The three children fled upstairs. The terror which lent wings to their
feet grew into a panic as they flew. Perhaps the one who felt it most
was Estelle. Her imagination pictured all sorts of terrible things. She
was sure that the dogs, in their fury, would not recognise them, and
that they would be torn to pieces. Marjorie, though her heart beat
quickly, kept her senses under control, and even showed coolness enough
to whisper back: 'Give them some place to escape to, Alan; they will
follow us if you don't.'
The wisdom of this advice was soon shown. Acting upon it, Alan flung
open the door of a room he knew to be unfurnished and empty. It did not
delay him a second of time, but it gave him a courage which surprised
himself. Slackening his pace so as just to keep out of sight, he stopped
now and again to take a glance behind him: he was determined to see what
the two men intended to do. Meantime, the door into the cellars had been
forced, men and dogs tumbling over each other as the lock gave way to
the united strength of the party outside. The children could hear the
bay of the hounds as they bounded towards the stairs. The two girls fled
on in breathless haste, but Alan had no fears that the dogs would not
recognise him. Besides, he was intent on the actions of Thomas and his
friend.
The howls of the dogs acted like magic on the two men. They rushed up
the stairs, without a single glance behind. The danger was too pressing
to allow any delay for making plans of escape. The door Alan had thrown
open seemed to them the way to safety; the cheerful light of day, which
shone through the begrimed windows, gave a friendly look to the empty
room. Alan saw them rush in, close the door softly, and the sound of the
faint creak of a rusty bolt assured him the men were safe for a time at
least. He had not much leisure to think what he meant to do next,
however. The hounds were up the staircase in full cry. Barely had he
time to reach a door into a passage, which the girls had left open for
him, when one of the dogs flung himself against it with a howl of rage;
then stopping a moment to sniff about, and probably discovering that it
had missed the scent of the enemy to follow that of a friend, it turned
with a fierce bark, and Alan could hear it rushing down the stairs
again.
Not till then did Alan perceive, as he turned in his excitement to call
to his sister, that she was bending over the figure of Estelle. The
little girl had fallen in a heap half-way down the long passage.
'Hullo!' he cried, startled. 'What's the matter?'
'I can't think,' returned Marjorie, looking round with a white face of
alarm. 'She is so dreadfully still, and she doesn't seem to hear what I
say.'
'Perhaps she's fainted,' said Alan, doubtfully. 'I told you it was
rubbish her coming with us; she can't stand anything.'
'But what are we to do? She may be dead.' Tears were in Marjorie's eyes,
and she trembled like a leaf.
'I'll go and call somebody,' said Alan, surprised at her terror.
Feeling it would be foolish to detain him, Marjorie said no more, but
continued her efforts to wake Estelle. She rubbed her hands, stroked the
hair off her face, and raised her in her arms in order to make her more
comfortable. But, alas! nothing had the least effect on the unconscious
child.
'She ought not to have come with us,' said Marjorie, half aloud, as she
kissed her cousin's forehead tenderly. 'She isn't as tough as we are,
and, oh! I do hope the fright hasn't killed her! Estelle! Estelle dear!
Do wake up. There is no danger now. We are quite safe here; we are
indeed, if only you would believe it.'
But there was no sign of consciousness; not a word she said was heard.
'I wish I had some water,' sighed Marjorie. 'I am sure a little cold
water would make her wake, and refresh her. I know it always woke me
when Alan put the cold sponge on my face, on those horrid winter
mornings when he would go out early into the snow.'
Her cousin's fainting-fit, and the dread of what it might mean, had
driven all recollection of the men and dogs, and their own escape, clean
out of her head. Her only fear was that little, delicate, nervous
Estelle might have been killed by all that had happened. Could she be
dead? She was so terribly limp and still. Oh, if there were only
something she could do! Anything would be better than sitting waiting
for somebody to come. Yet the thought of leaving her cousin never so
much as occurred to her. She bent over her again, and began rubbing the
soft little hands with greater energy, till the sound of hastening
footsteps gladdened her heart.
'A whole lot of them are coming,' Alan called out as he ran up the
passage. 'Father, and Aunt Betty, and Mademoiselle, and the whole lot of
them. Is she any better? I say, is she insensible still?' His face
became alarmed and grave. 'What a fool I was to let her come with us!'
There was no time for lamentations, however. Colonel De Bohun and
Mademoiselle were running towards them, followed by Aunt Betty herself,
looking pale and anxious. There was no lack of helping, loving hands now
to carry the unconscious little girl to where she could receive every
attention. Colonel De Bohun lifted her in his arms, and Aunt Betty,
finding that cold water and strong smelling salts had no effect, desired
that she should be taken to her own room and the doctor sent for.
'Come with me,' said Alan, when he and Marjorie were left alone. 'It's
no use crying. I'm awfully cut up too, but I do believe it isn't
anything more than a faint. Estelle will be all right, you see. It is
hard luck her fainting like that, for we had got out of the scrape jolly
well. Don't you think so?'
'Oh, yes!' returned Marjorie, still feeling rather shaky with the fright
she had had about her cousin. 'If only Estelle had not fainted, it would
have been very exciting and jolly fun.'
'So it was! You come along to the turret, and let's talk this over. I've
a heap to tell you, but'--and he gazed earnestly into her face--'you
will promise you won't say a word till I give you leave?'
Marjorie promised, and the brother and sister betook themselves to the
little turret chamber. There was an ancient oak settle at one end of the
dingy little room, which had a horsehair cushion, rather worn and
threadbare, but still comfortable.
(_Continued on page 87._)
THE DAISY.
'I am only a poor little Daisy,' it said,
'Not tall like the Lily, nor like the Rose red;
'Mid the flowers of the wealthy I never am seen,
I have only to blossom each day on the green.
'The Violet has fragrance, the Rose and the Pink;
The Primrose is sweet by the river's green brink;
The gold of the Cowslip is bright on the sea--
All these have a sweetness not granted to me.'
But into the meadows a child strayed one day,
She passed by the Lily and Rose on the way;
Nor gathered the Primrose, the Violet blue,
But went to the field where the small Daisy grew.
And all through the hours of that bright sunny day,
Where the sweet Daisy blossomed she lingered to play;
And the Daisy was glad when, at even's soft fall,
She said that its blossom was sweetest of all.
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
4.--CHARADE.
My first is very rapid; my second is a beautiful tree; and my whole is
used for cement.
C. J. B.
[_Answer on page_ 115.]
* * * * *
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 51.
2.--Locke. Wordsworth. Swift.
Bacon. Steele. Scott.
Burns. Lamb. Goldsmith.
3.--1. Hereford. 3. Denver. 6. Pekin.
2. Venice. 4. Milan. 7. Bergen.
5. Berlin.
CROCODILES IN CENTRAL AFRICA.
Crocodiles are very plentiful on the shores of the vast lakes of Central
Africa, and the English people living in those parts do not seem to mind
them much. One lady wrote home a few weeks ago: 'We went for a swim in
Lake Nyasa yesterday. The water was beautifully blue and warm. We took
three of our native school-girls to drive away the crocodiles.'
One of the crew of the mission steamer, _Chauncy Maples_, lately found
eighty-seven crocodile eggs in a hole on the beach near Likoma; the
mother, after laying them, had covered them all over with sand, and then
had gone away and left the eggs to be hatched by the hot sun. The man
took some of the eggs and soon was able to announce, proudly, that he
had 'sixteen little crocodiles on board, all healthy and snappy!'
On landing at a mission station some days later, five of these little
crocodiles were sent up in a paraffin tin to be inspected by the mission
ladies, who pronounced them to be 'charming little beasts.'
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
III.--THE LIFE-HISTORY OF THE COMMON EEL.
We meet people now and then who tell us that, in these scientific days,
all the poetry and mystery of Nature is being destroyed. This is not
only untrue, but stupid. All that science has done is to substitute
truth for legend, and truth is generally more beautiful and wonderful
than fiction. Those who will turn to the great Book of Nature humbly,
and with an open mind, will learn nothing but what is helpful and good
to know.
The story which I am now about to relate is full of strangeness, far
more so than our forebears ever suspected. Thus, in many parts of rural
England even to-day, if you ask old grey-beards where eels come from,
they will tell you that they grow out of the hair dropped from the tails
of horses which come to drink at the horse-pond. After long soaking
these hairs, they say, become endowed with life, and turn to worms known
as 'hair-eels,' because they are so thin. In course of time they grow
into fully developed eels!--and this was solemnly believed, even by
educated people, throughout the length and breadth of the land, until a
few years ago.
The true story is not easy to tell, because it had to be put together
bit by bit. Thus it began in a suspicion of the truth. So long ago as
1864 a guess was made that certain curious, very rare, and extremely
fragile fishes were really young eels, in spite of the fact that they
did not in the least resemble eels such as we know; and so the matter
rested till 1896, when the guess was confirmed. The little creatures of
which we speak are almost transparent, very flat from side to side; they
have ridiculously tiny heads, and no fins, except a fringe running from
the middle of the back, round the tail, and forwards to the middle of
the under surface of the body. They are so transparent that the spine
and blood-vessels can be plainly seen against the light. Their strange
history was discovered by some scientific men in Italy, who found that
sometimes mighty currents boil up from the depths of the Straits of
Messina, bringing with them samples of the strange inhabitants of those
dark waters, and among these were hundreds of our little fish. Many of
these were quite unhurt, and being placed in an aquarium, throve
wonderfully; wonderfully in a double sense, for it was found that as
they grew older so they grew smaller and smaller. But as they shrank in
size, so they became less transparent and more round. At last this
topsy-turvy growth came to an end, and they started growing bigger
again, and lo! as the days sped on, these strange water-babies slowly
revealed themselves: they were young eels! More than this, they proved
to be nothing less than 'elvers'--long esteemed the daintiest of dishes
by those who prize delicate food.
Thus ends Chapter I. of our story. Chapter II. is scarcely less
interesting. The deep sea is the eel's nursery; not deep sea in the
ordinary sense, but so deep that no light penetrates. Here, in the
stillness and darkness that exceeds that of the darkest night, these
little children of Neptune pass their earliest days. By the time they
have reached the elver stage, they have made their way, guided only by
instinct, from the deep sea to the surface, and thence to the mouths of
rivers; these they ascend in millions, and in their endeavour to get
into fresh water, they have to overcome obstacles such as would deter
most boys and girls. They climb vertical walls and flood-gates, and even
leave the water and wriggle their way overland at night amid the dewy
grass till they come to water again. Such migrations have long been
known as 'Eel-fairs,' and fishermen at this time take them by the ton.
In 1886, for example, more than three tons were taken from the
Gloucester district. Now, it takes upwards of fourteen thousand baby
eels to weigh a pound; how many eels are there in three tons? There is a
sum for you! Those that escape grow up to furnish the 'eel-pies' and
stewed eels which some people find so toothsome. In 1885 the annual
consumption of eels was estimated to be at least one thousand six
hundred and fifty tons, with a total value of 130,000_l._
[Illustration: Eels.]
[Illustration: Stages in Growth of young Eel.]
This story would not be complete without Chapter III. This concerns the
eel's parents, and it is not without a note of sadness. After living
several years in the security of the nice warm mud at the bottom of our
quiet streams, they suddenly become seized with the desire to make their
way to the sea--a journey full of danger, and full of mystery, for since
their ascent as tiny elvers, they have lived apart from the great world
of the ocean, and all that it contains. Now they set out, and fishermen,
knowing well the time of this journey, spread nets along the route into
which thousands rush. Other fish prey on them, and as soon as they reach
salt water their enemies increase a hundredfold. Only a remnant reach
their destination, and then, after having laid their eggs, fall into a
deep sleep from which there is no awakening.
[Illustration: Eel Traps.]
Surely this story is more wonderful than all the yarns of former days,
be they ever so old. Truth _is_ stranger than fiction, and much more
beautiful.
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
[Illustration: The Cooking Lesson.]
MARY'S REWARD.
'Mary, we want to ask a favour.'
'And what is that, Miss May?'
'We want to learn how to cook. Mother said perhaps if we were very good,
you would give us a lesson.'
So said little May, the youngest of the Trevor tribe of boys and girls,
who were now at home for the holidays.
'Well, if the mistress is willing, _I_ am,' replied the good-natured
cook. 'Do the young gentlemen want to learn, too?'
The two boys shook their heads. 'No, no,' cried Guy, the elder; 'too
many cooks spoil the broth!'
Mary soon set the girls to work, with the utmost patience and
good-humour, giving her lesson meanwhile. The boys, in spite of the
laughing remarks which they occasionally made, were immensely
interested; as for the girls, they threw themselves into their task
with such a zest that Mary declared, in time, they would all make
first-rate cooks.
'I don't believe any one but _you_, Mary, would have such patience,'
said Ellen, one of the maids, as she passed through the kitchen.
'Oh, Mary will have her reward one day,' laughed Elsie; 'you see if she
doesn't, Ellen.'
But little did Elsie think, as she said these words, of what Mary's
reward would be.
No one looking into the cook's sunny face would dream that she had any
sorrow hidden in her heart; but it was so. Her dearly loved and only
brother had gone away to sea, many years before, and from that day to
this Mary had never heard a word of him. But so unselfish was she, that
she would not allow her trouble to shadow any one else around her.
In the afternoon the girls wended their way to the neat little
cottage-home where dwelt Mrs. Jones and her children. She was the widow
of a sailor, and so poor that but for Mrs. Trevor's kindness she would
often have been in great straits. Her face looked quite bright as she
welcomed her visitors, and showed them into the back room where she had
been sitting at needlework.
'We have brought you some pastry of our own making,' said Elsie, 'and
some other things besides.'
'Then it's very, very kind of you, Miss,' was the grateful reply. 'I am
well off just now, for I have a lodger for a few days, who pays me
wonderfully well. He is a sailor man--a captain, I believe--and he says
he once knew my husband. The children are in with him now,' went on the
woman; 'he has taken a wonderful fancy to them all.'
Then said little May, who did not know what bashfulness was, 'I wish I
might go and see him, too. I should so like to know if he has ever seen
the island where Robinson Crusoe was wrecked.'
A peal of laughter greeted May's remark, but nevertheless her request
was granted.
Five minutes later she was chatting to the 'sailor man' as if she had
known him all her life.
'What do you think we have been doing this morning?' said little May,
after busily talking about a host of other things.
'I'm sure I don't know, little Missie,' replied the man.
'You would never guess, I am sure--we have been making pastry!'
'Pastry! have you, indeed?' said the pleasant-faced man, with a smile;
'well, now, that's a thing I could never make.'
'We couldn't have done it by ourselves; Mary helped us, you see,' said
truthful May.
'And who is Mary, little Missie, if I may ask?'
'Mary is our cook,' replied the child; 'she is _so_ kind and
good-natured. Her real name is Mary Greymore, and---- '
To May's surprise the sailor started to his feet.
'What!' cried he. 'Greymore, did you say?'
'Yes,' said May, looking startled. 'What's the matter, sailor man?'
'Nothing is the matter,' was the reply, given in a voice deep with
feeling; 'only, if what you say is true, I have found the sister I have
been looking for these many months past.'
Mary's joy at seeing her long-lost brother again was almost beyond
words; as for the Trevor family, they were scarcely less excited than
she.
It was found that James Greymore had been such a wanderer that none of
his sister's letters had ever reached him, and, as Mary herself had long
left her native village, the two had been quite out of touch with one
another.
'It is all through that lesson in pastry-making,' said Kitty, 'that Mary
found her brother. May, very likely, but for that, wouldn't have spoken
of Mary at all.'
'Then I was right,' laughed Elsie. 'I said Mary would have her reward,
and so she has, and well she deserves it, too.' M. I. H.
MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.
III--THE FIRST PUBLIC RAILWAY IN ENGLAND.
[Illustration: Stephenson's Portrait.]
In the middle of the eighteenth century, the Duke of Bridgewater, with
the aid of a great engineer named James Brindley, had increased the
prosperity of Manchester and Liverpool by constructing a canal to convey
merchandise cheaply and easily between them. Enterprising people, seeing
the great advantage of the canal, wished to follow this good example,
and increase the means of carrying goods from one place to another, if
not by canals, by better roads than England possessed at the time.
In different parts of the country it had been found that horses could
drag heavier loads if the wheels of the cart were allowed to run on
rails made of wood or iron. The knowledge of this fact led certain men
connected with the coal-mines of Darlington, in Durham, to propose the
building of a tram-line between their town and that of Stockton-on-Tees.
But when Mr. Edward Pease, who was the leader in the enterprise, sought
to collect money to bear the cost, not twenty people in Stockton would
give him their support. The idea of making a metal road over twelve
miles of country seemed only matter for laughter, and Mr. Pease was told
that he ought not to expect sensible people to spend their money on such
a scheme. So Mr. Pease did without the 'sensible people.'
Application for leave to lay the line was made to Parliament, but was
refused, the principal opponent being the Duke of Cleveland, who said
that the proposed line would go too near one of his fox-covers, and
frighten the foxes away. The application, however, was renewed, and was
reluctantly granted at last.
In the meantime a young man had called on Mr. Pease to offer his
services, and the initial at the head of this article shows his
portrait. The young man's name was George Stephenson. He had had some
experience, he said, in the laying of railways, and Mr. Pease was so
impressed with his honest manner that, in the end, he engaged him on the
great undertaking.
George Stephenson was full of suggestions. He pointed out the kind of
rails that ought to be used: cast-iron rails were the cheapest, he said,
but they could not be relied on, as they often snapped when a heavy load
passed over them; and, though he himself was a maker of cast-iron
metals, he recommended that another kind, called 'malleable,' should be
used. Malleable metal is much tougher than ordinary cast, because, after
being poured into the moulds, it is only allowed to cool very slowly,
and is not exposed to the air until quite cold. But as the expense of
using malleable rails only would be very great, Mr. Pease and his
friends decided to use both kinds of rails.
Another of George Stephenson's suggestions was more than even Mr. Pease
could seriously entertain. In a private conversation the young man
strongly urged that locomotives should be used to drag the coal-trucks
instead of horses!
'If you will only come to Killingworth,' said he, 'I will show you an
engine I made and have been driving in the colliery yard for more than
ten years. It is forty times as strong as a horse, and cheaper in the
end.'
Mr. Pease kindly promised that he would accept this invitation some day,
but nothing had been said about locomotives in the Act of Parliament,
and for the time being things must go on as they were.
The first rail was laid on May 23rd, 1822, and the whole twelve miles of
line were ready for traffic, on September 27th, 1825. Three years doing
twelve miles! That does not seem very fast, but we must remember that
there were rivers to be spanned, and hills to be cut through, and
valleys to be crossed by high embankments. And George Stephenson had
progressed very much more than twelve miles in these three years. He had
taken Mr. Pease to Killingworth, and shown him his engine; he had
convinced him it would travel even faster than a horse, and drag a
heavier load behind it; and he had won a promise that the railroad
between Darlington and Stockton should be opened with a locomotive
driven by steam, though he was made to understand that it was only an
experiment, and no one really expected it to succeed.
On September 27th, therefore, in 1825, crowds of people streamed along
the country roads in the direction of Brusselton, nine miles from
Darlington, to see the beginning of this strange experiment. Some were
interested, most were inclined to laugh, and many had come with the
secret hope of seeing this 'ridiculous engine' blown into a thousand
pieces.
At the bottom of a slope the monster stood, puffing and hissing with
impatience to show these unbelieving people how mistaken they were. It
was a strange-looking machine, quite unlike any of the giants that we
know. A large boiler lay full length between four ornamental iron
wheels. Out of the front end of the boiler rose a tall and ugly
stove-pipe, while _over_ the boiler was a confused collection of rods
and levers communicating with the crank of the big wheels. It was called
the 'Locomotion.' George Stephenson stood ready to drive it as soon as
the trucks, which a stationary engine was lowering down the slope by
means of a wire rope, had been attached to it. In the first of these
trucks came the Directors of the Railway Company and their friends,
followed by twenty-one trucks (all open to the sky, like ordinary
goods-trucks), loaded with various passengers, and finally six more
waggons of coal. Such was the first train. A man on horseback, carrying
a flag, having taken up his position in front of the 'Locomotion' to
head the procession, the starting word was given, and with a hiss of
steam, half drowned in the shouting of the crowd, the first railway
journey ever made in England was begun.
The man on horseback probably stepped aside before Stockton was reached,
for, to the astonishment of everybody, George Stephenson's engine
insisted now and then on travelling at the giddy speed of twelve miles
an hour, though it was sufficiently modest to do most of the distance at
a slower rate. Many trains have travelled since at over seventy miles an
hour, and a good many in England do long distances every day at an
average speed of well over fifty miles an hour.
When the train steamed into Stockton the number of passengers had
greatly increased; they had seized hold of passing carriages, and
secured a foothold as best they could.
After that the 'Locomotion' had a distinguished career. Twenty years
later it had the honour of opening the railway from Middlesborough to
Redcar, and to-day it stands in state on a pedestal in the Bank Top
Station at Darlington.
When Parliament gave permission for Mr. Pease's railway, it was ordered
that any one should have the use of it who liked to pay for the
privilege. Consequently there were soon large numbers who were glad to
avail themselves of the opportunity. Carriers fitted suitable wheels to
their carts, and drove their horses up and down it, while stage-coach
owners offered travellers an easy and comfortable journey on the smooth
metals. When we remember that it was only a single line, with side
openings every quarter of a mile, we can easily understand that there
were frequent quarrels when two vehicles met half-way. Sometimes one of
the opponents would be a puffing engine, and if it happened to be
dragging a load of coal, back it had to go until the siding was reached,
that the plodding horse might pass. To us such a state of things is hard
to imagine, but the railway and it possibilities were not thoroughly
understood at first. Even George Stephenson did not think it would be
very suitable for passenger traffic.
At last the confusion was put an end to by the Company taking entire
command of the line, and turning the quarrelsome competitors off it.
Then prosperity came.
The twelve miles of railway laid down by George Stevenson has grown to
over twenty thousand miles, making about two hundred and fifty miles
every year for eighty years. It is pleasant to know that both Mr. Pease
and his engineer lived to see more than their greatest dreams realised.
JOHN LEA.
[Illustration: The first Railway Journey in England.]
[Illustration: "'What is the matter?' I asked him."]
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By HAROLD ERICSON.
III.--IN THE JAWS OF DEATH.
[Illustration]
'A tiger is my subject to-night,' said Ralph Denison, when his turn came
round again, 'since you said you liked my adventure among the
lion-whelps. I don't know exactly why, but I would always rather deal
with a lion than with a tiger; he seems somehow to appeal to me, as a
fellow-sportsman, more than a tiger does.'
'Hear, hear,' Vandeleur chimed in; 'I quite agree.'
'Though, mind you,' Ralph continued, 'I think the tiger is quite as
plucky, taking him all round.'
'As a rule, yes,' said Vandeleur; 'but I have known lions attack a human
camp at night, and I don't fancy any tiger would do that, so long as
there was a fire burning.'
'Nor a lion either,' laughed Ralph.
'Excuse me, I have known them do it,' said Vandeleur; 'and I will tell
you about it one of these evenings.'
'Get on with your story, Ralph,' growled Bobby; 'arguments are against
the rules.'
Ralph laughed, and proceeded.
* * * * *
I was in India at the time (he said), and stationed at Fuzzanpore,
pretty dull and longing for a change or some sort of excitement to
relieve the monotony of my work, when a letter came from a great friend
of mine, Charlie Eccles, who sent me an invitation which made my mouth
water.
'I'm going on a month's leave,' Charlie wrote, 'shooting; the sport will
be mostly snipe and other small game, but there's a chance of tigers.
Now, I know you are a busy man---- '
Bobby laughed rudely when Ralph quoted these words. 'I say, Ralph, your
friend couldn't really have written that,' he said. '_You_ a busy man! I
can't imagine you ever doing any work!'
Ralph looked offended. 'I should like you to be aware,' he observed,
with much majesty, 'that before my uncle left me the income which I now
enjoy, I worked very hard indeed as a tea-planter.'
'Sorry,' laughed Bobby--'my mistake. You don't look like a chap who has
been overworked; does he, Vandeleur?'
Ralph ignored the jest, and continued his quotation. 'I know you are a
busy man,' he repeated, 'but if you could spare the time, and would join
me, we should have a rare old time. Start next Friday, and be at
Malabad, where I shall meet you, on Monday. Bring as many cartridges as
you can lay hands upon, for we shall have plenty of snipe and partridge,
whether we come across big game or no.' Charlie then gave me a list of
the dâk bungalows at which he might be found at certain dates, in case
I should not be able to start upon the day indicated. I meant to start
on the Friday as he had suggested, but some of our native workmen went
wrong--there was a kind of little mutiny--and I was delayed nearly a
week, assisting my partner to arrange matters. When this had been
satisfactorily settled, I collected my sporting traps and started,
making for the bungalow at which Charlie had intended to put up on the
sixth day of his trip.
When I reached my destination, which was a dâk bungalow, or little house
built by the Government for the accommodation of Britishers travelling
by road between towns which are too far apart to be reached within the
day's journey, I found Charlie Eccles was not yet at home. The two
servants left in charge at the bungalow reported that he had gone
tiger-hunting, a 'bad' tiger having been reported in the district, by
which was meant a man-eater--a beast which had killed and eaten a native
postman and others, and which Charlie, on his arrival, had been implored
to destroy.
The native shikaris or hunters were absent with my friend, I therefore
did the best thing possible under the circumstances--I ordered my lunch,
and sat down to enjoy it.
It was very hot, and I think I had fallen asleep over the cup of coffee
which the servant set before me after my meal, when I was awakened by a
sudden uproar from outside, and, starting up, I went out to see what was
happening. Down the road I saw several straggling natives--every one of
them was running, and every one of them was shouting or crying or
blubbering, or what not.
I walked towards them; as yet I had not thought of possible disaster. I
met the first man, apparently a beater, for he carried a kind of native
drum for striking in the jungle when the tiger is to be moved, and set
afoot for the benefit of the sportsman. 'What is the matter?' I asked
him. 'What are you and these other fellows howling for?'
The man salaamed, and assumed an expression of the greatest misery. 'The
sahib!' he exclaimed; 'the poor sahib--the bad tiger. Alas! how terrible
are the misfortunes that happen in the world!'
'Which sahib? is it Sahib Eccles you speak of? What has happened? Stop
blubbering, fool, and tell me plainly!'
'He is eaten, sahib--killed and eaten; here comes the chief shikari with
the sahib's own rifle--let him tell you.'
The shikari came flying down the road; he saw me and stopped, salaaming
very low. 'Benefactor of the people!' he exclaimed. 'Protector of the
poor! there has been a calamity, sahib; though you have come too late, I
thank the gods that you are here--you can at least find and slay the
accursed beast. Oh, miserable man that I am! My good master, Sahib
Eccles! so young and so brave, and to die in the teeth of such a beast!
oh, woe! woe!'
My heart stood still. Did I dream, or were these men really telling me
the dreadful news that poor Charlie had been killed by a tiger?
I could scarcely speak, but I contrived to return to the verandah of the
bungalow and to sink upon a chair. The shikari had followed me to the
house, lamenting aloud.
'Stop!' I said, angrily. 'Now tell me plainly what has happened.'
The man began his tale. It was to have been a battue, he explained.
Natives had come overnight, hearing that a sahib had arrived. They
reported that a bad tiger had lived for a month in the jungle, close to
the village. It had already killed and eaten three persons, besides
destroying many bullocks belonging to the people. 'Unless the sahib
comes to our assistance and kills the beast, we are lost--we and our
children!' they told him. The Sahib Eccles had been delighted to hear of
the tiger; it was just what he most wanted. 'Are there beaters to be
had?' he asked. Fifty beaters were found in the surrounding district,
but the reputation of the tiger was so bad that all the men and women
were very nervous, and the sahib had laughed when told about them, and
had said that he did not think they would be of much use if they were so
frightened before they went into the jungle.
Nevertheless, the Sahib Eccles chose a tree for himself in a place where
he could see well in many directions, and climbed up into the branches,
and the beaters were placed at a distance around the place where the
tiger was supposed to be lying. The beat began; that is, the natives
shouted and banged their drums, and smote the trees with sticks, and
produced horrible sounds from many different kinds of instruments; but,
almost as soon as the noises began, the tiger suddenly uttered a single,
terrible roar, and (said the shikari) nearly all the beaters immediately
left for home. The beat ended, there were no more weird noises, and
silence fell upon the jungle.
'I was with the Sahib Eccles in his tree,' said the shikari; 'and, first
the sahib was very angry indeed, and then he laughed.
'"We shall do no good up here," he said, "for the tiger will not move
unless he is driven." He had killed a bullock in the night, and was lazy
with much food. "Dare you enter the jungle with me, shikari? You heard
where the beast roared--there or thereabouts we know his position. Shall
we make an attempt to move him, you and I?"
'There were one or two beaters close at hand. They had not dared to run
away because they were in full view of the sahib and of me. "These men
shall help us," said the sahib, "if they dare; they shall walk behind us
and shout."
'"We will try, sahib," I replied; "but he is a dangerous beast and very
crafty."
'"I have two rifles," the sahib said, laughing, "and they are also
dangerous beasts."
'So we two climbed down from the tree and spoke to the beaters, who then
followed us into the jungle, keeping well behind us. They must not
shout, we told them, until told to do so, when we came close to the
place where the tiger had roared.
'Then we moved slowly and cautiously into the jungle, looking this way
and that, the sahib walking in front and I a few yards behind; and,
behold, we had scarcely walked for two minutes when suddenly came three
loud noises, almost simultaneously--first a terrible roar from the
tiger, then the report of the sahib's rifle, then a shriek from the
sahib himself and---- '
The shikari placed his hands before his eyes as though to shut out some
horrible picture, and groaned aloud.
(_Concluded on page 98._)
LONG LIVED.
In certain parts of the African desert, where it is too hot for any
plants to grow, the ground is in places thickly covered with white
snails.
In 1858, a naturalist travelling through this region collected some of
the shells from a spot on which it was believed no rain had fallen for
five years. These snails' shells were packed away and left untouched
until the year 1862, when the naturalist, at home once more, unpacked
his shells and placed them in a basin of water to be cleaned. To his
amazement, a quantity of healthy living snails were found on the
following morning crawling all over his study table!
S. C.
THE ALMOND AND THE RAISIN.
'Twas an Almond and a Raisin
In a dish all silver bright,
A Raisin dusky purple,
And an Almond creamy white.
Said the Raisin to the Almond,
'I was once as full of wine
As a dewdrop is of sunlight,
And a glossy skin was mine.'
Said the Almond to the Raisin,
'And I've a tale to tell--
I was born inside a flower,
And I lived within a shell.'
Said the Raisin to the Almond,
'We are both from Southern lands,
And we came once more together,
Having fallen in English hands.
'Don't you think we ought to marry?
I am sure 'twould be as well,
Though I have lost my juices
And you have lost your shell.'
Said the Almond to the Raisin,
'It is my dearest wish.'
* * * * *
That is why you always find them
Side by side within the dish.
F. W. H.
FAITHFUL TO DUTY.
A gatekeeper on one of the German railways kept a goat, and one day,
when his wife was ill, he went himself to milk it. But it would not
allow him to come near it, as it had not been accustomed to any one but
its mistress. At last he determined to put on his wife's clothes, and
this plan succeeded admirably. But he had not time to take off his
disguise before he heard a train approaching. He ran out at once, just
as he was, and opened the gate, but his appearance caused the passengers
to think that he was mad. The case was reported, and an inquiry was
made, but on the truth being known, the gatekeeper was praised for his
faithful discharge of duty.
H. B. S.
[Illustration: "He ran out just as he was."]
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
III.--THE CAPTURE OF BUENOS AYRES.
The long sea voyage was over at last, and the Expedition which had set
sail from England in the previous autumn cast anchor in the bay outside
Buenos Ayres on the 26th of May, 1806.
[Illustration: "He seized one of the ladders."]
This city, the capture of which was the object of the Expedition, lay
very dimly outlined in the western horizon, for the sea was too shallow
to allow the larger vessels to approach within six or seven miles of the
shore, and even when the troops had landed, three miles or more of a
perfectly flat plain would have to be traversed before they could arrive
at the city itself.
'Will the Spaniards fight, do you think?' asked Gerald Anstey, a young
ensign of marines, as he stood on the deck of H.M.S. _Narcissus_, and
strained his eyes towards the direction of Buenos Ayres.
'I expect so,' answered a brother-officer who was by his side. 'But
hallo, Anstey! here is the General's orderly--what is up, I wonder?'
A trim private advanced towards Anstey, and said respectfully: 'The
General wishes to see you in his cabin, sir.'
'The General! To see _me!_' ejaculated Anstey, turning to his friend in
utter amazement. 'What can he want with me?'
'To consult you as to the best manner of landing the troops, perhaps,'
laughed his friend, for Anstey was the youngest ensign in the regiment.
'But you had better make haste and present yourself, for Sir Popham
Horne is not the man to be kept waiting.'
Anstey hurried away. On entering the General's cabin he saluted, and
then waited to receive the orders of his commanding officer.
'Mr. Anstey,' said the General, looking up, 'I have sent for you, as
junior officer, as I wish you, immediately on landing, to proceed to the
Governor of Buenos Ayres and give him these dispatches, proposing to him
the unconditional surrender of the town, as I am anxious to prevent
useless shedding of blood. You will take a corporal and two men with you
as guard, and of course a flag of truce, and I hope you may be
successful in your mission.'
'I will do my best, sir,' said Anstey, quietly. Then the General
returned to his map, and the young man left the cabin.
Meanwhile, the preparations for landing were being rapidly proceeded
with, and some twenty-four hours later men and guns were all safely
landed on the sandy shore, and all eager to march towards the city.
First of all, however, they had to wait for the return of Anstey, and
hear whether his terms had been accepted by the Spanish Governor.
Towards sunset the young ensign came back, and great was the excitement
among the whole force on hearing that the Governor had refused the terms
offered by the British General, and that the march towards Buenos Ayres
was to begin at dawn on the following day.
It seemed as if this march would present no great difficulty either to
men or guns, as the plain to be traversed was an immense flat, green
meadow, which promised an easy road for the cannon. But the 'green
meadow,' which proved so satisfactory at first, became softer and looser
as they got further inland, and finally it ended in a treacherous bog,
which threatened to engulf both men and guns; and to make matters worse,
the enemy, entrenched behind some trees at the little village of
Reduction, a mile or so away, now opened fire on our troops, as they
struggled to get across the morass.
It was soon evident that progress in that direction was an
impossibility, and very reluctantly the General gave the order to
retreat. But it was almost as impossible to retreat as to advance, for
the ground, trodden by the feet of so many men and horses, was now but
pulpy mud, in which the gun-carriages sank to their axles.
A British force, however, is not easily discouraged, and the men of all
ranks worked with almost super-human energy, till at last the whole
army had once more a footing on firm ground.
The General had been invaluable at this crisis; he was here, there, and
everywhere where the difficulties were greatest, and was one of the last
men to leave the morass, having insisted on seeing all the force safely
over. He was then riding alongside the rearguard when his horse
staggered, recovered itself for a moment, and then sank with the General
heavily into the morass.
'All right! all right!' he called out cheerily to an officer who ran to
his assistance; 'I am not hurt in the least.' The next minute, however,
he called out in a very different voice, 'Help! help! I am sinking!'
It was indeed true! He had fallen on to a bad patch of marsh. The morass
seemed now to be rapidly changing into a quicksand, in which the General
and his horse who had gone to his assistance were gradually sinking.
Other men were about to rush in, when they were stopped by the loud
tones of Anstey. 'Stop! stop!' he cried energetically. 'You can do no
good rushing in like that, you will only get engulfed yourselves. I know
these bogs--I have lived in Ireland.'
As he spoke he had seized one of the ladders which were fortunately
carried with the force in case they should be wanted for scaling, and
holding this out across the oozy patch, he let the General support
himself by it for a moment. Then he laid the ladder flat, and crept
along it till he reached the still sinking man: he caught him by the arm
at once, and started to haul him out. Anstey's strength was well known
in the regiment, and perhaps he was the only man who could have dragged
out the General by sheer force of arm, but he did it somehow, and the
cheers of the men simply rent the air as they saw their loved commander
safe once more.
'Thank you, my lad,' said the General simply, as soon as he was on the
ladder; 'you saved me from an ugly death. I shall not forget you.'
Nor did he. Later in the day Buenos Ayres was captured, with but slight
loss to the British. Four thousand Spanish cavalry fled away inland,
leaving the artillery and all the treasures of the city to be the spoil
of the army, and that same evening Anstey was once more summoned before
the General, and told that to him would be entrusted the honour of
conducting to London the precious stones and jewels and the other
treasures found in the city coffers.
On September 20th of the same year a strange procession might have been
seen passing along Pall Mall to the Bank of England. First of all came
eight waggons loaded with gold and precious stones, each waggon being
preceded by a Jack Tar carrying a flag with the word 'Treasure' on it.
Then came the field-pieces and the Spanish colours captured at Buenos
Ayres, and last of all rode Gerald Anstey--the proud guardian of these
valuable trophies.
The jewels, stones, and boxes, containing over a million dollars, were
deposited at the Bank of England, and the colours and field-pieces were
taken to the Tower of London, where those interested in such matters may
still see them.
History, however, compels us to state that the capture of Buenos Ayres
was but a short-lived triumph, as it was wrested from us in the
following year.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 75._)
Having secured the turret door to prevent interruption, Alan drew
Marjorie to the settle, and began the story of his adventure in the
wood: how he had discovered the secret passage from the cliff into the
great cave; how he had lingered that very morning near the old ruined
summer-house, and heard Thomas and the other man talking; and how he had
seen Peet leave the ruin.
'Now it comes to this,' he wound up. 'Thomas is up to some fishy thing
or other, bribed by a greater villain than himself. The question is,
what _is_ he up to? Can you guess?'
'If it was burglary,' said Marjorie, sagely, 'what could they possibly
want in the ruined summer-house? I have never been into it, but I can't
fancy anything of value can be kept there.'
'Yet those two men were hunting just now for the cellar door that led to
it.'
'So they were.'
Marjorie sat silent, thinking the problem out. Alan did not interrupt
her, so great was his faith in his sister. She often hit on the right
clue when they were puzzled over things, and he felt that, even if she
could not do so in the present case, it would be a great comfort to be
able to talk over each new discovery with her, and have her help when he
needed it.
'One thing struck me,' said Marjorie at last. 'When there was that fuss
about the summer-house door being open, do you remember how anxious
Thomas was to get in? Did you see what a cross look he had all the time
Peet was speaking? It was just as if he hated Peet. I wonder if he wants
to do him some injury?'
'Hu-um,' pondered Alan, taking in the new idea slowly; 'no one can like
that surly old Peet, but doing him an injury is another thing. I expect
you have the right end of the thread, but what is it going to lead to?
Has Peet anything valuable in the ruin? And if he has--and it seems as
if he must have--how can I find out what it is, or where it is? I
dislike him, in spite of Aunt Betty calling him a rough diamond; but of
course I wouldn't see him robbed or cheated.'
'I should think not, nor anybody else either. But what do you think we
ought to do? Why not tell Father about it, and ask him to keep the
secret till something turns up? He would find out at once what Peet has
in the summer-house.'
But Alan, always inclined to be rather selfish and wilful, thought this
would spoil the fun of discovering it themselves, and would not listen
to the proposal for an instant.
'We will make a thorough examination of the ruin outside first,' he
began; 'that is, as soon as this weather will let us. The whole place
will be dripping for a day or two, but I don't mind that.'
A sudden outburst of barks and yelps, accompanied by a clamour of
voices, came up from below. Running to the window, they caught sight of
the cause of the shouts and howls. The dogs were being led back to their
kennels, and as they were in a savage mood, the men were persuading or
forcing them on. To the amazement of the brother and sister, Thomas was
with the party, apparently as completely at home as if he had never fled
from the hounds.
'I say!' exclaimed Alan; 'I wonder how he managed that?'
'I know,' said Marjorie; 'he probably told them he was running after the
other man, but could not catch him. You see the other one isn't there. I
expect it was the only way of preventing the servants and dogs going
into the room where they took refuge.'
And this is exactly what had occurred. Alan, much impressed with this
version of the affair, sprang up, declaring he must go down and hear how
it was that the dogs were loose, and had got upon the man's track.
Off he rushed, leaving Marjorie to go downstairs and see how Estelle
was. She found Miss Leigh had been looking for her for a long time, and
was not in the best of tempers in consequence. Estelle was better, but
the doctor desired she should be kept in bed for the remainder of that
day, and not run about much for a day or two. No one could understand
the cause of the fainting fit, and Marjorie was called upon to explain
what they had been doing. They had been playing in the passages, she
said, and were on the tower stairs when the dogs burst in. Estelle was
frightened, and had rushed into the corridor, and when Marjorie and Alan
followed her, she was found lying on the floor. It all sounded very
simple. But Marjorie felt very mean and uneasy about the concealment;
she felt that it was as bad as telling a lie, and only her promise to
Alan, rashly given, kept her from disclosing everything.
'The whole business is most mysterious,' said Colonel De Bohun, in a
tone of annoyance. 'How it came about that there was a strange man--a
tramp, I suppose--wandering so near the house, I cannot imagine. Thomas
saw him, and so did James, most luckily; and Thomas was wise enough to
give chase at once, but the rascal seems to have escaped him. He was a
nimble sort of a fellow, James says, and it seems that the moment the
grooms got wind of it, they let the dogs loose. Lucky none of them were
hurt.'
'So this was the way Thomas managed!' thought Marjorie. 'What a sharp
fellow he is! Oh, if Father only knew!'
'Has the man gone?' asked Lady Coke, anxiously.
'I should think so. We can't find him, at all events. He knows all the
men are on the alert, so I think you are safe, I will remain here if you
are nervous.'
It was considered better that he should remain, Lady Coke being old and
very frail in spite of her activity and energy of character. Miss Leigh
was to take the children home, and explain all that had occurred to Mrs.
De Bohun, who was laid up with a cold.
(_Continued on page 94._)
[Illustration: "Alan began the story of his adventure."]
[Illustration: "The luckless fugitives were dragged forth."]
STORIES FROM AFRICA.
III.--THE STORY OF A CAPTIVE.
'Captive among the Moors.' These words used once to account for many a
sad gap in the families of southern Europe. We, in these days, can
hardly realise the dread in which those pirate vessels were held for
hundreds of years, and we find it difficult to believe that not a
century ago Christian captives were wearing out their lives in suffering
and exile, and the bitterness of hope deferred, in the Moorish
stronghold of Algiers.
And it seemed specially hard when a company of Spanish soldiers, who had
done great things in the sea fight at Lepanto, were attacked on their
homeward journey and carried captive by the very infidels they had so
lately conquered.
Arrived at the port of Algiers, the prisoners were awarded to different
masters, the poorer ones, from whose friends there was little hope of
ransom, being set to the hardest tasks and often cruelly ill-treated,
while those of higher rank had an easier service, unless, indeed, the
captors considered that the report of their sufferings might bring money
to redeem them. The only means of escape from slavery was to embrace the
Mohammedan religion, and the renegades who denied their faith often
became the most cruel persecutors of their countrymen.
There were two brothers among these Spanish soldiers, sons of a poor
though well-born gentleman of Alcara. The younger of these was to make
his name, Miguel de Cervantes, famous throughout the world. He had
distinguished himself in the wars, and had lost the use of his left hand
'for the greater glory of the right,' as he was wont to say in his
joking fashion. But a letter from his great leader, Don John of Austria,
which was found about him, convinced his captors that he was a person of
importance, and his ransom was fixed at a sum which he knew his father
could never pay. After a while, however, his family, by tremendous
efforts, scraped together a sum sufficient for the redemption of one
brother, and Roderigo, the elder, returned to Spain, Miguel remaining to
endure five years' captivity which would have broken any spirit less
gallant than his.
The captives dwelt in cells opening upon an oblong courtyard; they were
all Christians, and they had at least the comfort of their own services
held in one of the little chambers, which was set apart as a church.
'How good it is in this place to say "Our Father which art in Heaven,"'
Cervantes makes a little captive boy say in the drama in which he
afterwards describes his life in Algiers, and we can see there how the
suffering of the children went to the heart of the gallant soldier, who
encouraged many a tempted little one to hold firm to his faith. And now
and then a strange sight would be seen in the prisoners' quarters,
nothing less than a play in rhyme acted by some of the captives, and
stage-managed (as we should call it) by Cervantes, who had invented this
device to turn the thoughts of his companions for a little while from
the miseries of their lot.
But this high-spirited prisoner was not content with merely enlivening
his own and his friends' captivity--day and night that active brain of
his was plotting escape. One attempt to get away by land failed at once,
but with him a failure only meant a fresh start, and he was soon at work
again with those bold enough to join him. A slave named Juan, gardener
to Hassan Pasha, the Viceroy of Algiers, was induced to contrive a
hiding-place in his master's grounds where any of the captives who could
contrive to escape so far might conceal themselves until the arrival of
a friendly boat on the coast. A cave was hollowed out, all unsuspected
by the owner of the garden, large enough to contain fourteen men, and
thither one after another of the Christian slaves contrived to make his
way. From February to September fugitives were hiding there, fed by
stealth by the contrivance of Cervantes, who succeeded in sending
information to some of the vessels visiting the port either with
merchandise or to treat for the ransom of prisoners.
All had been carefully arranged for the escape, the hour was almost
come, when some one proved false: the story leaked out. The prisoners in
Hassan's garden, so near, as they believed, to the end of their long
waiting, were startled by footsteps and voices breaking the stillness of
the warm African night; lights flashed at the mouth of the cave, and
with shouts of triumph and threats of horrible penalties the luckless
fugitives were dragged forth. But one man stood forward in front of the
trembling, despairing group.
'I am the author of the scheme,' cried Cervantes, 'I devised it, I
carried it out; on me be the blame; take me before Hassan.'
So before Hassan the intrepid soldier was dragged, heavily manacled and
with a halter about his neck. He faced the Viceroy, who was a renegade
and a bloodthirsty tyrant, with the same cool, smiling courage with
which in the Gulf of Lepanto he had faced the Turkish guns. Once more he
repeated his statement that the whole scheme was his; his comrades had
but followed his lead, and the penalty was due to him alone.
Why Hassan spared his life it would be hard to say. Scores of men in his
position had died by the most cruel tortures for a less offence, while
he was only threatened, and kept for a while in chains. Possibly Hassan
felt that such a man must surely be ransomed sooner or later, and spared
him in hopes of gain. He is said to have remarked, 'If I could keep hold
of that maimed Spaniard, I should be sure of my slaves, my ships, and my
whole city.'
Nor was he much mistaken, for Cervantes, while the chains were still
upon his limbs, was busy with new plots. One more attempt at escape
failed through treachery, and the indomitable prisoner conceived a yet
more daring project, and contrived to appeal to the King of Spain,
begging for armed help, and promising a revolt of the whole slave
population. The thing might well have been carried out, for there were
something like twenty thousand Christian captives in Algiers, but, alas!
King Philip was too busy quarrelling with his neighbours in Portugal to
win himself the honour of crushing the pirate city which was the scourge
of all Christendom.
And then at last arrived in Algiers Father Juan Gil, a good monk, whose
work it was to collect and carry to Africa the ransom money for some of
the captives, and with him he brought three hundred ducats, scraped
together with sore pains and privations by the mother and sister of
Cervantes, to purchase his freedom. Hassan, however, would have none of
such a paltry sum; even when it was increased to five hundred he
demanded double the amount, and as his viceroyalty in Algiers was just
over, he declared his intention of taking the Spanish slave with him to
Constantinople.
So good Father Juan, feeling that it was now or never, went from one to
another of the merchants trading along the coast, and, begging and
borrowing right and left, made up the required sum. On the very day
fixed for the Viceroy's departure, the good Father bore the ransom in
triumph to Hassan, and Miguel de Cervantes was a free man. He carried
back with him to Spain the love and gratitude of many a fellow-sufferer,
and I think that much of the kindly humour, the hopeful courage and
patience with other people's follies, which has made the author of _Don
Quixote_ the friend of the whole world, must have been learned in the
hard school of his Moorish captivity.
MARY H. DEBENHAM.
A PINCUSHION FACTORY.
May and Ada were thinking. That is how they would have described their
long fit of silence one Saturday afternoon. They were alone in the room
which did duty for dining-room, schoolroom, and everything else; but
they were quite used to being left to themselves. Mother and Jane had
always lots to do, and the little girls were often troubled about this,
and talked of the time when they would be able to help.
'May, I have thought,' cried Ada, suddenly.
'Have you?' said May, slowly. 'I haven't. But you're always quicker than
I am, Ada.'
'Well, I have thought. I am sure Grannie and Grandfather would come and
live with us always if Mother had more money.'
'Oh! I know that part,' cried her sister. 'That's what we started to
think about.'
'Don't be in such a hurry,' said Ada, reprovingly. 'We want to get the
money. Well, you know the dear little pincushions we made for Aunt
Ellen's bazaar, and how she said they were sold directly?'
'Of course I do, but---- '
'Well, let's make lots of them, and go out and sell them. I know we
shall have to make lots and lots, but they won't take long to sell, and
then we shall have plenty of money for Mother. Perhaps she would get
another Jane, too, then she wouldn't have so much to do. Well?' and Ada
stopped, a little breathlessly, and waited for her sister to say
something.
'It sounds quite splendid,' said May; 'but do you think that Mother
would like us to sell for ourselves? The bazaar seems different.'
'But we mustn't tell her,' cried Ada. 'The surprise will be the best
part. Think how pleased she will be! She's always glad when we do
something for her when she doesn't expect it. I am sure it is the very
thing. I was thinking hard for ever such a long time, but nothing else
would do. We are too small to go out and work to get money---- '
'And Mother couldn't spare us,' cried May. 'Besides, you forget our
lessons.'
'And we do not knit very well yet. At least we could never finish a sock
unless Mother helped us, and then she would know. But, May, hadn't you
thought at all?'
'I am afraid I hadn't, and I did try so hard. But that doesn't matter,'
said May, who was accustomed to follow her younger sister's lead. 'Let's
start making directly, Ada. Have we any bits of silk left?'
'Plenty; and I've got some cards cut. We can get one or two done before
tea.' And the two little girls were soon as silent over their work as
they had been over their 'thinking.'
For the next few weeks they were continually to be seen cutting circles
out of old postcards, covering them with silks, and sewing them
together. Mother teased them sometimes about their 'Pincushion Factory,'
but she was glad to see them happy and busy, especially as spring was
coming in 'like a lion,' with day after day of gales and storms, which
made walks impossible. Jane was rather inquisitive about their doings,
and a little hurt at not knowing their secret. She was accustomed to be
told all about their 'thinking,' and to have a share in all the
wonderful plans that Ada invented and May followed; but neither of the
sisters would explain why so many pocket pincushions were wanted all at
once. 'It isn't another bazaar,' said Jane, to herself, 'or Mistress
would have told me. It's just some new fad Miss Ada's got hold of. I
dare say it's all right. They are as good as gold, those two, and the
pincushions can mean no harm.'
'Three dozen exactly,' said Ada, one bright Saturday morning, 'and every
colour that any one could want. We shall make a lot of money! We must
begin selling them to-day, May.'
'Must we?' said May, rather dubiously. Somehow that part of the business
did not quite please her. She had been glad that the stock took so long
to accumulate, and that the business of selling did not begin at once.
'Yes, indeed. We're going to the baker's for Mother this morning. She
said we might, because Jane's too busy. So we will take some out with
us. Aunt Ellen got sixpence each for hers at the bazaar.'
'But can we?' said May. 'Let's ask threepence. They are very small, you
know. How many will your pocket hold, Ada?'
Two little girls left Grove Villa an hour later. They were neatly
dressed in dark blue, with a bright red ribbon round their sailor-hats,
and there was a spot of bright colour on each of the four cheeks,
telling of the excitement in the little minds. Ada was eager to begin,
but May almost hoped that no likely buyers would be met with.
'Shall we ask the baker?' she whispered, as they drew near his shop.
'No, I don't think so,' said Ada, uncertainly. 'I don't quite know, but
I don't believe that a baker wants pocket pincushions. I would rather
ask some one who doesn't know us. Gentlemen are best because they have
waistcoat pockets to slip them into.'
[Illustration: "'Please, sir, will you--would you buy a pincushion?'"]
But there are not many gentlemen to be seen in a London suburb in the
morning on Saturday, or any other week-day, and the sisters had walked
farther down the High Road than they imagined before a likely buyer came
in sight.
[Illustration: "I held a long stick for him to hook on."]
'There's a gentleman,' said May, in a very shaky voice. 'You ask him,
Ada--you.'
'Please, sir, will you--would you buy a pincushion?' stammered Ada. The
pincushion factory was all very well, but the selling part did not seem
so pleasant, now that she had come to the point.
'And what should I want with a pincushion?' said some one far above
their heads, so gruffly that Ada longed to run away, and May, somehow,
found that tears were very near.
'And what may you be doing here alone with your pincushions?' went on
this terrible voice; but it was not so gruff this time. There was
something in it which they thought they had heard before. Looking up,
who should it be but their father's Irish friend, Mr. O'Brien, whom they
were trying to capture for their first customer!
'Oh!' cried Ada, 'it's you!' and the whole story came tumbling out in
such a confused way that Mr. O'Brien had nearly taken them back to Grove
Villa before he quite understood it.
Mother, too, was very much puzzled. 'No, I don't say it was naughty, my
dears, but you had better not have surprises out of doors again,' she
said. 'But what made you think of it at all, Ada?'
'But Grannie and Grandfather could live here if they wanted to, only the
country is better for them,' she explained, when the little girls had
told her the reason of their 'factory.' 'Yes, you do hear me say we
can't afford things, but they are things we don't really need. You
always have all you want, don't you? Don't worry your little heads about
money, then, and promise me one thing--never to go a step farther than I
send you when you go out alone! You might have been lost if Mr. O'Brien
hadn't met you!'
'Indeed we will not, Mother darling!' cried the two in one breath.
'And I think,' said May, soberly, 'we will tell Jane or somebody about
our next surprise, and then we shall know whether it is all right.'
E. S. S.
THE SLOTH.
Waterton, the famous naturalist, has told us concerning his doings with
a sloth when he was going through a forest near the River Essequibo. He
says: 'I saw a large sloth on the ground upon the bank. How he had got
there nobody could tell. My Indian said he had never surprised a sloth
in such a situation before. He could hardly have come there to drink,
for both above and below the place the branches of the trees touched the
water, and afforded him an easy and safe access to it. Be this as it
may, though the trees were not above twenty yards from him, he could not
make his way through the sand in time to escape before we landed. As
soon as we came up to him, he threw himself on his back, and defended
himself with his legs.
'"Come, poor fellow," said I to him, "if thou hast got into a hobble
to-day, thou shalt not suffer for it. I will take no advantage of thee
in misfortune. The forest is large enough both for thee and me to rove
in. Go thy way alive and enjoy thyself in the wilds; it is probable thou
wilt never have another interview with man, so fare thee well!"
'After this I took up a long stick which was lying there, held it for
him to hook on, and then conveyed him to a high and stately tree. He
ascended with wonderful rapidity, and in about a minute he was almost at
the top. He now went off in a side direction, and caught hold of the
branch of a neighbouring tree; next he went towards the heart of the
forest. I stood looking on, amazed at his singular mode of progress. I
was going to add that I never saw a sloth take to his heels in such
earnest, but the expression will not do, for the sloth has no heels.'
The Indians of Guiana declare that the sloth travels chiefly when the
wind blows. During calm weather the animal is still, but if a breeze
rises, the branches of the trees generally become interwoven, and he can
pursue his journey safely from branch to branch. Should a wind blow, as
it often does, after ten o'clock in the morning till sunset, a sloth
will manage a good distance without resting.
Seldom, unless perhaps by accident, is a sloth seen upon the ground.
There its movements do seem laborious and painful. Its home is amongst
trees, and its favourite position not on, but under, the branches. Off
the trees it obtains the various insects which are its food, and escapes
the danger of being seized by most beasts of prey. When the sloth is at
rest under a branch, it has been noticed to make a sort of purring
sound, expressing pleasure, though at times one is heard uttering a
plaintive shriek, possibly telling of discontent.
The head of the sloth is small and round. It is well clothed with shaggy
hair, and the fore-legs are long and strong. While quite young, the
little sloth is carried about by its mother.
THE NIGHT BEFORE MY BIRTHDAY.
The longest night--so people say--
Follows the short December day;
And if by hours you count the night,
Then surely what they say is right.
But years, and years, and years ago,
When I was very young, you know,
The longest night, I'm bound to say,
Followed the shortest month's last day.
_That_ night I always lay awake,
And longed to see the morning break,
And sunshine through the window burst,
For I was born on March the First.
I heard the big clock--stiff and stark--
Sedately ticking in the dark,
And when I murmured: 'Hurry, _do_!'
It made reply by chiming 'Two.'
And on from hour to hour it seemed
I dozed, I waked, I thought and dreamed
Of pleasures mine--an endless sum--
If March the First would ever come.
And yet the morning's earliest peep
Would always find me fast asleep:
So fast asleep that at my door
They called and called me o'er and o'er.
So, since that time I've learned, my dear,
The longest night in all the year
Is that on which we lie awake,
Impatient for the dawn to break.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 87._)