
And lingered by the bower.
Each lovely blossom with its cup,
Something of sweetness yielded up,
Something of what was good.
There was no flower that I could see
But gave up something to the bee--
Each one did what it could.
As on through life I go each day,
And here and there pursue my way,
Like to that busy bee.
Oh, may I gather what is good,
And find for heart and mind sweet food,
Enriched by all I see!
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
II.--THE OLD ROSEWOOD ARMCHAIR.
On a cold winter's afternoon, in the year 1806, the little crowd that
had been attending a sale of furniture at the chief auctioneer's in
Wolverhampton was slowly melting away, for the few lots still left to be
sold mostly consisted of worn-out saucepans, broken towel-rails, and
some shabby chairs, and such-like worthless articles.
Very poor people, however, cannot be too fastidious, and a few buyers
still remained who were glad to bid for such things, and amongst these
people was a respectable-looking widow, in threadbare mourning, with a
boy of about thirteen years old by her side.
'Lot 213!' said the auctioneer, with a yawn; for the excitement of the
sale was over, and he did not waste professional jokes except on
well-to-do hearers. 'Rosewood armchair, upholstered in best wool damask!
Now, then, what offers?'
His assistant meanwhile had hoisted on to the table the very shabbiest
chair that had ever occupied so prominent a position! No doubt it might
once have been a good piece of furniture, but now the rosewood was so
encrusted with dirt that it required much scrutiny to say what the wood
really was; and, as for the 'best wool damask,' that must have existed
only in the auctioneer's imagination, for the chair looked as if it were
upholstered in a ragged, colourless canvas, with the stuffing sticking
through in numberless places.
Some of the little audience laughed and jeered as the chair was placed
before them, and one man said, derisively, that 'it wasn't worth
breaking up for firewood.'
The little widow's eyes, however, brightened, and she whispered to the
boy, 'That's the chair I told you of. I saw it yesterday. I could clean
it up, and make it comfortable for your grandfather. I can't bear to see
him sitting on that hard chair of his, with his rheumatism and all. But
I'm afraid it will go for more than I have.' And she clutched the
leather bag, with its solitary half-crown, more firmly in her hand.
'It's a big chair,' said the boy; 'but it's all to pieces, mother.'
'I could settle it, if only I get it,' said the widow, anxiously, still
looking at the chair.
'Now! What offers?' repeated the auctioneer, looking impatiently round.
'Come, make a bid! A good rosewood chair, upholstered in damask.'
There was silence. No one seemed to want such a wretched piece of
furniture, except the widow, who longed for it so earnestly that the
power of speech seemed to go from her.
'George,' she gasped, as she pulled her boy's sleeve, 'say you'll give a
shilling. I can't make him hear me.'
'A shilling!' shouted out the boy, and the auctioneer turned in his
direction at once.
'A shilling for a rosewood chair, upholstered in best damask!' he said,
in a voice of scorn. 'And this in the respectable city of
Wolverhampton!'
The spectators laughed, but no one bid any further sum, so the
auctioneer, who wanted to get home to his supper, banged his hammer on
the table, and to her surprise and delight the widow found that the
chair was hers.
With her boy's help she got the chair home, and cheered her invalid
father by telling him 'his old bones should ache no longer. She would
have him in an easy-chair by the following day.'
She was up at daybreak, and immediately after their frugal breakfast she
dragged the chair into the yard, and began ripping up the fusty old
lining.
'Let me do that, mother. I can rip finely,' said George, taking the
knife out of her hand, for there is a certain joy in tearing and cutting
that appeals to a boy.
'Very well,' said his mother, 'then I will get a pail of warm water, and
we will scrub the rosewood, and get all this black dirt off it; and when
that's done I'll begin the upholstering. I'm going to cover it with my
old red cloak. It will be fine and soft for your grandfather, and I
don't wear colours now, so that I can spare the cloak. But, first of
all, I will put Grandfather in the window-seat, so that he can see all
we are doing. It will amuse him; his life is dull enough, poor dear old
man.'
She went indoors, and George continued the ripping, enjoying the clouds
of dust he raised in the process.
The little woman had just settled her father comfortably on the wooden
settle, where he could look out of the window and see all that went on
in the yard, when they were startled by a cry from George.
'Mother! Mother! Oh, come!'
'He has cut himself!' said the poor woman, turning deadly pale, as she
flew out into the yard.
But George was unhurt, though he looked dazed and half stupefied.
'Look here, Mother,' he said, pointing down to the ground, 'this chair
was full of gold pieces. No wonder it was so heavy to drag home!'
'Gold pieces! Oh, no!' she said, shaking her head. 'You must have made a
mistake, my boy.'
'Look at them!' said George, stooping down and picking up a handful of
guineas from the mass of dust and dirt and horsehair that was strewn on
the floor of the yard. 'They're guineas right enough; they came pouring
out like water when I got to the middle of the chair.'
'They _look_ like guineas,' said the poor woman, trembling with anxiety.
'Oh, George, if they should be, and if they are rightfully ours, then
Father could get to Bath and be cured, and you could be apprenticed to a
cabinet-maker, like your poor father before you.'
'They _are_ guineas,' said George, stoutly. 'Let's show them to
Grandfather--he will know; and if they are--and I _know_ they are'--he
repeated, 'some of the money must be spent on you, Mother; I won't have
it all go to apprentice me. If that ever comes off, you must have a new
gown and cloak to sign my articles in,' and George got up from the dirty
ground and gave his mother a hearty hug.
Grandfather gave his verdict: the guineas were real, and had the effigy
of George I. stamped on them, and there were just a hundred of them, all
told.
Of course, the news of the widow's lucky find was soon known, and the
auctioneer claimed the money, but the clergyman of the parish supported
the widow's claim, and though the auctioneer went to law about it, he
lost his case and had to pay the costs.
Later on in the year a happy family party went to a solicitor's office
to sign George's indentures.
Grandfather was there, erect and well, for the Bath waters had done
wonders for him. His widowed daughter hung on his arm in a fine new
dress and cloak, and George, looking very important at the thought of
being apprenticed to the first cabinet-maker in Wolverhampton, had
everything on new from top to toe, and all this was the outcome of the
purchase (for a shilling) of 'the old rosewood armchair.'
S. C.
[Illustration: "'Mother, this chair was full of gold pieces!'"]
[Illustration: "Set to the hardest and most menial work."]
STORIES FROM AFRICA.
II.--The Constant Prince.
[Illustration]
One summer's day, nearly five hundred years ago, a queen lay dying in
the royal city of Lisbon. She was an English princess, daughter of our
own John of Gaunt, bearing the loved name of her grandmother, good Queen
Philippa, and she had been a helpful wife to her husband, King Joao of
Portugal, and a wise and tender mother to the five lads who stood in
bitter sorrow round her death-bed. Even now, as her life ebbed away, she
roused herself to speak to them brave words of cheer and counsel, and,
calling them close to her, gave to each a sword, bidding them, with her
failing breath, to draw the blades only in the cause of truth and right,
and in defence of the widow and the orphan.
A good cause it was in which the young princes went forth but a few
weeks later. They had one and all refused to receive knighthood for some
bloodless achievement at a tournament, and had begged to be allowed to
win their spurs by an expedition against the Moorish pirates, who, from
their strongholds on the African coast, swept the Mediterranean Sea, and
carried off numberless prisoners into cruel bondage. It was in the cause
of many a widow and orphan, whose bread-winner toiled in some Moorish
seaport, or below the decks of a pirate galley, that the Portuguese
princes drew their mother's last gifts on African soil.
So well did they acquit themselves that, after one day of desperate
fighting, the city of Ceuta, one of the most valuable of the pirate
strongholds, fell into the hands of the three elder lads. Enrique, the
third brother, who was not only a gallant fighter, but so skilful a
general that our own Henry V. offered him a command in his army, so
distinguished himself that his father would have knighted him first, had
he not refused to be preferred before his elders.
But, of all the five, there was no more eager Crusader than the
youngest, Fernando, who, though a mere child, had been the first to
suggest the expedition, and who longed beyond everything to follow in
his brothers' footsteps. Eighteen years, however, passed away before
another such expedition could be undertaken, and by that time the eldest
of the five brothers, Duarte (or Edward), the namesake of his
great-uncle, our gallant Black Prince, had succeeded his father as King
of Portugal. From him Enrique and Fernando won permission for another
attack upon the Moors, and set forth, full of the hope of taking Tangier
as they had taken Ceuta. But Fernando's honours were not to be won with
the sword. The Portuguese forces found themselves so far outnumbered
that the brothers, bitterly disappointed, felt it necessary to retreat.
But worse was to come. There was a traitor in the Portuguese camp, who
let the enemy know of the princes' movements, and when the starving,
weary troops reached the coast at daybreak, they found themselves cut
off from their ships.
The Moorish leader, Lyala ben Lyala, agreed to release the army in
exchange for the city of Ceuta, Prince Fernando and some of the noblest
of his followers remaining as hostages, while news of the disaster and
of the terms offered was carried to Lisbon. The royal prisoner and his
companions were treated with all honour and courtesy, and assured that
their captivity could only be a short one, for the Portuguese King would
lose no time in redeeming his gallant brother.
But the Christian prince knew better. The city which had been so
gallantly won from the infidel might not be lightly given back. Some say
that Fernando himself sent a message to the King at Lisbon, forbidding
him to weigh his brother's freedom against the fair prize of their first
deed of arms. At any rate, he showed neither surprise nor dismay when
the answer was returned that the King of Portugal would pay any sum the
Moors could ask for his brother's ransom, but would not part with Ceuta.
It must have been heart-breaking work for the King and his brothers to
agree with the decision of the Council, that the city must be held at
the cost of the freedom of the youngest and best-beloved of their
gallant band, even though they knew that Fernando himself would be the
first to applaud them. Grief and anxiety must have added to the sickness
of which King Duarte died a year later, leaving a child heir and much
trouble and confusion behind him. Enrique left camp and court to live in
seclusion at Algarve, and there gave himself up to the study of naval
science and astronomy. His name is famous yet as 'Prince Henry the
Navigator,' and his renown spread over Europe in his lifetime. But, as
he planned and sent forth exploring expeditions or studied the stars in
his long night watches, the wise prince's heart must have ached many a
time at the thought of the younger brother, paying the penalty of their
failure among the dark-skinned foe.
For the Moors, who had hoped to hoist the crescent once more over their
ancient stronghold, wreaked a bitter vengeance on the man who would not
plead for his own freedom.
Fernando and his companions, sons of the noblest families in Portugal,
were set to the hardest and most menial work, loaded with chains, and
driven to their tasks with blows and threats. But no ill-usage could
break the spirit of the prince, or induce him to send home entreaties
for the only ransom his captors would accept. The lad who had promised
at his dying mother's bedside to fight as become a Christian knight, was
to show a higher courage than he had ever needed on the battle-field.
He, the noblest born and the least robust of the captives, did his hard
tasks with a diligence and patience which won the admiration even of his
tormentors.
When the captives were shut at night into the dark and noisome dungeon
where they slept, he would gather his companions about him and hearten
them with his brave words, calling them brothers and comrades, and only
grieving that he had led them to share his own ill-fortune. Complaints
and murmurs were shamed into silence by his brave patience, and if ever
the self-control of the weary, half-starved captives broke down and they
quarrelled among themselves, the angry words were checked by the
remembrance that nothing would so grieve the prince. And since
'The courage that bears, and the courage that dares,
Are really one and the same,'
not one of Queen Philippa's sons proved more worthy of his knighthood
than the youngest of the five.
The bitterest trial came when Fernando's health, always delicate, gave
way altogether under his privations, and he could no longer do the tasks
required of him. Even the comfort of his companions' presence was now
denied him, and in his wretched cell he lay patiently through the
stifling days, counting the hours until the tramp of feet and clank of
chains told of the return of his friends from their long day's toil.
Then, if their warder was lenient, there would be a pause by the
cell-door, and a moment's breathless waiting lest there should be no
answer to their anxious question of how he did, lest the voice, that
would still speak words of comfort and cheer through the darkness,
should be silent for ever.
But, as the prince grew weaker, his courage and patience moved even his
captors to mercy, and his friends were about him when, after seven years
of slavery, the brave spirit passed at length into the true freedom.
Thirty years later the body of Fernando was ransomed, in exchange for a
Moorish prisoner, and laid in his native land; but his true monument is
the city which his long captivity saved for Christendom. The days of
such slavery as his are gone by. The galleys of the Moorish pirates no
longer sweep the inland sea, and we shall have stories to tell by-and-by
of the men who chased them from their strongholds. But Ceuta was won
four hundred years earlier, by the swords which our English princess
bequeathed to her sons, and was held by the seven years' brave patience
of him who so worthily earned the name of 'El Principe Constante,' the
Constant Prince.
MARY H. DEBENHAM.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
II.--THE LIFE-HISTORY OF THE SOLE.
We can never fully understand an animal until we know its life-history,
but we can give some sort of an account, at least, of its development
from birth to death. With some creatures, as with butterflies, moths, or
birds, for example, this is easy enough, but with others this is by no
means true. The life-history of the Sole is a case in point; only by the
slow accumulation of facts has this been put together. But the result
is most interesting, and without more ado we now proceed to relate it.
The cradle of the young sole, like that of its relatives, the plaice,
turbot, and flounder, takes the form of a crystal globe of a jelly-like
material, in the centre of which lies a smaller globe containing the
germ which will grow into the young fish, a little store of food
material, and a small quantity of oil, which seems to keep the whole
afloat at the surface of the sea. This is the egg. It differs from the
eggs of its relatives, in that the oil which it contains is distributed
in the form of tiny drops, instead of being collected in one big drop,
as in the turbot's eggs, for instance. The careful mother lays these
eggs far out at sea and leaves them; if they were deposited near the
land they would drift ashore and be destroyed. And in the illustration
(fig. 1, egg) you will see what this water-baby looks like just before
he quits his cradle.
In less that a month the little sole has grown enough to enter the
world, but he is strangely helpless; a tiny little creature, perfectly
transparent, mouthless and finless, so that he must drift helplessly,
whithersoever the currents carry him. Though mouthless, he is not
hungry, for there remains within him a certain amount of the nourishing
yolk, which was stored up for this purpose, in his crystal cradle. This
little food reserve is the cause of the rounded swelling on the under
surface of the young sole in the illustration (fig. 1, A and B). In this
picture you should note, first of all, the curious shape of the head,
which is, as yet, only roughly modelled. There is no mouth, and the eye,
as yet, is colourless. Along the middle of the back there runs a high
fin, transparent as glass, and this is continued round the tail and
forwards to the swelling caused by the yolk-bag. Over the whole are
scattered a few patches of colour, in the shape of spidery lines and
blotches, as yet only just dense enough to attract attention.
At six days old, as you will see (fig, 1, C), he has grown darker, and
has developed a mouth and a tiny pair of breast-fins; but beautiful he
certainly is not, judged by human standards of beauty. It often happens,
however, that the outward mark of ugliness is but the sign of hidden
peculiarities of unusual interest. Up to this point this baby sole is
very like any other fish-baby; but from now onwards it enters on a most
remarkable career. At six days old he shows all the promise of a
well-grown fish; that is to say, his body is round and tapering, he has
an eye in each side of his head, and both sides of the body are alike in
colour--in other words, he is symmetrical.
The beginning of the change (fig. 1, D) is indicated by a disposition of
the growing fish to lie on one side--the left--and at the same time the
left eye begins to change its position, moving from the side of the head
towards the crown of it! In a short time this point is reached, and
passed, and not until the left eye has approached its fellow of the
right side fairly closely does its progress stop! By this time the habit
of lying on one side has become fixed, and the body has taken the
characteristic shape of the sole. Thus, then, what appear to be the
upper and under surfaces of the sole, are really the right and left
sides, and this can easily be proved by a careful examination of the
body, which, if it be placed on edge will be found to have a back or
dorsal fin, and a pair of breast fins--one on either side, as in
ordinary 'round' fishes.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Egg of Sole, and Stages in its Growth.]
The difference in the colouration of these two sides is a matter to
which we must now refer. As everybody knows, the upper side is
dark-coloured, while the under side is white. Why is this? Why are not
the colours reversed, or why are not both sides coloured? These
questions open up a most fascinating study--the use and meaning of the
colours of animals. And you will find, when you come to look into the
matter, that there is a very close relation between the colour of an
animal and the nature of its surroundings. In the case of the sole, the
brown upper surface, from its resemblance to the mud and sand at the
bottom of the sea, serves to conceal it from the sharp eyes of prowling
fishes on the look-out for a meal. A broad expanse of white would at
once betray it to the enemy. No colour is developed on the under
surface, for it would be a waste of energy to produce colour for a
surface that was kept constantly concealed from view.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Full-grown Sole.]
Although, in our picture, all these fish can be seen quite plainly, in
real life they are quite hard to find. The young, being well-nigh
transparent as glass, are almost invisible as they float in the water;
while later, when these wanderings cease, and they settle down to a
quiet life, the dark colour forms an equally invisible covering.
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
[Illustration: Prairie Dogs.]
THE PRAIRIE DOG.
The little animal which is commonly called the prairie dog is not a dog
at all, but one of the Marmot family, which is to be found in Europe and
Asia, as well as in America. The only reason for calling it a dog is
that, when excited, it utters a cry which is very like the barking of a
puppy.
This little marmot is rather larger than a good-sized rat, and rather
like that animal in general appearance. Its colour is a red-brown,
speckled with grey and black hairs above, but whitish-grey below. The
tip of its tail is tufted with black hair, which is rather long and
bushy.
The prairie dog lives out on the vast, treeless prairies of North
America, where immense numbers of them congregate together, and make
what are called dog-villages, or towns. The marmots burrow in the ground
like rabbits, and sometimes the country is undermined with their burrows
for a space of several miles. Each marmot, as it builds its burrow,
throws out the loosened earth into a little hillock by the mouth of its
burrow, and when it has nothing better to do it sits upon the top of its
mound, and watches what is going on. At the sight of a stranger, or an
enemy, the marmots, sitting on their mounds, begin to bark and chatter,
jerking up their little tails with every effort until they feel that
they are hardly safe any longer; then they drop into their holes, and,
turning round, pop out their heads to watch a little longer. If the
intruder comes too near, however, they withdraw altogether, and seek
safety in the depths of the burrows. But they are very inquisitive, and
if they are not harmed they soon put out their heads again to see what
is taking place. Hunters who have walked through a dog-village, hoping
to get a shot at one of the little householders, have been amused to see
them scamper indoors as they approached, and come out again as soon as
they had passed. All around, within the range of a gun, there was not a
marmot to be seen, but at a safe distance there were hundreds, or even
thousands, on the watch.
The opening of a marmot's burrow is four or five inches in width, and
the passage runs downwards in a sloping direction for several feet. It
then makes a sharp turn, and continues horizontally for some distance
further, till it turns slightly upwards. The marmot's nest is made at
the extreme end of the burrow, and there can be little doubt that the
last upward turn of the burrow is meant to keep the nest dry, when,
after a heavy storm, rain-water flows into the mouth of the passage. The
burrows are generally within a few feet of each other, and as the ground
above them gives way under pressure, they are often a source of great
danger to travellers upon horseback. The horses' feet slip, and there is
great risk of their spraining or breaking a limb. For this reason
parties of travellers often have to go several miles out of their way,
in order to get round a prairie dogs' village.
Prairie dogs live upon grass, and near their burrows the grass is
cropped quite short by their flat, chisel-shaped teeth. In one respect
they are very strong, for it takes a very serious injury to kill them,
and they quickly recover from small ones. They have one or two enemies,
the worst of which is probably the rattlesnake, which often takes up its
residence in their holes. But, notwithstanding their enemies, the
marmots increase in numbers very quickly, and soon over-run a favourable
district. In winter they hibernate like our squirrels, passing several
months underground in a kind of slow and nearly motionless existence.
The sleep enables the animal to live on, after its grass-food is
exhausted in autumn, until the crop grows again in spring.
THE WAY TO COMMAND.
In the year 1852, Gordon got his commission in the Royal Engineers. Two
years later, he volunteered to go out to the Crimea, and came in for his
full share of the terrible sufferings and privations of the ensuing
winter.
One day, it is said, he came upon a corporal and a sapper, engaged in a
hot dispute. The corporal wanted the sapper to stand up exposed on the
ramparts, while he handed him up some baskets from below. Gordon at once
sprang up to the parapet, told the corporal to follow, and planted the
baskets, under the fire of the Russian gunners. Then, turning to the
corporal, he said, 'Never order a man to do anything that you are afraid
to do yourself.'
H. B. S.
LITTLE THINGS.
The seed set in the garden
Becomes a lovely flower,
It opens in the sunlight
Or twines about the bower;
It beareth tender blossoms,
In beauty it is drest,
And though at last its grace is past,
How many it hath blest!
The tiny little acorn
Becomes an oak at last,
And children swing upon its boughs
When many years are past.
Though now it looks so mighty,
And branches hath so tall,
Ah, yet we know, ere it did grow,
It was an acorn small.
As flowers grow up from tiny seeds,
As oaks from acorns spring,
E'en so from kindly words and deeds
Grows many a lovely thing.
They still the angry passions,
They break the stubborn will,
And earth so sweet, where these do meet,
Becomes yet sweeter still.
FRED'S NEW WORLD.
Fred Miller was feeling very dull and rather sorry for himself. He stood
by the garden gate and wished he had a brother or sister to play with,
as other boys and girls had. He even wished that the holidays would come
to an end and that he might go to school again: for in the holidays the
children from school went away into the country or to stay with
friends--all, except Fred; somehow there was never a chance for him to
go.
He was an only child, but his father and mother had many cares, and
could not spare time to amuse their boy, or spend money in pleasing him.
'You must play in the garden and not run about the streets,' Mr. Miller
would say when he went off to his day's work: perhaps he did not quite
know how tired a boy might grow of being in the same little plot of
ground all day and every day.
Fred was thankful when there were errands to be done; it was better to
fetch flour or potatoes from the shop than to play by himself. But the
errands were soon over, leaving him face to face with the old question,
'What shall I do?'
'Fred,' called Mrs. Marshall, one day--she lived in the next house to
Mr. Miller's--'can your mother spare you to go to the library for me?'
Now it happened that Fred had never been to the library, for his own
people did not care for reading, so he was eager to take Mrs. Marshall's
book, and he listened carefully to the instructions that were given him,
and repeated to himself all the way the title of the book he was to try
to get in exchange.
Books had hitherto meant nothing but lessons to Fred, and he was not
more keen upon those than most other boys; but when he saw the rows of
volumes on the library shelves, and was told by the clerk in charge to
go and find the one he wanted, he woke up to the knowledge that they
might mean something more.
He opened one, at random; it was full of pictures. He began to read; it
was about strange places and people: about the dense forests and great
rivers of some far-off land, and the wonderful creatures--birds, beasts
and fishes--to be found there.
The clock struck twelve--it was a good thing for Fred that the sound was
loud enough to startle him--he put back the volume of travels with a
sigh of regret, found, with some trouble, the book Mrs. Marshall wanted,
and ran all the way home to make up for lost time.
Though he would have been too shy to talk about them, his mind was full
of the wonders of which he had been reading. 'I never knew there were
such things; it's like--it's like having a new world to look at! I wish
I could read some more; but perhaps Mrs. Marshall won't ever ask me to
go again,' he thought.
Mrs. Marshall, however, did more than that. 'Why don't you get your
mother to let you have a library ticket, Fred?' she asked, when Fred,
flushed and breathless after his run, presented himself before her.
'Me! Why, I couldn't, Mrs. Marshall; I'm not grown up,' said the little
boy, wistfully.
'Oh, that doesn't matter in the least,' Mrs. Marshall assured him.
'Come now, Fred,' she added, 'I owe you a good turn; I'll do my best to
get you a ticket.'
Mrs. Marshall was as good as her word, and Fred, the proud possessor of
a ticket of his own, was soon a regular visitor to the library. He had
come to the end of his dull days, for, as the poet truly says:
'Books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good,'
and Fred had found it out.
C. J. B.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 51._)
The close bond which united the families of the Moat House and Begbie
Hall, and the daily intercourse, had thrown the two governesses much
together. Happily for both, their acquaintance had grown into friendship
and affection. Not only did they meet during the walks taken with their
pupils, but Estelle shared with her cousins in Miss Leigh's lessons in
arithmetic and English subjects, while Marjorie and Georgie, and Miss
Leigh herself, received instruction in French, Italian, music and
drawing from Mademoiselle Vadevant.
When, therefore, Marjorie had proposed to spend the remainder of the
rainy day with Estelle, Miss Leigh hailed the suggestion with pleasure.
She would have Mademoiselle's companionship, while the children amused
themselves in their own way. She splashed through the mud and wet,
laughing and happy, with Georgie dancing along by her side, and hardly
noticed that Marjorie did not join in her mirth. Marjorie was uneasy;
she thought Miss Leigh was unkind not to allow her to wait for Alan.
What was the sense of hurrying her off when Alan wanted her?
It was some time before Alan overcame his pride enough to follow, and
then he plodded rather sulkily through the slush. Passing by the ruined
summer-house he paused to look at it, the vague mystery making it always
an object of interest. He wished Peet had been a more genial man: it
might then have been possible to get him to show the inside of that
gloomy place. But he was very surly, and the secret must be found out in
some other way.
As he stood gazing, a slight stir among the bushes attracted his
attention. Slipping behind a corner of the buttress, he waited, somewhat
sheltered from the dripping rain by the overhanging ivy. He had not long
to stand shivering there. A hurried whisper caught his ear.
'What's that? Did you hear a sound?'
'I thought I did, but it seems quiet now. Come along this way. It's
more---- '
The voices died away, and after some slight rustling all grew still
again. Alan, now beginning to feel that the mystery, whatever it was,
appeared to be deepening, and that he must decide what he meant to do
quickly, was on the point of quitting his shelter, when another sound
arrested his movement. A rough grating, the swing of the heavy door of
the summer-house, and Peet stepped into sight. He stopped to close the
door carefully, and lock it before he walked away.
'Wonders will never cease,' thought Alan, amazed. 'Is that old
curmudgeon in the business, too? He's the last man I should have
imagined would mix himself up with a man like Thomas.'
Having no reason to expect further developments Alan set off at a run,
so as to get out of the rain as speedily as possible. He was pretty wet,
and what he had just seen and heard had made him forget the annoyances
of the morning. His good temper was quite restored, though his thoughts
were busy and perplexed. He almost made up his mind to consult somebody,
and if he did, why not Aunt Betty, who never let out secrets? It was
worth thinking about, even if he did not make up his mind to do it at
once. At the same time he must not let things go too far.
Running down the path, vaulting the little gate leading into the
shrubberies, and dashing down a back way almost dark with the thick
laurel-bushes overhead, he soon reached what was known as the postern
door. Entering a low passage, narrow and dimly lighted from some
invisible opening, he pursued his way along various twists and turns of
the old house, with now and again a few stairs up, till he finally came
upon a crimson-baize door, opening on a long panelled corridor. The
first two or three rooms were unoccupied, the remainder were devoted to
the use of Estelle and her governess. In the schoolroom the whole party
were assembled, the children waiting with more or less impatience for
his arrival.
'You _have_ been a long time!' cried Marjorie, while his cousin jumped
up from the table, to clear away the round game they had been playing.
The governesses having retired to Mademoiselle's study, the children
started off on their usual rainy-day amusement, hide-and-seek. They
never tired of rushing about through the old passages and rooms, and
often came upon strange discoveries. Things hidden away for years and
forgotten, doors which had remained unopened, or perhaps even had been
mistaken for a part of the wainscot for generations. These discoveries
were somewhat awe-inspiring, and the game not unfrequently became what
the children called 'Treasure-hunting.' They generally managed to keep
together on such occasions; it was too uncanny to be alone in those
ghostly apartments.
As a rule Georgie was not allowed to join in these weird expeditions. He
was too young, and his conduct could not be depended upon. He might
choose to be frightened and scream just at the wrong moment, or he would
obstinately refuse to go into dark, shuttered rooms, where the smell of
rats and dust seemed to strike them in the face, so stifling was it.
Hide-and-seek could not be comfortably played with him, either. He could
not run fast enough, nor did he like being left behind, and any sudden
clutch from behind a door nearly terrified him out of his life. So, much
to his disgust, he was forced to remain with the governesses, or go down
to Aunt Betty, if she would let him sit with her. He liked that best, as
she never minded what mess he made, or how untidily his toys were
scattered about. (_Continued on page_ 70.)
[Illustration: "Peet stopped to lock the door."]
[Illustration: THE BOY DOCTOR.]
[Illustration: The Egg Poacher.]
THE PTARMIGAN AND PINE MARTEN.
Every one must have observed how many animals escape notice by the
similarity of their colours to those of the ground upon which they lie,
or of the foliage in which they hide. It is not easy to see rabbits, at
dusk, as they sit quietly nibbling the grass upon their sandy warrens.
It is difficult, at times, to distinguish a toad from a piece of broken
bark or a dead leaf. Moths and butterflies frequently escape pursuit by
hiding among twigs and flowers which resemble them in colour. And it is
almost impossible to see a shrimp upon the sand of the sea-shore, or a
little sandy-coloured fish at the bottom of a sea-side pool. We can
hardly doubt that the colours of these animals serve them as a very
useful protection. They are all naturally helpless creatures, and their
safety depends almost entirely upon their escaping the notice of their
enemies.
The examples just given are familiar to us all. But there are few better
illustrations of this curious fact than that afforded by the Ptarmigan,
a bird which is found in the northern parts of Europe and America,
including the north of Scotland. It is a game bird, nearly related to
the grouse, the partridge, and even to our domestic fowls, and it is
protected, like the other game birds, by Acts of Parliament, which
render those who shoot it, during certain months of the year, liable to
a fine. The ptarmigan frequents wild, mountainous districts, and builds
its nest upon the open hillsides, among the coarse grass and mossy
rocks. The nest is a little cluster of twigs and grass, and in it the
ptarmigan lays ten or a dozen reddish eggs spotted with brown, which are
not easily distinguishable from the twigs and grass among which they
lie. The summer plumage of the bird itself is a brown tortoiseshell, so
similar in colour to the ground upon which it makes its nest that it is
very difficult to see.
In winter-time, however, when the hillsides are covered with snow, the
ptarmigan would be easily discovered, if it retained its summer dress.
But, upon the approach of colder weather, the bird changes its plumage,
and takes on a winter robe of pure white, which makes it just as
difficult to detect amidst the snow, as it was in summer when it nested
among the grass and stones. With the return of warmer weather it resumes
its darker colour. The bird moults, in fact, twice and sometimes thrice
in the year. It is impossible to tell the exact cause of these changes,
but it is quite certain that they help to protect the bird from its
enemies. The change from its winter plumage to its summer one is
sometimes delayed for some little time after the winter snows have
disappeared, and it has been noticed, in Norway and Sweden, that large
numbers of ptarmigan are killed at this time, when their white feathers
make them so conspicuous.
The enemies of the ptarmigan are the larger birds of prey, and animals
of the weasel kind. One of the largest of the latter is the pine marten,
which is still found in remote and uninhabited parts of our country. It
is a fierce and active animal, ever on the look-out for game and eggs.
It is, in fact, a great poacher, and for this reason it has been
practically exterminated by gamekeepers, in all the districts where game
is carefully preserved. In other countries the marten is hunted for its
skin, the fur of which is scarcely less valuable than that of the sable.
It is found in all the northern countries, especially in North America.
ANSON'S COOLNESS.
Commodore Anson, while his ship, the _Centurion_, was engaged in close
combat with a Spanish man-of-war, was told by a sailor that the
_Centurion_ was on fire near the powder magazine.
'Well,' said the Commodore quietly, 'go and help to put it out.'
H. S. B.
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
II.--DENISON'S HALL-MARK.
(_Concluded from page 37._)
My brain recovered its power after a moment or two, and I began to
reflect, though, I own, my reflections were somewhat interfered with by
the rough treatment to which I was being subjected; for the great brute
in whose jaws I lay dragged me without ceremony over stones, roots,
scrub, hard knife-like grass, and other obstacles. I felt my clothes
tear here, there, and everywhere; I was being gradually torn and bumped
into a jelly--still, I reflected, where was I being taken to, and why?
Why not eaten at once?
The latter question was easily answered. The lion had had his dinner
already, or her dinner--it might, of course, be a lioness--I had as yet
had no opportunity of seeing the beast; if so, she might be the mother
of a family of cubs, and if so again, I might be destined for their
dinner, mamma having already dined.
This was a pleasant reflection! I might have to deal with half-a-dozen
lions of various sizes, instead of only one large one. There was very
little doubt that I was doomed, in any case; yet my brain had never
worked more clearly than at this moment, and I employed it as I went
bumping along, in trying to devise some means of escape, poor though the
prospect might be. My gun was still in my hand, and determined that no
amount of rough travelling should cause me to let it go. A moment might
come when I should find an opportunity to turn it somehow in the
direction of the lion, and I should keep my wits about me mainly to that
end.
We had travelled, I suppose, about a quarter of a mile, and I wish I
could convey to you fellows the extreme discomfort of it. Can you
imagine it? One's head flopping and wobbling and knocking up against
whatever happened to be in the way; one's legs following suit; one's
body strained, twisted, scratched, bruised, pounded--really, though I
see you fellows laughing at this very moment, and should like to kick
you for it if I were not too comfortable to move, I would not wish even
such ruffians as you two to suffer such torture.
Suddenly the beast laid me down--tired, perhaps, with dragging eleven
stone over rough country. She stood over me for a minute as though
listening, one paw on my right shoulder, which prevented me from using
my arm, which might otherwise have been employed to advantage during
this interval.
Then suddenly she lifted up her voice--it _was_ a lioness, I now saw,
not a male lion--and set the air vibrating with a series of roars so
loud that they might surely, I thought, be heard at Buluwayo, if not at
Capetown. Never in my life had the drums of my ears been so ill-treated.
For half a minute without a pause she thundered thus.
Well, she ended. The roars became less loud--less frequent--they thinned
down into half-moaning noises something like the end of a donkey's bray,
and lastly they stopped altogether, or rather faded into growling or
purring sounds. Then she released my shoulder and stood a yard or two
from me, gazing into the distance--you know how lions at the Zoo look
when the whisper has gone round that it is feeding-time, and every lion
and tiger begins to stare into the far-away, over the heads of the
spectators.
A few moments passed during which I slowly drew my rifle towards me
until I had it close to my side; and now--following one another--came
two terrible shocks.
The first was the discovery that my rifle was bent at the grip and that
the barrel was damaged in places. It was out of the question to dream of
attempting to fire a bullet through it: there was no clear passage for
the missile: the rifle would burst in my hands if I attempted it.
The second shock was of a different nature. Hearing a scuffle and the
sound of snarlings and whinings, I glanced upwards, and beheld a pretty,
though a very alarming spectacle. Four lion cubs, about the size of
dogs, came frisking and bounding out of the long grass, evidently in
obedience to their mother's summons. At the same moment I became aware
of a more awful presence. A full-grown male lion, a magnificent beast,
was standing watching me, his tail twitching, his nostrils moving, his
legs setting themselves as though for a spring. I had not heard him
arrive, I did not know from what direction he had appeared; I simply
knew that he was there, and I may tell you that the sight of him gave me
a shock, though I had had my fill of terrors already.
I could think of no way out of the horrible position; I was in despair.
In my agony I reverted to instinct, I did what a child would have
done--I yelled for all I was worth. I called upon Thomson, who was a
couple of miles away, at least, and who could not, of course, hear me in
any case; I called upon Thomson for the love of all he held precious to
come and help me.
Instantly the four cubs disappeared in the long grass, The lioness also
bounded away; only the mighty lion remained. He gazed at me and roared,
but did not venture to approach. 'I don't quite like the look of you,'
he seemed to say; 'I believe that's a fire-stick in your hand; I'll see
if I can't frighten you into fits by roaring.'
Then he had his innings at roaring, and I give you my word that if his
wife's lungs were pretty good, his own absolutely left them far behind.
So terrific was the noise that my whole being seemed paralysed, and I
believe I eventually fainted, for, remembering nothing of the events
which led up to it, I awoke to find myself the plaything of four
lion-cubs.
The little rascals were positively--I wish you fellows wouldn't grin,
for I assure you this is a true story!--they were positively playing
with me as though I were a big mouse. If only one had been in the mood
to be amused, their antics would have seemed really funny. The little
beggars would stalk me, crouching and approaching for all the world like
a kitten about to make a pounce upon a cork, or some other plaything;
then they would make a sudden rush, stand on their hind legs for an
instant, touching me hurriedly with their paws, and scamper home to
their mother, or behind some rock or tuft of grass, from which they
would presently emerge to creep towards me once more; and so the whole
play would begin again.
They never once hurt me or scratched me, or did me the slightest injury.
I concluded that the father had already fed the little brutes, and that
I was to be respited for an hour or two, perhaps half a day. This was
satisfactory in a fashion, but just imagine the suspense!
Her majesty the lioness, however, was not pleased, it appears, with the
behaviour of her children. She roared once or twice.
'You are meant to eat it,' she seemed to say, 'you foolish little
things, not play with it. Here, come along and taste, it's good food.
Stick your little teeth into it--look here.'
She approached me and rolled me over once or twice as a cat might play
with a mouse. 'Look for a soft place and then bite,' she continued.
'I'll show you the way.'
'No you don't!' thought I, desperate now and careless of consequences. I
fumbled for my skinning-knife, and made a dig at her majesty, but only
succeeded in scratching her about the shoulder. She gave a roar of
alarm, however, and bounded away into cover. The four cubs disappeared
instantly.
From somewhere in the long grass, where she hid unseen with her cubs,
the lioness now began to growl or moan, complaining, I had no doubt,
that I had bitten her and that it was obviously the duty of her lord and
master to see that such a venomous creature as myself was rendered
harmless before her precious darlings came near it again.
'Go in and finish him off,' she said. 'He might hurt one of them. He has
bitten me.'
Apparently her complaint told. His majesty began to grow restless. He
stood up. He had lain down at full length to watch the children play,
but now he rose up and began to work himself into a rage. His tail
lashed his sides, and his jaws moved incessantly; he showed his teeth
and growled savagely and roared. I knew enough about lions to be aware
that as long as his tail worked from side to side I was safe; once it
began to move vertically up and down, the moment had arrived when he
would charge. I rose to my knees, then to my feet, and watched him. He
gathered his feet as though to spring; he roared; his eyes flashed green
fire; his tail ceased to work laterally; it rose straight up over his
back and fell again. He was moving; he would charge. I screamed, turned
to fly--and fainted.
[Illustration: "They were playing with me as though I were a big
mouse."]
When I recovered, Thomson was kneeling at my side, explaining that he
had heard a lion roaring, and wondered whether I was in trouble. He had
started out in search of me, and presently, uncertain where to look for
me, providentially heard my first scream. He had hastened in the
direction of my call for help, and, as it seemed, arrived just in time.
'Have they gone?' I gasped. 'Where are the lions?'
'How many were there?' he laughed. 'There's one, anyway!'
It was his majesty, dead as a stone. What became of his royal consort
and her cubs I know not; we may meet them one of these days.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
III.--MORE CURIOUS MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS OF INDIA.
[Illustration]
The Taus, or Peacock, also called Esrar or Mohur, according to the
language of the tribe which uses it, is met with chiefly in Upper India,
and is a favourite instrument of the Nautch musicians.
It is always made in the form of a peacock, supporting on its back a
long, narrow stringed instrument. The body and neck of the bird is
usually carved and coloured, and is further adorned with natural
plumage, sometimes neck feathers being used, sometimes those of the
tail, and often both. There is a very fine specimen of the Taus in the
British Museum, in the gallery where boats, weapons, and curious
articles of native arts and crafts are exhibited.
The Nautch people are found all over India, and are a striking instance
of the survival of native customs in the East, and although Europeans
see little more of them than an occasional party of singers and dancers,
great numbers of the profession exist.
In native national life the Nautch play a large part, and legend has a
great deal to say about them. In their way these performers have a
strong religious element, and dancers, whether Hindoo or Mohommedan,
never begin their performances without touching forehead and eyes with
the strings of bells hung round their ankles, and saying a short prayer.
[Illustration: The Taus, or Peacock.]
[Illustration: The Pungi or Jinagooi.]
Tying on the bells for the first time is quite a solemn function, as it
implies adopting for ever the career of a Nautch dancer, from which no
withdrawal is possible.
A popular Hindoo story called 'Chandra's Vengeance,' tells of a youth
who, hearing from a long distance the music of the Nautch, is
irresistibly drawn towards it. After twelve days' journey he approaches
the camp of the mysterious people, and there a beautiful girl dances up
to him and throws a garland of flowers around him. At once a spell is
woven, which is completed by a charmed drink, with the result that he
forgets friends, family and country, and enters for ever into the Nautch
community. Another legend tells of a Rajah, who was so enchanted with
the weird music of the wandering people, that he followed it from
country to country, forgetful of wife, child, and kingdom, his whole
interest being taken up in beating the drum at performances. In time his
baby boy grew into manhood, and set himself to seek his father, and
restore him to his throne. After endless journeyings and adventures he
at last found his royal parent, ragged but picturesque, taking part in a
Nautch festival, and after much difficulty persuaded him to return home.
There the wisest physicians exerted their skill to restore his memory of
his former position, and their efforts being successful, he re-ascended
the throne of his ancestors, and reigned many years, his wanderings with
the Nautch people fading from his mind entirely.
[Illustration: The Yotl.]
The same kind of little bells which are hung round the ankles of the
Nautch dancers are used for more practical purposes by Indian
post-runners, who tie them in strings to the end of poles; thus the
bells, being kept in constant motion, announce the coming of the news
carrier. At the same time they serve to scare away wild beasts when the
runner is passing through lonely forests or jungles where danger lurks
in the quivering grasses.
In ancient days the Aztecs and Teztucans of Central America were wont to
hang clusters of similar tiny bells outside temples and towers, which,
as they were swayed by the wind, kept up a musical sound. One of these,
found in Mexico, may be seen in the British Museum; it bears the name of
Yotl. The actual bells, which are nearly round, are very similar to the
Schellen, or horsebells, used in Northern Europe when driving sledges
over the silent snow.
The Pungi or Jinagooi is used by jugglers and snake-charmers all over
India. A bottle-shaped gourd is the chief feature in its construction
and forms the centre and mouthpiece. Two pipes of cane are cut to form
reeds and inserted into the large end of the gourd; one, pierced with
finger-holes, takes the melody; it is accompanied by the other, which
always sounds the key-note, and produces a curious droning sound not
unlike that of the bagpipes.
HELENA HEATH.
A HUMOROUS PUNISHMENT.
In Stow's _History of London_, the following singular extract is
given:--
'Nicholas Wilford, an alderman, having neglected to have his cloak,
which he ought to use in the procession, lined with fur, it is adjudged
by the Court of Aldermen that the Lord Mayor and Aldermen shall all
breakfast with him. This penalty is awarded as a punishment for his
meanness.'
THE MOON-SHIP.
O ship of the moon, good-bye, good-bye!
Where, where do you sail away,
Through miles and miles of stormy sky,
By cloudland cape and bay?
O ship of the moon, beware, beware,
Of many and many a danger there!
See! white foam breaks along the reef!
The angry tempests blow;
The cloud-waves beat the cloudland cliff
Like gusts of drifting snow.
O ship of the moon, beware, beware,
There's many a danger lurking there!
She's near the rocks! She's sinking now!
The light is growing dim.
Wild billows leap her silver prow
On the horizon's rim.
And louder still the tempest blows;
The shadows darker fall;
Into the cloud-world depths she goes--
Mast, rudder, sails and all,
Wrecked in the ocean of the sky:
Ship of the moon, good-bye! good-bye!
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 63._)
As soon as Georgie was disposed of, the other children set off racing
each other about, up and down the old disused part of the house, the
empty passages echoing to the sound of their fun and laughter.
'Alan,' said Marjorie, when, breathless and somewhat tired, the three
explorers had reached a small turret room into which was shining a ray
of sunshine from a rift in the clouds--'I wonder if you would laugh if I
told you something.'
Estelle had climbed on a chair and was leaning out of the narrow window,
with a longing for the fresh, sweet air outside; Alan was tapping all
the panelling to see if any discoveries were lying in wait for him.
'Why should I laugh?' he returned, in a preoccupied voice.
'Please don't, then. I really and truly saw some men creeping round the
tower!'
'No!' cried Alan, startled into interest at once.
'Yes, I did. You know there is no reason for anybody to go there. It's
never used, and the shrubs are only trimmed once a year, because Auntie
doesn't like people about there often.'
'You didn't see who it was?'
'No; I only saw their backs. They were stooping, as if to hide
themselves.'
'Did they wear dark, long cloaks?' asked Estelle, suddenly, turning
round from the window.
'Yes, with dark caps.'
'Then I have just seen them go under the tower, with a bag and a
basket.'
Alan looked from one to the other in silence. Should he speak? Did he
dare to trust them? It seemed time to act, but what was he to do without
more knowledge than he possessed at present? Was it not possible to gain
it--now, even? The men were below somewhere, doing something. They had
probably taken advantage of the rain, and the consequent absence of the
family and gardeners from the grounds. No one would dream of being out
on such a day, and the prospect from the windows was too uninviting to
fear many watchers. Alan felt sure this was the way the men had
reasoned; and it was clearly his policy to keep them in ignorance of
their nearness to the party of children, and yet to manage somehow to
watch their movements. If only the girls could help him! He thought he
could depend on Marjorie. But Estelle was quite different--nervous and
imaginative. Alan knew this, but he could not ask her to leave him and
Marjorie to track these men; nor could he propose to her to come with
them--the danger of betrayal was too great. Of course, she might keep
quiet; but then, again, she might not.
'I tell you what,' he said at length, looking at the two girls, who were
watching him anxiously, 'you two had better stay here, and I will go
down and have a look round. If I don't come back soon--say in five or
ten minutes--don't wait for me, but go down and amuse yourselves. I
will be back as soon as I can.'
'Let me go with you,' said Marjorie, earnestly. 'Two are better than
one, and you know you can trust me.'
He had expected this, but before he could reply, Estelle broke in with,
'And can't you trust me, too, Alan?'
'The fact is,' he answered, somewhat in doubt how to act, 'I don't know
what we shall see; or what will happen if we are seen. It is most
important we should not betray ourselves; and in order to manage this,
we must keep very, very quiet. Whatever happens, there must be no noise,
not even a whisper. Suppose you were frightened, what would you do,
Estelle? Don't you think you had better go to the schoolroom, and wait
for us? Marjorie can go with you if you like, but, as she says, two are
better than one.'
Tears came into Estelle's eyes, but she said, with a good deal of
resolution in her gentle voice, 'If you wish, I will go to Aunt Betty.
Georgie is with her. I don't want to be in your way. But though I'm not
as brave as Marjorie, I can keep quiet, and I--I think you could trust
me not to scream or make a noise. If I feel inclined to, I will creep
away.'
'All right,' replied Alan. He was fond of his little cousin, and could
not bear to see her distressed. 'Come along, then; only remember this,
there must be no talking, no moving about, and you must do what I tell
you directly without any questions. Will you both promise?'
This little matter settled, the three children set off on their way
clown the narrow spiral staircase, at the bottom of which Alan, who led
the way, stopped in order to assist the girls over some rotten boards.
The whole passage required careful walking, to avoid dangerous holes,
and thin, dry-rotting boards.
The lower they went the darker it grew, and the more cautiously they had
to tread, till at last they came to such a gloomy region that seeing
their footsteps became impossible. Yet they dared not light a match.
They must almost have reached the cellars when Alan felt he had come
against a door, and whispered to the others to stop. Feeling about with
his fingers he encountered a latch, and in another moment the light was
shining in on them through a slit-like groove in the thick walls. The
stairs still went down, down, much to their disappointment, but no
thought of giving up occurred to any of them. They followed each other
noiselessly, Estelle the last of the three, when suddenly, just as they
had reached a sort of circular stone hall, they heard the grating sound
of a door being forced open on rusty hinges. In an instant Alan had
drawn the girls back into the shadow of the winding stairs, where they
could all remain without betraying their presence. Estelle, being the
farthest back, could see nothing, for which she was duly thankful; but
Marjorie and Alan sat as still as mice, their eyes on the opening door.
Two men were seen to enter, and, after closing the door, they proceeded
to light a lantern. They evidently felt quite safe here, for they did
not even lower their voices. A bag of tools was laid on the floor, and
now came the moment of danger. Uncertain which of the doors round the
stone hall was the one they wanted, they began a tour of inspection,
turning the brilliant light of the lantern on each as they came to it.
Alan saw that they must pass the foot of the staircase, and that they
would certainly bring the lantern to bear on it. This would reveal
Marjorie and himself sitting there. With a touch, he drew Marjorie's
attention to the danger, and, in an instant, Estelle was made aware of
the necessity of going higher up in order that the others might slip out
of sight. It was an anxious moment, however, for what if the men took it
into their heads to mount the stairs?
Alan listened with strained ears, but, as far as he could make out, they
were intent on finding some mark which indicated the door they were in
search of. He was comforting himself with this when he saw, by the
sudden light on the wall, that the lantern was turned on the stairs.
'Sure it _is_ down here?' said a gruff voice in a surly tone, 'It's no
use our going on a wild-goose chase. We are below ground here, and it's
not unlikely the door is above-stairs, more on a level with the house.'
'We have not been round them all down here yet,' came the reply in the
voice of Thomas. 'I don't know the door any better than you, but we can
look till we find it.'
'And if it isn't down here, why we will just go up. I suppose there's no
danger of folks coming down the stairs and spying on us?'
'Bless you, it isn't every one has the courage to come here at all. It
is haunted, they say; but I don't believe in that sort of ghosts. Come
along, and let's finish the hall first.'
With that they moved away, and the stairs were again in deep shadow.
Alan indicated to Marjorie that she was to stay where she was. He
himself resumed his old seat lower down, whence he could view all that
took place.
Slowly and cautiously the men continued their investigations, but
apparently with no success. The doors were all precisely alike, all of
solid oak, and heavily studded with great nails. The locks looked as if
they would take hours--perhaps days--to pick, and to attempt to open
them in any other way appeared to be hopeless. After some angry
discussion, it was at length determined to mount the stairs and try to
find the door they wanted. Alan was on his feet at once, ready to dart
out of sight as soon as needful, when suddenly there was a hideous
baying and barking at the door by which the men had entered, and almost
before the children were aware of what had happened, the two men were
flying up the stairs in the hope of avoiding pursuit. The dogs had been
let loose, and were on the track of the invaders.
In a panic Alan fled up the stairs, the two girls before him, only just
so far ahead as to keep out of sight, aided happily by the darkness, for
the lantern had been put out.
How long they could keep ahead had yet to be seen.
(_Continued on page_ 74.)
[Illustration: "The men began a tour of inspection."]
[Illustration: "Marjorie was bending over Estelle."]
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 71._)