'Where's Estelle?' cried Alan, bursting into the schoolroom at the Moat
House a few days later. 'I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle, for startling you
like that, but I thought Estelle was sure to be here.'
'She has gone to the Bridge House,' answered Mademoiselle, with an
indulgent smile.
She was quite prepared for any amount of interruption and noise during
the holidays, since Alan always brought a lively, breezy air with him,
in his delight at being home again, and free from school work.
'Estelle is taking some grapes and roses to Dick Peet,' continued
Mademoiselle. 'He seemed very weak and poorly when we passed yesterday,
and she has so wanted to do something for him. He's a sad wreck, poor
fellow!'
'Poor chap! It's hard lines on him. I will cut down and catch Estelle
before she leaves the Bridge House.'
He was off, and Mademoiselle heard his fleet steps in the corridor a
moment. Then she saw him going at full speed down the drive, so brimming
over with health and spirits, so keen in the enjoyment of life and
activity, with a future before him so rose-coloured and fortunate, that
she could not but contrast him with that poor broken specimen of
humanity, Richard Peet, the gardener's son. A contrast to him, indeed,
were the children as they stood together in the little garden at the
Bridge House. Dick, seated in his armchair, was looking at them in his
peaceful, half-sleepy way. A handsome fellow he must have been in the
days of health and prosperity. Even now, though he was paralysed in
brain as well as in limbs, there was a wonderful expression of goodness
and patience in his worn face.
'Are you well to-day?' asked little Georgie, putting his hand on the
invalid's knee, and looking up into his face with his blue eyes full of
childish sympathy.
Dick smiled. Getting better every day,' replied he, in the indistinct
accents of the partially paralysed.
Estelle was arranging her flowers on the little table at his side, and
Marjorie had gone to speak to Mrs. Peet.
The house was close to the old drawbridge, and its garden sloped down to
the waters of the moat. Shining like silver in the bright sunshine, the
waterlilies were resting on their broad leaves, and two swans were
sailing in stately beauty. The summer sun had banished all signs of the
thunderstorm, and Dick's chair had been placed near the elms overhanging
the water. It was a pretty, well-kept garden, and a very old-world
house, with a deep porch, overgrown with honeysuckle and clematis--a
home not to be despised by any one. The rooms were of good size and well
furnished, and everything had been done which could make Dick happy and
comfortable in his misfortune.
'Better!' said Mrs. Peet, who came down the lawn with Marjorie, and had
heard Dick's reply to Georgie's question, 'It's not the sort of getting
better that _we_ understand. He is a bit weaker, if anything. Perhaps
'tis the heat tries him. My poor Dick!' she went on, putting her apron
to her eyes, 'he will never be better in this world, that's what I says,
though it does make his father angry.'
'Is he angry?' said Estelle. 'Why?
'He thinks it is hard on us, is poor Dick's illness. It _is_ hard! But
it seems to me we have much to be thankful for, specially in my lady's
goodness to us in our affliction.'
'I think it's worse for Dick than for any one else,' declared Alan, who
had joined the group; he could not imagine a more terrible life than the
one of utter helplessness to which Dick was condemned.
'So it is,' returned Mrs. Peet, with a heavy sigh, as she gazed at her
son with tears in her eyes, 'and he is so patient! Why, you never so
much as hear a grumble, nor a fret! Now, what do you think his great
wish is--what he is always wanting, miss?'
'If it is anything we can do---- ' began Marjorie.
'That it isn't, miss, nor nobody else. He wants some news of the man
what done him the mischief. Dick's that soft. And--and, well, he is an
angel. His father don't understand it, but Dick has really forgiven that
man. He's downright anxious to hear how that rascal's been getting on.'
'Why should he care about that?' said Alan, who knew very little of
Dick's story.
'He's afraid that the man thinks he's killed him, and that perhaps he's
made wickeder than he was before,' answered Mrs. Peet, shaking her head.
'He said he'd die satisfied if he could hear that the fellow had
repented.'
'Perhaps he will some day,' said Estelle, looking with pity at Dick's
face.
''Tisn't likely, Miss. We shall never be likely to meet Dick's enemy;
don't you believe it! But it pleases him to think he will, so I don't
gainsay him.'
'I shall hope he will,' returned Estelle, as her cousins made a move to
go back to the gardens.
The children were to have tea on the lawn with Lady Coke, and they could
see preparations even now being made for it. They did not often have
such a treat: Lady Coke, sweet and loving as she always was to her
great-nephews and nieces, was too old and delicate to indulge in their
companionship for very long at a time. The children were on their
quietest behaviour with her, but the little voices tired her
unconsciously, and she would not spare herself while they were with her.
Lord Lynwood, Estelle's father, and Colonel De Bohun were brothers and
nephews to Lady Coke, while Mrs. De Bohun was the niece of Sir Horace
Coke, Lady Coke's husband, who had died many years ago. This close
relationship on both sides, and the nearness of the two properties, made
the two households almost like one. Colonel and Mrs. De Bohun were
deeply attached to their aunt, and glad to take counsel with her in the
bringing up of their children. Lady Coke, in her turn, was very
dependent upon them for companionship, her own sons being away on
foreign service.
A merry party the children made. The laughter and chatter were as free
and happy as Aunt Betty loved to hear it. The adventure in the tower
appeared to interest them more than anything else, and very wild were
the guesses as to what the man could have wanted. But when Aunt Betty
ventured to express some admiration for Thomas' bravery, to her
astonishment she was met by silence on the part of the two greatest
talkers, Alan and Marjorie. The latter almost at once turned the subject
by asking how Aunt Betty supposed the man managed to escape. Aunt Betty
had no ideas to suggest. Alan frowned at Marjorie, but she went on quite
serenely.
'Do you know, Auntie, what the summer-house contains? Peet keeps the
place locked up as if he had something of value there. I wish you would
let us go and see. Father says it is dangerous because of the falling of
stones from the roof, but if it is safe for Peet, and the stones don't
crash down on his head, why should they on ours?'
'I think it would be a good lesson if they did knock him over for once,'
said Alan, grimly.
'I know he is trying at times,' said Lady Coke, in her soft, gentle
voice, 'but he is a sterling old man all the same, and it is a pity you
cannot let him alone.'
'He won't let us alone, Aunt Betty,' said Alan, 'and he is cheeky too. I
suppose we do worry him a bit,' he added, as recollections came to him
of the havoc made with the tidy paths, or the injury to shrubs when
hunting for lost balls after games of tennis.
'We went to see Dick just now,' said Estelle, 'and oh, Auntie, what a
dreadful thing it seems that he should have become like that! Mrs. Peet
told us a little about him, and how good he is.'
'Perhaps,' answered Lady Coke, 'you would all feel more kindly towards
Peet if I were to tell you how sadly he has suffered. Almost as much as
his son, only in another way.'
(_Continued on page 102._)
[Illustration: "'Are you well to-day?' asked Georgie."]
[Illustration: "Charlie Eccles half lay, half sat upon the ground."]
ROUND THE CAMP FIRE.
III.--IN THE JAWS OF DEATH.
(_Concluded from page 83._)
'I waited a moment (continued Denison) in order to give the shikari time
to recover himself. I can tell you that I was not feeling at that moment
much more cheerful than the poor fellow himself, who had evidently
witnessed some terrible calamity to my poor friend, Charlie Eccles. I
waited on tenterhooks; then I could bear the suspense no longer.'
'Did the tiger then spring upon the Sahib and kill him?' I faltered.
'Where is the Sahib's body?'
'Alas!' said the shikari, 'who can tell! Listen, Protector of the Poor.
The Sahib Eccles shrieked, for the great yellow beast--may he lead a
life of pain!--sprang upon him, as you say. The Sahib's bullet had
struck but not killed him. He bore the Sahib to the earth, and lay for a
moment upon him, the Sahib crying out once and twice again. With the
Sahib's second gun I fired into the body of the beast, but whether I hit
him or not I cannot say, for all was confusion and dust and terror, and
also there was the fear lest the bullet should strike the Sahib. Then,
in a moment, the tiger had disappeared, and the Sahib also. There was
none to see, for these other men, the beaters, had quickly taken flight
at the sound of the roar of the tiger, and, as for me, I must confess
that, for a moment, after shooting at the beast, I turned my back upon
the animal, fearing lest he should now fall upon me. When I looked
again--it was but a few seconds later--both tiger and Sahib had, as I
say, disappeared; therefore I made no doubt that the savage brute seized
the Sahib Eccles and carried him into the jungle. Alas! there is no
doubt that he is dead. This is an evil tiger, an eater of men. There is
no hope that the poor Sahib is still alive.'
I listened to the shikari's narrative in speechless horror. It was
difficult to realise that he had spoken of Charlie Eccles, my old school
friend; that this tale he had just told me was of Charlie's death; and
that his death had happened within an hour or so, and might have been
prevented if I had arrived but a single day, or even half a day,
earlier.
'Shikari, this is a dreadful tale you have told me,' I groaned. 'If you
have told me the truth, and not lied in order to hide your own
cowardice, the Sahib Eccles is probably dead. This, however, must be
ascertained immediately, and his body must be found and brought in. You
will guide me at once to the spot, and we shall follow upon the tiger's
tracks.'
'Into the jungle, Sahib!' exclaimed the shikari. 'Upon the track of a
wounded tiger! Then we are lost men, both of us.'
'At any rate, if you are a coward, and dare not help me to seek your
master, you shall at least show me where he was seized, and I will go
alone.'
The shikari, though evidently a nervous man, was no coward. He pulled
himself together.
'I will go with the Sahib,' he said. 'It shall not be spoken of me that
there was a thing of which I was afraid. The Sahib will allow me to
carry this second rifle of the Sahib Eccles?'
'Of course. You have answered well, shikari; it shall be said that you
are a brave man. Take the rifle and come, for this is a matter that
cannot wait.'
So we set out for the place where poor Eccles had lost his life, some
two or three miles from the bungalow, and my heart was heavy as lead as
I tramped along with the shikari at my side, recalling many scenes in
which old Charlie had been my companion at school and at Oxford and in
after-life. I scarcely thought of the extreme danger of the enterprise
upon which the shikari and I were now engaged, my mind being otherwise
occupied; but when we came near the place, and the native, looking
frightened and positively trembling as he spoke, whispered that here,
within twenty-five yards, was the spot where the tiger had sprung upon
the Sahib, I suddenly realised that we were about to meet a crisis in
our lives.
'Have your rifle ready,' I whispered back, 'and look all ways at once.
If you see the tiger, fire at the same instant.'
We reached the spot where the scuffle had taken place. The grass was
trampled and broken, and there were marks of a struggle. A yard or two
further on lay Charlie's helmet, with puggaree attached, and a scrap of
his clothing fluttered in the midst of a thorny bush, through which, I
suppose, he had been dragged. The jungle became denser at this point
with every step forward, and we advanced inch by inch, very slowly, very
cautiously, feeling that we carried our lives in our hands, for a
wounded tiger lying hid in the cover, with so much energy left in him as
this beast presumably still possessed, since he had carried Charlie's
body away with him, is one of the most dangerous things that a man can
face. I need not tell you fellows that, however, both of you being
experienced hunters. Probably, being wounded, the tiger would not travel
far. Of course, there was only the shikari's word for it that he _was_
wounded; but, in any case, being burdened with the body of a
twelve-stone man, he would not go further than he need. So we crept
slowly forward.
It, was a gruesome experience. To tell the truth, I was almost more
afraid that I should suddenly come upon the body of poor Eccles lying
across our pathway, than of hearing the terrible roar of the wounded
tiger and seeing him crouch to spring upon us. Expecting him, as I did,
at every second, it would be hard if I could not get in my shot before
he could get in his spring.
The track was easily followed. A great beast cannot drag another large
creature through grass and plants of all kinds without leaving behind
pretty evident signs of his passing. We had gone forward--creeping
almost as noiselessly as snakes--some quarter of a mile, scarcely more,
when suddenly the most astonishing thing happened that ever I
experienced.
Not fifty yards from the place in which we then stood, as it happened,
listening for any sound which might reveal the whereabouts of the tiger,
a shot suddenly rang out, instantly followed by a kind of sound, half
roar, half moan; then came the noise of a scuffle, the crashing of
twigs, a few gasping coughs--then silence.
'Shikari,' I cried aloud, scarcely knowing in my excitement what I said,
'it is the Sahib! Come!' I dashed forward. 'Charlie--Charlie Eccles!' I
yelled, 'is it you? I am Ralph!'
A feeble cheer replied to my shout. The next moment a remarkable
spectacle opened itself out before us.
Charlie Eccles half lay, half sat upon the ground--pale, tattered, but
smiling; a few feet away lay upon its side the body of an enormous
tiger. I sprang forward. 'Don't touch me, old chap,' said Charlie, 'I
feel as if I was broken all over!'--then he fainted.
Well, except a couple of broken ribs and some nasty gashes and
scratches, there was nothing seriously the matter, and with the help of
a litter and half-a-dozen natives summoned by the shikari, we got him
home to the bungalow without further damage. There he told me his story.
The tiger had been wounded, but not seriously, by his first shot. The
shikari fired and missed. Then the beast had seized him by the shoulder,
which was lacerated, and had dragged him to this place. Charlie had
clung to his rifle, and upon reaching the spot where we had found him,
the tiger laid him down and rested. Fortunately the pain of his wound
had rendered the brute disinclined to eat. He stood over him for nearly
half an hour, listening, licking his wound, and growling. Charlie lay
still as death, for he knew that if he moved a finger he would be slain
that instant. After half an hour the brute left him and lay a few yards
away, but in such a position that Charlie could not fire a fatal shot;
he therefore waited in hopes that he would change his attitude. The
tiger lay and attended to his wound for a full hour or more, and Eccles
waited patiently.
At last--just before we arrived--the tiger shifted, presenting his side
and shoulder, and Charlie, pointing his rifle with the utmost care, for
he knew his life depended upon the shot, pulled trigger.
'I think,' Ralph concluded, 'that evening in the Dâk Bungalow was about
the happiest I ever spent. The doctor had been summoned from the camp at
Bandapore and had pronounced Charlie Eccles to be progressing
excellently. You may imagine how happy I must have felt after my fears.
You may imagine, also, what a hero Charlie was among the natives after
his exploit. Of course my friend the shikari, in telling them the story,
made out that the chief honours were his, but he was good enough to
admit that the Sahib behaved also like a brave man, and probably his
hearers, knowing each other's little ways, distributed the honours
pretty fairly.'
ABOUT TOPIARIES.
What is a topiary? If you have never been in one, you may have seen one
represented by some artist who draws scenes that show us gardens or
shrubberies of bygone days. Perhaps you may at least have been in some
old-fashioned garden, which had one or more trees of odd shapes, into
which they had been cut and trained years ago. When a number of such
trees are growing together, the place is called a topiary, and lately
people who can afford the money have been contriving topiaries in some
parts of their grounds. Gardeners who understand how to make trees
resemble the human figure, or different animals, or other objects, can
usually get plenty of employment.
We read about sculptured hedges as far back as the times of the Tudors;
it was chiefly the yew hedge that people cut and shaped into odd
figures. But it was not till the Dutch gardeners came over in the reign
of William III., that it became the practice to give curious shapes to
trees and shrubs scattered over gardens, or brought together into a
topiary. Various trees were used, but chiefly yew and box.
The Dutch were fond of making figures out of trees, and so were the
Italians. At Savona, a traveller tells us that he saw a group
representing the flight of Joseph into Egypt, formed of variegated
holly, box, myrtle, laurel, and cypress. The poet Pope alluded to the
Duke who owned the splendid estate of Canons, as a nobleman who had
'Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees,'
and he remarks that he was shown, in greenery, Adam, Eve, and the
serpent, but the figures were damaged somewhat. All such figures need
attention to keep them in order. There are many about England that are
of good age, and may last some years yet; though, of course, these trees
may be injured by wind or heavy rain. Shrubs and trees are formed into
curious shapes by the help of wires, and much trimming or twisting of
the shoots is needed at first. A young tree, therefore, representing a
peacock, or some other bird, will cost four or five pounds, and
specimens that are larger may be worth many times that amount. Figures
of men, horses, bears, dogs, and various animals, including dragons, are
to be seen, as well as letters of the alphabet, triangles, or other
inanimate objects, some trees being cleverly made to look like jugs,
bottles, and bowls. Occasionally, a singular change has been made in a
tree; thus, what was a boy with a rake, by a little alteration becomes a
soldier carrying a rifle.
When taking a country stroll, we may sometimes come upon a specimen of a
tree-sculptor's art in a wayside cottage garden, perhaps two hundred
years old. One of the finest topiaries in England is in the grounds of
Levens Hall, Westmoreland, and the Earl of Harrington has a notable one
at Elvaston Castle, Derbyshire.
A GENEROUS ACT.
The sons of a great landowner were permitted by their father to
associate with the poor boys in the neighbourhood. One day, when they
had to return home to dinner, a lad who was playing with them said he
would wait till they returned.
'There is no dinner for me at home,' said the poor boy.
'Come with us, then,' said the others.
The boy refused, and when they asked him if he had any money to buy a
dinner, he answered 'No.'
When the boys got home the eldest of them said to his father, 'Father,
what was the price of the silver buckles you gave me yesterday?'
'Five shillings,' was the reply.
'Then please give me the money, and I will give you the buckles again.'
This was done accordingly, and the father, inquiring privately, found
that the money was given to the lad who had no dinner.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
IV.--THE LIFE HISTORY OF THE CRAB.
The more we study the living creatures around us the more wonderful they
become; and in many ways this is especially true of what we may call the
little people of the lower world. Most of us regard the crab as a
creature good to eat, or, in the case of some of the smaller kinds, as
something to be hunted for in rock-pools at the seaside; but only a very
few appear to know anything of the crab in its infancy.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Young Crab: first stage.]
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Young Crab: second stage.]
What we may call the childhood of the crab makes a really curious story.
Boys and girls, until they are quite grown up, are, as a rule at any
rate, carefully nursed and shielded from the hardships of life; but with
the young crab it is otherwise. From the moment of its birth it is
called upon to enter life's battle alone; of brothers and sisters,
mother and father and home, it knows nothing. And such a tiny little
mite it is, too, needing a microscope to see it. Stranger still, at this
early period of life it is not the least bit like a crab; for a crab, as
most of us know it, is a creature with a shell broader than it is long,
and long legs, and a pair of pincers which can give a most painful nip
to unguarded fingers. As a youngster, however, he presents a very
different appearance, as may be seen in fig. 1. That is what he looks
like just after leaving the egg--a creature with a huge eye, a big round
body, and a long, slender tail--a sort of compromise between a crab and
a lobster, but without the familiar legs and pincers.
A little later he assumes a form which is certainly fantastic, for from
the top of the shell (as you will see in fig. 2) there grows out a long,
curved spine, while the legs have taken a shape suggesting jointed
paint-brushes. Later still the eyes grow out from the head and are
supported on short stalks, the legs and pincers appear, and lastly the
long tail curls up, till at last it grows into a curious three-cornered
shield and is carried tucked away under the body. As soon as this takes
place he becomes at once the crab with which we are familiar, and
changes no more except in size.
[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Last stage of Crab's Infancy: back view.]
[Illustration: Fig. 4.--Side view of Fig. 3.]
The strange flap hinged to the hinder edge of the body of the adult
crab, and held close to its under surface, really answers to the long
body of the lobster. To make this clear, look at the series of figures 3
to 6: fig. 3 shows the back view of the last stage of the crab's
infancy, and fig. 4 a side view of the same, where you will note that
the tail is already beginning to curl up. In fig. 5 you have the under
side of the full-grown crab with all that remains of the hinder part of
the body and the tail in the position in which it is carried during
life, and in fig. 6 the upper side with the tail showing as if it were
unfolded. If you compare figs. 5 and 6 with fig. 7 (a lobster), you can
see that the hinder part of the body of the crab, with the tail
unfolded, really does answer to that portion of the body of the lobster
which lies behind the last pair of legs.
[Illustration: Fig. 5.--Full-grown Crab, under side, showing tail curled
up.]
But there are some relatives of the crab which come into the world still
earlier, and these in the early stages have a still more un-crab-like
shape which is known as the _nauplius_ stage of growth.
[Illustration: Fig. 6.--Full-grown Crab, upper side, with tail
unfolded.]
The crab, on leaving the egg, enters the world not in the form of a
Nauplius, but as a 'Zoea,' as it is called; this is shown in figs. 1 and
2. By the time the stage shown in figs. 3 and 4 is reached, he has
attained the dignity of what is known among scientific men as the
_megalopa_ stage. What a nauplius looks like you will see in fig. 8.
[Illustration: Fig. 7.--Lobster.]
This curious order of things is true, however, only of salt-water
members of the crab-tribe. With certain near relatives of the crabs and
lobsters which have taken up their residence in fresh water, a different
order of things prevails, for here we find some trace of maternal care.
Thus, in the fresh-water crayfish the young not only leave the egg in a
much more advanced stage, but they are carefully carried about by the
mother, until they have learned to shift for themselves, which they do
in a very few days. During this time they cling to the swimming legs of
the parent by means of their pincers. When all is quiet they drop off
one by one, and crawl about to gather experience and food. But at the
least sign of danger the mother appears to give some note of warning,
and in a moment they have scuttled back, and fastened hold of her
skirts, so to speak; then, if need be, she hurries off to a place of
safety. At this time these little crayfish are very tiny indeed; but to
get an idea of what they look like, and how they hold on, look at fig.
9, which gives a picture of the swimming foot of a mother crayfish, and
two of her youngsters hanging on to it.
[Illustration: Fig. 8.--Nauplius.]
[Illustration: Fig. 9.--Swimming Foot of Crayfish, with the young ones
attached.]
It would seem that this great care is necessary, because in the
swift-running streams where these creatures generally live, their young,
if uncared for during their early days, would be swept away by the tide
and carried out to sea, where they would speedily die.
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
A TALE OF BREMEN.
Bremen was a growing city, but its ruler, hard and proud,
Insolent in power and riches, all his humble subjects cowed,
Till one day a bold man pleaded to the Count on bended knee:
'Sire, for just a little season set my toiling brethren free!
Let them leave awhile their labour, let them roam the country fair,
Quit the close and crowded city for a breath of purer air;
Or, perchance, their faithful service you will graciously repay,
And a piece of ground assign them from your gardens vast and gay?'
Frowned the Count, and answered, mocking: 'Not a little do you ask!
Well! your prayer shall find a champion, and I'll set him just one task:
He shall march from dawn to sunset, pacing my fair gardens round;
All his footsteps can encircle shall be then the people's ground.'
Morning came, the folk assembled, full of hopefulness and glee,
But their eager eyes no other than the Count himself can see.
Stay! there standeth one beside him, Hans the cripple, small and weak!
'This is he,' the Count cries, scoffing, 'who shall give you what
you seek.
Fly! Hans, fly! Around my pleasaunce speed as quickly as you may!'
And the cripple, smiling bravely, starts forthwith upon his way.
All that day, from morn to even, Hans the cripple did his best,
Walking on without cessation, pausing not for food or rest.
Miracle both Count and people deemed the prowess he displayed,
And the tyrant scowled in anger as he saw the progress made.
Faint and weary, for his brethren Hans toiled on till eventide,
Then, amid the people's cheering, knelt, and breathed a prayer, and died.
Feudal days are gone for ever, but in Bremen's ancient town
Tell they still of Hans the hero, who for them his life laid down.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 95._)
The children were all eager to hear the story, and a sad one it was.
They had become accustomed to see Dick half asleep in his armchair in
the garden, or before the fire at the Bridge House. They knew him to be
almost helpless, for it was only with assistance he could move, even on
his crutches. They had thought very little about his condition, however,
except for that feeling of pity which even a child experiences in the
presence of suffering. Mrs. Peet's words had roused their interest in
her son, and Lady Coke saw an opportunity for deepening the impression
she had made. It would be good in many ways for these young people to
hear that sad story. It had its lessons, and these she trusted would
sink into their young minds; they might make it more possible to feel
patient and to show more consideration for Peet, whose irritable temper,
she was forced to admit, was very trying to their high spirits.
Dick, the only child of Peet and his wife, had been a fine handsome lad,
with an unusual amount of brains, and with, what is still better, a
wonderful capacity for really hard work. He had won all the prizes that
he could possibly compete for in the little school at Lynwood, as well
as most of the honours in the cricket and football field, for he was
quite as good at games as at books. Peet was at that time, and had been
ever since his youth, a gardener on the Earl of Lynwood's
estate--Lynwood Keep, in Scotland. He had risen through steady work to
be head gardener and bailiff. On finding himself possessed of sufficient
means to take a wife and settle down, he had married an old love of his,
a Cornish girl from the village of Newlyn, and had carried her off to
the home he had so proudly prepared for her. A very happy couple they
had been, and the birth of Dick had added a still greater happiness to
their already bright life. Peet's temper had not then become what the
sore trials and disappointments of his later life had made it. He was
contented and prosperous, and the clouds which afterwards darkened his
existence had not so much as sent the tiniest little messenger before
them to tell of their coming.
As Dick grew older, and showed of what true, strong metal he was made,
his parents' pride in him became greater than they could quite conceal.
A certain amount of envy and ill-will was the natural result. Dick
himself was not in the least conceited. None knew so well as he how hard
it was to restrain a naturally hasty temper, to give up the games he
loved for the work he did not, to labour as thoroughly at the subjects
he disliked or took no interest in as at those he liked. But he had grit
enough to determine he would not thus lose the battle of life in the
beginning of it, and step by step the habit of overcoming difficulties
prevailed.
He rose steadily and surely over the heads of his school-fellows,
gaining prize after prize, until there was nothing more to win either in
places or rewards.
Having by this time laid by enough to enable him to retire from work,
Peet allowed himself to be persuaded by his brother-in-law to take a
small cottage at Newlyn. This brother-in-law, captain of a merchant
vessel, offered at the same time to give his clever nephew a berth on
board his own ship, a barque trading between England and Australia. It
would be a good opening for the lad, and offered him a fair prospect of
advancement in life, should he choose to stick to the sea afterwards as
a profession. If not, no harm would be done. On the contrary, Dick would
have passed through some experiences which could not fail to be useful
to him, whatever line he might prefer to follow later on.
Much to Lord Lynwood's regret, therefore, Peet resolved to take the
advice thus offered him, and, resigning his post at Lynwood, took his
family to Newlyn. Delighted as Dick was at the bright future opening
before him, he was as sad at parting with his old friends and companions
as they were at losing the most brilliant scholar and athlete the school
had ever known. His warm-hearted, unaffected manner had made him a
general favourite, in spite of the fact that his ability had not failed
to arouse envy and dislike in some.
Dick took to the sea like a duck to water. He set himself to learn his
work and become 'handy' with a zeal that soon made him a smart sailor.
He managed, also, in spite of all he had to do, to carry on his own
education by reading whenever he could. There were other apprentices
besides himself on board, and he was treated with exactly the same
discipline as they, no favouritism being shown or desired. He preferred
to share like the others, and there was nothing in his behaviour, or in
the treatment he received, which could have led any stranger to suppose
he was the skipper's nephew. Nevertheless, his talents soon became
evident. He was always the one to whom a difficult job could be safely
trusted; and this came out more clearly when he went up for his second
mate's certificate, which he gained with so much ease as to raise some
jealousy among his fellow-apprentices. This was increased when it became
known that Dick had been offered a berth as fourth officer in a
well-known line of steamers.
His usual success followed him in his new career. Hard work, an even
temper, and the well-kept resolution to educate himself by steady
reading were good preparations for his next examination for a first
mate's certificate, for which he went up at the earliest possible
opportunity. But, alas! the cloud had already risen in the hitherto
sunny skies of his life. He passed the examination with his usual
success. The certificate was duly signed, and, happy that he could carry
it down to his parents, he looked out the train to Penzance. Finding
that he had an hour or so to spare, he went to an inn to snatch a meal
before he started off on his long journey.
He had partaken of many a meal in that same inn. It was close to the
Board of Trade offices, and he had met many another merchant sailor in
the same dingy rooms, and had discussed the prospects of the service
with them gladly. As he entered it on that day, happy and cheerful, with
his future looking brilliant and rosy before him, he little imagined how
near was the end of all his hopes. Such a small thing had turned the
tide! Only that fatal decision to go to the inn to which he had been so
often before, and pass the time till his train started! Others were
taking their lunch there, but the number was smaller than usual; perhaps
it was yet early for the rush. Dick sat at a side-table, reading over
his certificate as he ate his modest meal.
So far all is clear. After this the account became so confused and
contradictory that the actual truth was never known. After a good deal
of sifting, the following facts were accepted as the best version of
what must have taken place. According to the landlord's tale, most of
the guests had left, Dick and another sailor being either the sole
remaining men in the room, or nearly so. They were lunching at the same
table, and were apparently good friends. He did not remember that there
were any others. He and the waiters happened to be in the pantry for a
few minutes; he was sure it was not longer, when they were startled by
the sound of a fall, followed by the loud bang of the outer door. On
rushing in to find out the cause of the disturbance, they found Dick
lying insensible on the floor, with a severe wound on the back of the
head, evidently inflicted by the heavy knobbed stick discovered near
him. There was no clue as to what had given rise to the quarrel. The
wounded man's certificate being on his plate, and open, as if it had
just been read, it was imagined that a sudden fit of rage and jealousy
must have led his companion to the terrible deed.
The police and the doctor were at once sent for. A thorough search was
made for the culprit, but, as no one specially remembered him, he made
good his escape. From that day no trace of him was ever discovered, and
the whole affair gradually dropped out of recollection.
Meantime, Dick was taken to the nearest hospital, where for a long time
his life was despaired of. Having found the address of his parents, the
hospital authorities telegraphed for them, and they were allowed to be
with him as much as possible. As may be imagined, grief and terror
filled their hearts when the telegram reached them. There was no time to
dwell on their sorrow, for Dick's condition took up all their thoughts.
The report of the doctors filled them with even deeper grief and
anxiety. They declared it would have been better for the poor fellow if
he had been killed outright. The blow had been so severe that the brain
and spine were both injured. Even if he lived for years, he would never
again walk; in all probability, he would never again understand or speak
properly.
Dick did get better, however, and, as soon as he was fit, was taken down
to Newlyn. Every care and attention were given him with the hope of
proving that the doctors were mistaken. But, alas! in vain. It was a
long, expensive illness. The little home, so full of comfort and
happiness, the pride of Peet's heart--full, as it was too, of Dick's
strange and beautiful things, relics of his voyages--all had to go: sold
to meet the bills of the doctors, and to buy things which were needed
for the invalid. Brought to a very low ebb by this terrible affliction,
and not knowing where all the money was to come from to pay the demands
made upon him--too proud to ask help from even his own brother--Peet
resolved to go back to work again. He applied to his old master, Lord
Lynwood; there being no vacancies at Lynwood, however, the Earl wrote to
his aunt, Lady Coke, whose head gardener had died but a short time
before, and who, he knew, was looking out for a capable man to replace
him.
Such a berth as he found at the Moat House Peet might have searched the
world in vain to discover. Lady Coke's sympathy was at once roused on
hearing of his sorrows, and from her he accepted kindnesses which would
have been an offence from anybody else.
(_Continued on page 110._)
[Illustration: "Dick lying insensible upon the floor."]
[Illustration: "One at a time, they found themselves pinioned."]
STORIES FROM AFRICA.
IV.--A GREAT SEA CAPTAIN.
[Illustration]
Once more our tale begins in the city of Lisbon, but now it is on a
summer day in the year 1497, when the banks of the Tagus were thronged
with those who had come to give God-speed to the gallant captain Vasco
da Gama, sailing to-morrow for 'the Indies.'
This was the age of great sailors and discoverers. Ten years before,
Bartolomeo Diaz had rounded the southern point of Africa. 'The Stormy
Cape' he called it; the 'Cape of Good Hope,' as his rejoicing countrymen
would have it, when he came home with the news. A few years later,
Columbus, sailing westward, set up the flag of Spain upon the shores of
a new world. And now Manoel, the young King of Portugal, was all on fire
to finish what Diaz had begun, and to earn for his country the glory of
finding the way round the Cape to India, the mysterious land of which
such wonderful tales were told. He could have found no fitter man for
the work than the captain who knelt to-day in the little church above
the river to pray for success in his perilous undertaking. Absolutely
fearless, quick-witted, and prompt in action, delighting in danger and
adventure, and indomitable in perseverance, Vasco da Gama was a brave
leader of men, and he had himself chosen two companions after his own
heart, who were to command the other two ships--his brother, Paolo da
Gama, and his friend, Nicolo Coello. On his knees the captain received
from King Manoel the cross-marked flag on which he swore fidelity to his
sovereign, and then, followed by the cheers and good wishes of all
Lisbon, the good ships set sail.
Near the Canary Isles they met with such heavy weather that, for a week,
Vasco's ship, the _San Raphael_, was parted from the other two, and his
friends had nearly given him up for lost. The ship reappeared, however,
battered but safe, and the expedition waited for awhile to repair in the
Bay of St. Helena.
It was November when they sailed southward again, and now the Cape of
Storms began to prove worthy of its name. Such terrible tempests fell
upon the three ships, as they struggled along, with much ado to keep
within sight of each other, that the hearts of the crew failed them
altogether. The question began to be asked among them whether the report
of Diaz had after all been well founded, whether the sea passage really
existed, or whether the land which bounded the eastern horizon did not
go on for ever and ever until the very world's end. But when the crew of
the _San Raphael_ begged their captain to abandon the hopeless attempt,
his reply was that of the captain in the song--
'"Now I've come so far,
I'm not going back," says he.'
By word and example he encouraged the whole crew, now laughing at their
fears, now turning their thoughts to the triumphant return with glory
for their country, himself sharing the hardest work, and, doubtless,
making it quite clear that any man who failed him at the pinch would
find scant mercy at his hands. And, at last, the wind dropped. The land
was no longer on the eastward, the Cape of Storms had been doubled, and
from the decks of the three vessels went up the sounds of praise and
thanksgiving that the 'passage perilous' was accomplished.
But the crew of the _San Raphael_ needed yet another lesson to make them
into such a band as their captain needed for his great adventure.
According to the strange custom of that age, Vasco had on board several
convicts, who had been released from prison, where they lay under
sentence of death, that he might employ them upon any service of danger
for which he was unwilling to risk his better men. A band of criminals
who had broken their country's laws and were not likely to be troubled
with scruples, must have been a rather dangerous element among a
somewhat disaffected crew; and, as the ship sailed northward and again
met with rough weather, the convicts on board the _San Raphael_, seeing
their opportunity, began to plot treason against the captain. One after
another of the crew was won over to a plan which promised a speedy end
to the weary, dangerous voyage, and the ringleaders found means to
communicate with their friends on board the other two ships, so that all
was arranged for a general mutiny.
But there was one member of the expedition, perhaps the smallest and
least important person on board, to whom it was given to save the whole
undertaking from destruction. One of the conspirators on board the ship
_San Miguel_, had a little brother, who had been kindly treated by the
captain, Nicolo Coello, and loved him with a boy's hero-worship of a
brave man who had been good to him. Perhaps the conspirators thought the
lad too insignificant to be dangerous; at any rate, he knew the details
of the plot and told the captain of what was planned.
Coello's one thought was how to save his friend and leader. It was too
rough for him to board the _San Raphael_; the warning must be shouted
above the noise of winds and waves, and yet it must be for Da Gama's ear
alone. His only hope was in his friend's quickness of wit, and in the
perfect understanding between them. So, from the deck of his own vessel,
he shouted to the _San Raphael_ that his men were all for abandoning the
expedition, and that he was constrained to agree with them and to pray
the captain to give the word for returning. How the brave Coello must
have hated to give, even in stratagem, such craven counsel, and how
carefully he must have chosen words that might carry the double meaning
to his friend.
Coello need not have feared: Da Gama knew his brave colleague too well
to imagine that he was really thinking of retreat. Possibly he already
suspected something amiss; at any rate, he knew which of his men he
could trust, and, with their aid, he discovered the names of the
ringleaders. Then, calling the crew together on deck, he announced to
them that, acting upon the advice of his friend, the captain of the _San
Miguel_, he had decided to give up the expedition and return to
Portugal.
'But,' he continued, 'that I may not appear as a traitor before the
King, I will myself draw up an account of what we have undergone, and
those of most repute among you shall sign it, that all may see that you
hold with me in my judgment.'
The mariners agreed readily, and Da Gama, having prepared his statement,
sent for the chief men among the crew to his cabin to sign it, managing
to include among them the most dangerous of the conspirators. All
unsuspecting, down they went, leaving their companions to wonder what
had made the captain change his mind. Then came a summons from below,
more signatures were wanted, and down to the cabin went another band of
picked men.
As they crossed the threshold, one at a time, they found themselves
pinioned, and, staring round them in dismay, saw their fellow-mutineers
in irons, guarded by the loyal members of the crew. At Da Gama's order
all were marshalled on deck, and stood, sullen and powerless, before the
captain.
'Where are your instruments?' he asked sternly of the pilot, who was
among the prisoners.
Then, as the man pointed to them with his chained hands, he flung them
into the sea.
'You will use them no more,' he said; 'henceforth I will myself be pilot
to my own ship. If God sees us worthy He will guide us to our
destination, but be sure that I will never return alive to Portugal with
my purpose unfulfilled.'
That day's work made Vasco da Gama master once for all of the men who
sailed with him. He spared the lives of the conspirators after a
captivity long enough to teach them an enduring lesson, so winning their
allegiance by mercy as well as severity.
And we may like to remember that a famous colony of our own was first
sighted by Europeans on the Christmas Day of that year, 1497, and was
given its Christmas name, Natal (the 'birthday' place) by the great
Portuguese captain who, in those southern waters,
'Did win a gallant name,
And ruled the stormy sea.'
MARY H. DEBENHAM.
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
IV.--A GOOD CONSTABLE.
A hundred years ago the streets of London were very insufficiently
guarded. Of police, as we now understand the word, there were none, but
at night the public buildings and principal thoroughfares were handed
over to the care of aged and decrepit men, called 'Charlies,' who, being
too old to work by day, were supposed to be able to take charge of the
streets by night!
These 'Charlies' were furnished with staves and lanterns, which were
often violently wrenched from them, for it was then a fashionable
amusement of wild young men of the upper classes to 'go on the
_ran-dan_,' as it was called--that is, to run up and down the
ill-lighted streets, knocking down first one old Charlie and then
another, and carrying off the staff and lantern as trophies. A young
fellow who managed to upset a wooden watch-house, with a poor old man
inside, was very proud of himself indeed, though, maybe, the old
'Charlie' was meanwhile being almost suffocated to death with the
watch-house on the top of him.
Besides 'guarding' the streets, these old watchmen had to announce each
hour as it struck, and to give the news of the weather; thus: '_Past one
o'clock and a windy morning!_' Once, when many Londoners were expecting
an earthquake, which had been prophesied for that day, some jesters,
returning from a noisy tavern-meeting, frightened the householders by
calling out, as they passed along the streets, 'Past twelve o'clock, and
a fine earthquake!'
It is needless to say that robbery and ill-doings of all kinds were of
nightly occurrence, and no decent person was in the streets of the City
after dusk except by necessity, for neither life nor property was safe
from the ruffians who then roamed about.
So things went on until the time came when Mr. John Sewell, a
bookseller, was appointed Constable for the Ward of Cornhill. He was a
very energetic man, who had long been ashamed of the state of the City
streets, and he determined, now that he was in office, to try and
introduce some reforms. The first thing he decided upon was to serve as
constable in person, instead of providing substitutes, which had been
always done by former Head Constables.
His friends were shocked at the idea of a respectable bookseller acting
as a common constable, but Mr. Sewell was not to be moved from his
purpose, assuring them 'that the office of Constable was of too much
importance to be executed by every one.'
He first of all put a stop altogether to the wooden watch-houses which
were wheeled out every night, and placed against the Bank and other
public buildings, and, instead, converted the back room of his shop into
a guard-room. Here he and many of his friends would keep watch, when his
turn for service came round, which was every fourth night, and they
would go the rounds of his ward, seeing that every man was in his proper
place. Mr. Sewell so arranged his men that every house in his ward was
passed by one of them four times in the hour, and he would constantly
pay surprise visits to be sure that all were attentive to their duties.
The public executions were his next care, for hangings were in that day,
alas! of weekly occurrence. Instead of the ribald scenes and unseemly
jokes which accompanied the progress of the unfortunate wretches to
Tyburn, Mr. Sewell insisted that a solemn decency should now mark these
processions. He had his watchmen dressed in long cloaks, with crape on
their hats, which he provided at his own expense; and then, as they
marched slowly, two and two, he himself led the procession from Newgate
Prison to Holborn Bars, where his authority ended.
[Illustration: "Managed to upset a wooden watch-house."]
It is also interesting, in these days of naval volunteers, to find that
Mr. Sewell started a 'Proposal for a Marine Voluntary Association for
Manning the Ancient and Natural Defences of Old England.'
Altogether, this old Cornhill bookseller was a wonderful man, and might
have lived in this day instead of a hundred years ago.
[Illustration: "Scores of angry bees came buzzing round her."]
OLIVE AND THE BEES.
'I mean to make a study of bees!' said Olive, in an important manner, as
she looked up from a big book on natural history which she had been
reading for the last ten minutes. 'Listen to this, Charlie,' she went
on, addressing her elder brother, who was arranging his fishing tackle;
'it says here, "To such as have leisure, and are desirous of amusement,
we know of no study which promises a greater degree of satisfaction." I
have plenty of leisure these holidays, and I mean to be like Hüber, and
study bees, and find out wonderful things about them. He was blind, you
know, and as I am not blind, I ought to find out a lot more than he
did!' Olive finished up, complacently.
Charlie, however, far from being impressed with this speech, only burst
out laughing. 'You _are_ conceited!' he exclaimed; 'to think that you,
at twelve years of age, are going to beat Hüber, who spent a life-time
in studying bees! However, there is no doubt you _will_ learn something
from them, and by the time you have been well stung you will be able to
describe some of their habits,' and he laughed again.
'I shall not be stung,' said Olive calmly; 'bees are wonderfully
intelligent little creatures'--here she was again quoting from the big
book--'and they will understand that I have no wish to hurt them, but am
only studying their ways.'
'And one of their ways is to sting inquisitive folk,' said Charlie. 'Let
me advise you to have Mary's blue-bag handy--the thing she uses on
washing-days, you know. Nothing like it for the sting of an angry bee!'
and picking up his fishing-rod, Charlie walked away to the river.
It was the first summer that Olive had spent in the country, and all its
sights and scenes were new to her. So now, rejoicing in the freedom of
being able to roam about without her hat or jacket, she ran lightly out
of the low French window of the sitting-room, and down the path towards
a large clump of lemon-coloured foxgloves.
'The bees were in and out of these foxgloves yesterday,' she said, as
she stooped over the bed. 'Ah, yes! here is one--buried quite deep in
the flower. I must have that bee,' and taking out her handkerchief, she
threw it over the flower, and caught the bee in its folds, carrying it
in triumph towards the hives, which stood on a shelf under a sunny wall
by the high garden gate.
'Now then, dear bee,' said Olive, loosing the bee with all the calmness
of ignorance, 'here is your hive; let me see you go in with your load of
honey.'
Bees, however, are not creatures to be trifled with, and this one did
not mean to go to its hive with its honey-bags only half full. Instead,
it turned fiercely on Olive and stung her sharply on the hand.
'Oh! oh! it hurts!' she screamed, and hurrying away, she accidentally
upset the straw cover of a hive. Instantly, scores of angry bees came
buzzing round her, and Olive ran as she had never run before. But she
did not escape without several severe stings, and she was all but
fainting with pain and terror when she at last reached the kitchen door
and slammed it behind her.
Fortunately, Mary was there, and at once applied the blue-bag, which
eased the pain of the stings greatly.
'I only wanted to study the bees,' sobbed Olive, 'and I never meant to
offend them, and make them sting me.'
'You had better study obedience, Miss, and leave the bees alone,' said
Mary curtly. 'I told you only yesterday to keep away from the hives. If
you want to study bees, get the old bee-master to tell you how to set
about it.'
Some weeks later, Olive had an opportunity of watching the bee-master
when he removed the honey from the hives. He did not get stung, though
the bees were all round him, and Olive could not help admiring the
fearless way he went to work.
Charlie was right. Olive did learn something from the bees, and one of
her lessons was humility. She did not again think she knew all about a
subject after reading of the wonderful discoveries of men who had given
a life-time to it.
PERHAPS.
Before the dustman comes to me
As in my bed I lie,
All sorts of curious things I see
Up in my nursery high.
I see the little curly flames
Jump upwards from the fire;
I think they must be playing games,
They never seem to tire.
And now and then one leaps so high
That all the ceiling glows:
Quite suddenly it seems to die--
I wonder where it goes.
Sometimes out in the street I hear
The tinkle of a bell,
It's first far off, and then quite near;
It's passing, I can tell;
And then I see a narrow line
Of light quite slowly crawl
Across the ceiling, till its shine
Stops as it meets the wall.
I wonder how it comes, and why,
And where it was before,
And where it's gone to now, when I
Can't see it any more.
Perhaps I'll meet them in my dream,
Those curly flames so odd,
And see the little narrow gleam
Light up the Land of Nod.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 103._)