The shadows of evening were deepening into night before any alarm about
Estelle had been felt at the Moat House. The weather being fine and
clear, it was scarcely dark even at eight o'clock. The moon, now just
past the full, almost turned night into day. Lady Coke had felt no
uneasiness, therefore, when seven o'clock came. She imagined Estelle had
been invited to spend the evening at Begbie Hall. Hitherto, however,
whenever the cousins wanted her to remain, a message had been sent, in
order to spare Aunt Betty any anxiety. But no such message had been
received, and the clock having struck eight, then nine, without the
little girl appearing, she grew anxious. Mademoiselle Vadevant was also
becoming fidgety, though she strove to hide it.
'It is time for Estelle to be in bed,' remarked Lady Coke, at last. 'I
am surprised that Mrs. De Bohun has kept her so late. Has Nurse gone for
her?'
'Oui, madame; more than an hour ago.'
'Nine o'clock is very late for young children to be up. Will you kindly
ring the bell? I will send James to bring her back without further
delay.'
Mademoiselle offered to go herself, but Lady Coke insisted on
dispatching James. He was her factotum, in whom she had greater faith
than in any member of her household. His calm manner, which nobody had
ever seen ruffled, suited her and she felt quite safe when a matter was
in his hands. If Estelle needed any protection--which was not likely in
their own grounds--he would be the right person to send. Having given
her orders, Lady Coke felt more comfortable, each moment expecting to
hear Estelle's merry voice. She sat listening unconsciously. Time,
however, slipped on without bringing either James or Nurse. When,
finally, ten o'clock struck, she stood up, pale but determined.
'Mademoiselle,' she said, her voice as low as ever, though her anxiety
could be detected in its quiver, 'will you please send me my maid, with
my garden-hat and cloak? I am going to Begbie Hall myself. You will
kindly accompany me. Something must be strangely wrong.'
At that moment the sound of a man's step on the gravel under the windows
made her pause, listening eagerly for the child's light tread. The steps
came up the verandah, and Colonel De Bohun appeared in the open
casement. Without a moment's delay he went up to his aunt, putting an
arm tenderly round her. One glance at his pale face was sufficient.
'Godfrey, what is it?'
She was trembling, so that without support she could not have stood.
'Sit down, dear Aunt, and let me tell you,' he said, with more calmness
than he felt.
He greatly dreaded the effect of his communication. Though she was
always cheerful, active, and upright, he could not forget that she was
old, and that any shock might be disastrous to her.
'Tell me,' she said, looking up into his face.
'We all imagined Estelle to be with you till her nurse came to fetch
her. I was out when she came. The fact is, we had rather a fright about
Alan. He had fallen down a hole in the rocks, and we were obliged to go
to his rescue. He was got out with some difficulty, and on our way home
we came across James, who told us of your anxiety about Estelle. Neither
Marjorie nor Alan had seen her since they had left her reading to
Georgie on the roof of the ruin. Marjorie, who had heard the door bang,
found no one there when she reached the place, and the door was closed.
Fearing something wrong, I sent James off at once for Peet, in order to
see if the poor child had been accidentally locked into the forbidden
room.'
'Yes?' whispered Lady Coke.
She looked so weak and shaken that the Colonel made her sit down in her
armchair before he would go on with the story.
(_Continued on page 166._)
THE FIRST TEA.
Some people used to find fault with Dr. Johnson because, they said, he
was greedy in eating and drinking. He would often take twelve or
fourteen cups of tea at a meal. This seems a good deal, but we must
remember that in his time teacups were small, and the fashion was to
hand them round only half-filled. There is a story that one lady, when
the Doctor was taking tea in her parlour, rudely refused to pour him out
any more after he had had about a dozen cups, and he, quite as rudely,
retorted that her tea was really not worth drinking.
This China drink, as it was called at first, did not for some time
become the popular beverage it is now, mainly owing to its high price.
It seems that at first tea was taken without milk. An old book of 1657
states that the English were encouraged to take tea, because it was
recommended by doctors in France, Italy, and other countries of Europe,
so that evidently other nations had tea-drinkers before England. In
September 1660, Samuel Pepys notes that he had his first cup of tea, or
'dish,' as it was called. Many people called the plant 'tay,' in the
eighteenth century, and that name is heard occasionally even now. The
early price varied from four sovereigns, to twice the sum, for a single
pound; afterwards the price was lowered, and the quantity brought over
increased. At the end of the reign of Charles II. only five thousand
pounds were imported annually; by 1700, the number had become twenty-one
thousand, and in 1721, over a million pounds.
FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
The rich men have their gardens,
With blossoms rare and sweet,
Where lilies bloom, and roses
And honeysuckles meet;
And flowers that are the choicest
Within their grounds are seen,
I only have the blossoms
That grow upon the green.
But I think God made the daisies,
That are so fair to see,
Just for the little children--
The little ones like me.
The nobles have their paintings
That hang upon the walls,
Of wealthy lords and ladies,
And vales and waterfalls,
And soldiers out at battle,
And sailors on the deep;
I only look on fields and lanes.
And flowers that wake and sleep,
But I think God made the fields and hills,
And the bright blue sky I see
As pictures for the children--
The little ones like me.
A GOOD COMRADE.
Founded on Fact.
The owner of a vegetable-garden one day noticed that a basket which had
just been filled with new turnips became suddenly emptier. He questioned
the gardener, who likewise could not understand the matter, and
proposed, as a certain means of discovering the thief, that they should
hide themselves behind a hedge which was near. This was done. After some
minutes they saw the house-dog go straight to the basket, take a turnip
in his mouth, and then make his way to the stable. Dogs do not eat raw
turnips; our watchers therefore followed the thief, and discovered that
the horse, his stable mate, was also concerned in the affair.
Wagging his tail, the dog gave the horse the turnip, and the horse, of
course, did not require much pressing. The gardener angrily seized his
knobbed stick in order to chastise the dog, but his master held him
back. The turnips went on disappearing in exactly the same way, and the
scene repeated itself until the supply was exhausted.
The dog had long made this horse his favourite, while he seemed to
consider a second horse which was in the same stable not worthy of a
glance, much less a turnip.
[Illustration: "The dog gave the horse the turnip."]
[Illustration: "The pike seized the wretched stoat."]
AN ARTFUL JACK.
Some True Anecdotes.
Along the river Wey, which flows through Hampshire and Surrey, there is
much wild scenery still, though some parts have been altered of late
years. Many small streamlets, bogs and marshes, ponds and pools, are
delightful to the lover of Nature, no less than to the sportsman. Boys
with nets chase big dragon-flies, fat-bodied moths, and swift
butterflies, and men with guns watch for birds, large or small, which
are numerous. The young birds are also in danger from foxes, who leave
the woodland to hunt by the waterside.
The fish draw many anglers to the river, for the pools and streams have
plenty of fish, not only the small and common kinds, but the trout,
which is eagerly followed to its haunts. Besides trout, the ferocious
pike or jack is not uncommon, good specimens being taken by various
baits, for a jack is not particular what it eats. When cooked, it is a
fish generally liked, though it seldom comes into the shops for sale. It
is rather a handsome fish, being marked with green and bright yellow.
A clever jack will do much to obtain a choice morsel. Roaming along the
banks of the Wey, a man came upon what had once been a good house, in
front of which stood a row of fine yews. It was fast going to ruin, and,
indeed, only a few rooms were occupied. While he was examining it, the
occupier, who knew him slightly, asked him to come in and have some
mead, made from his own honey. After talking a little while, the host
began to tell him his troubles about his young ducks. They went out for
water excursions, as young ducks must, but his wife did not let them
stop out late, because of the foxes; but on the way home, some of them
had lately disappeared mysteriously. He offered to show the spot, and
took his visitor there. The little ducks crossed a broad piece of open
water to get upon a sloping board just as they reached the place; down
into the stream they went, sometimes two at once. The visitor asked his
guide whether he had seen any jack. He said that there were plenty, and
that he had caught several; but there was one big fellow he had noticed
which would not take the bait offered.
'That is the offender!' cried the man; 'he swims up the stream, picks up
a fish here and there till the tiny little ducklings, which are a
delicacy to him, are on the water. If there is one the right size to
suit him, he has it; if not, he goes back to other food. Afterwards he
returns to deep water, but is here again in the evening when the ducks
come home.'
What was to be done was the next question. How could this artful jack be
caught, if he was too dainty to take ordinary bait? Then they thought of
a capital plan. They got a long, straight pole, and fastened to it a
strong bit of pike-line. A dead wood-mouse was obtained and secured to
the line, and at the proper time gently floated over the place where the
ducklings had vanished. The plan answered capitally. Mr. Jack came,
seized the mouse, and was hauled out of the water, and no more ducklings
were lost.
Another instance of a jack's greed was told in one of the newspapers. A
shepherd was passing an ornamental lake one day, when his dog started a
stoat, which ran out from some bushes near the water. The stoat, being
pursued, at last actually jumped into the lake, and swam away. The
shepherd was still watching it, as it swam bravely on, when suddenly the
nose of a large pike shot out of the water close by, and the fish was
seen making straight for the animal. In a few moments it had seized the
wretched stoat, and though the latter struggled hard for its life, all
was in vain. The jack forced the animal beneath the water, and neither
were seen again.
GRAHAM'S LAST PRACTICAL JOKE.
Graham was a very good sort of chap, and everybody liked him except when
he was playing practical jokes. It is all very well to score off another
fellow occasionally, but when it comes to making him howl in school, and
get sent up for a private interview with the Doctor, it is going a bit
too far.
Three times in one week the master of the Lower Fourth had had to send
some one up, and each time it was Graham's fault. The third time the
Doctor himself happened to be in the room, and I noticed that, though he
actually caned _me_, it was Graham that he looked at most.
Some of us say that the Doctor has eyes in the back of his head, because
he sees so many things that he is not expected to see, and I was sure
that day that he had an eye on Graham.
After the third caning, we had a committee meeting in my study, and
decided that something must be done. Wilson wanted to drop Graham into
the pond, and Rupertson suggested that two chaps should hold him down
while the three who had been caned through his jokes gave him a good
thrashing; but Shepherd, the smallest boy in the Fourth, hit on the best
idea, and that was to pay him back in his own coin.
Shepherd had heard him planning with another boy in his dormitory to
dress up as a ghost that very night, and come into ours, and scare us
into fits, and we determined that the most scared chap should be Graham
himself.
We had all been in bed about a quarter of an hour when there was a
rustling sound at the door, and in glided a figure that might have made
us creep if we had not been prepared for it. It had a great head, with
glaring, fiery eyes, which made one feel a little uncomfortable, even
though we knew it was only a turnip. Its body did not show, but only
great shining bones, which Graham had painted on his pyjamas with
phosphorus, just as Shepherd had told us he meant to do.
We kept dead silence till he got to the middle of the room, and then
Shepherd gave the most horrible groan I ever heard. He imitated a real
one splendidly; it finished with a kind of choke.
That was our signal, and we all sprang up and crowded round his bed.
'You have done it now!' cried Rupertson in a terrified voice.
'He's not bad!' gasped the 'ghost.'
'Yes, he is,' replied Rupertson. 'See how white he looks!'
'Who is it?' groaned Graham.
'Sergeant,' said Rupertson.
'No, it is Wilson,' said another voice.
'No, it is not, it is Cranbourne,' said a third; but all the time we
never allowed Graham to get anywhere near the bed, so as to look close.
'He can't be hurt,' repeated Graham. He had thrown down the turnip, and
though we could not see his face, we guessed from his voice that he was
as badly scared as we had meant him to be.
'Perhaps he could be brought round by artificial respiration,' suggested
Shepherd. 'One of you fellows fetch up Smith quickly. He understands
that sort of thing.'
Graham did not wait for the suggestion to be made twice. He ran, and, as
we heard afterwards, he burst into the study where Smith, the Captain of
the House, and, it so happened, the Doctor himself, were having a talk.
'He is dying!' screamed Graham. 'Come quickly and try and save him.'
'Who is dying?' cried the Doctor in amazement.
'Wilson, or Sergeant, or Cranbourne,' gasped Graham.
So they both followed Graham upstairs as fast as they could go--only to
find our dormitory perfectly still and quiet, and every one in it
apparently fast asleep.
'Wilson! Sergeant! Cranbourne! where are you?' called out the Doctor.
'Here, sir,' answered each boy sleepily, sitting up in bed as if
suddenly awakened.
'Is anything the matter with you?' inquired the Doctor.
'Nothing, sir,' they each replied in a surprised voice.
'What is the meaning of this, Graham?' asked the Doctor, sternly.
'I--I don't know sir!' stammered Graham.
'You bring us up here,' continued the Doctor, 'by declaring that three
of your schoolfellows are dying, and I find them all perfectly well and
sound asleep.'
Graham said nothing, but wriggled wretchedly from one leg to another,
hoping that the Doctor would not notice the painted stripes on his
pyjamas or the turnip-head, which was peeping out from under one of the
beds.
'Perhaps you will also explain what brings you into this dormitory at
all?'
But Graham did not attempt any further explanations, and the Doctor went
on: 'I have known for some time, Graham, that you were a little too fond
of playing practical jokes, but if you are going to try them on the
masters, you will soon find that you are carrying things too far. Smith,
is there a cane handy you could lend me?'
We all felt rather sorry for Graham during the next few minutes. It is
not pleasant to interview the Doctor when he is feeling very angry. Not
that I think he really suspected Graham of playing a practical joke on
him, for he must have seen how thoroughly scared he was when he burst
into the study. But the fact was that he had been looking out for an
opportunity of teaching Graham a lesson for some time, and when it came,
he made use of it without asking too many questions.
Anyhow, that was the last practical joke Graham ever played.
FAIRY PICTURES.
Day dawns cold: upon the pane
Artists are at work again,
Tracing ferns and fragile leaves,
Birds that nest beneath the eaves,
Tiny scenes of Fairy-land,
Just to help us understand
All about the fairy men,
Who in summer haunt our glen.
Every morn's a picture-book,
If you will but rise and look!
TELEGRAPH WIRES IN CENTRAL AFRICA.
The animal kingdom in British East Africa looks upon the two thousand
one hundred and ninety miles of telegraph wire, strung throughout that
region, as a novelty to be made use of. A number of creatures are trying
to adapt the wires to their own special purposes, and so the routine of
the telegraph business is more or less crowded with incidents of an
unusual character. The monkeys are simply incorrigible. Many of them
have been shot and thousands frightened; but they cannot get over the
idea that the wires are put there for them to swing upon. They have
ceased to pay much attention to the locomotive, and even the shrieks of
the whistle are not permitted to interfere much with their athletic
performances in mid-air.
Three wires are strung on the same line of poles for five hundred and
eighty-four miles between the Indian Ocean and Victoria Nyanza, where
the monkeys give very complicated performances. In one place they have
even succeeded in twisting the wires together.
The giraffe is also a source of annoyance. He sometimes applies
sufficient force to the bracket on which the wire is fastened to twist
it round, causing it to foul other wires. The hippopotamus is also a
nuisance, because he uses the poles for rubbing-posts and sometimes
knocks them over.
These creatures, however, do not steal the wire. When the copper wire
was stretched north-east from Victoria Nyanza, through the Usoga
country, the natives cut out considerable lengths of it, and at one time
about forty miles of wire were carried away and never recovered. Passing
caravans also found that they could help themselves along the way by
cutting the wire and using it in the barter trade. The temptation was
great and not always resisted, for wire would buy anything the natives
had to sell. But after a great deal of energy this wire-stealing has
been stamped out, and it is to be hoped it may be a thing of the past.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
VI.--THE CHILDHOOD OF THE STARFISH AND THE SEA-URCHIN.
There are probably not many of my readers who cannot tell a starfish or
a sea-urchin at sight, that is to say, a grown-up starfish or urchin;
but to distinguish between them, or even to recognise them at all, in
the days of their infancy is a very different matter. Indeed, only those
who devote their lives to the study of these creatures are able to do
this, and the facts which their labours have brought to light are
curious indeed, though so complex that it would be impossible to
describe them here in full detail.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Young Starfish.]
An outline, however, of what we may call the story of the starfish can
be told readily enough, and without in any way losing aught either of
its importance or its interest.
Briefly, among the starfish people--and including also the sea-urchins
and sea-cucumbers, the curious brittle-stars and feather-stars--parental
care is the exception, and not the rule. Having cast their eggs adrift
upon the sea, the mothers of the families leave the rest to nature. Let
us follow the history of one of these eggs. No sooner is it adrift than
it begins a very remarkable career. Starting at first as a tiny ball, it
divides next into two precisely similar balls, and since these divide
again and again in like manner, we have in a few hours a mass of little
balls, intimately connected with one another, and resembling a mulberry
in appearance, enclosing a hollow space. (Fig. 1.)
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Young Starfish, second stage.]
This stage reached, the end of the first chapter in the life of the
starfish is closed. He has grown so far, it should be noticed, without
eating; but for further progress food is necessary. Now, this food
cannot be taken in without a mouth and some sort of stomach. These are
formed by the simple device of tucking in one side of the ball, just as
one might push in one side of an indiarubber ball; the rim of the hollow
thus formed becomes the mouth, and the hollow into which it leads is the
stomach, while within the space lying between the outer wall and that
portion of the wall which is pushed in--which corresponds to the inside
of the indiarubber ball--the body that is to be begins to be formed. To
grasp this thoroughly, first of all take such a rubber ball as I have
described, and push in one side. Compare it with the illustration (fig.
2).
[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Young Starfish, third stage.]
Soon after the formation of the mouth, our growing starfish develops his
first organs of locomotion. Now, these are neither arms nor legs, but
take the form of short hair-like growths, endowed with the power of
rapid waving motion, whereby the body is propelled through the water.
These are to be seen in the picture of one of these little creatures,
shown for clearness sake as if cut in half. (Fig. 3.)
[Illustration: Fig. 4.--Nearly full-grown Starfish.]
A little later our young starfish has assumed a new shape. Here there is
a large mouth and stomach, while the swimming hairs have all been cast
off except a few arranged in the form of two bands; and, later still,
the creature takes the extraordinary form shown in fig. 4. Swimming by
the motion of waving hairs is now a thing of the past; instead, long
arms have been developed, which perform this work much more effectually,
and these arms are supported by a hard, chalky skeleton. Soon another
little pushing in of the body takes place, and, lo, out of this grows
the body of the starfish that is to be! (as is the middle of fig. 4). In
about forty-five days from the beginning of this eventful history, the
feet and body appear sticking out of the body, whose growth we have been
watching; and, in a very short time after, this chalky skeleton is
destroyed, and the rest of this infantile body cast away, leaving the
fully formed starfish with an entirely new skeleton! Thus, then, wonder
of wonders, this curious creature possesses during its lifetime _two
distinct skeletons_!
[Illustration: Fig. 5.--Young Sea-urchin.]
[Illustration: Fig. 6.-Young Rosy Feather-star.]
The sea-urchin and sea-cucumber undergo similar changes. (See fig. 5.)
So also does the beautiful rosy feather-star, but with certain
modifications too interesting to be passed over. In what we call its
larval body, or its period of childhood, the body takes the form of a
cylinder, as you see in the picture, with a little tuft of swimming
hairs at the bottom, and bands of the same round the body (fig. 6.)
Within this body, as in the starfish, a new body is gradually formed.
Then, as you see in the picture, the inside of the egg-shaped body takes
the form of a long stalk of stony plate, surmounted by a number of
square plates pierced with holes, and these last only are destined to
survive in the body of the adult. Soon after this stage is reached, the
swimming body comes to rest, because the stalked body which it contains
has reached its full development, and takes over the threads of life.
As a consequence, the barrel-shaped swimming body, now useless, is
thrown off, much as a caterpillar throws off its skin, leaving the newly
fashioned body, shaped like a filbert-nut, but rounder, fixed by its
stalk to the ground. In a very little while, however, it puts forth a
number of beautiful moving arms. It is now a sea-lily! And now follows
another change. Breaking away from the traditions of its tribe--the
sea-lilies--it cuts itself off from the stalk, and grows in its place a
number of short finger-like processes, and lo! from a sea-lily it
becomes the rosy feather-star! (What this looks like you can see in fig.
7.) Once more it is able to swim, and this is done by waving movements
of the long arms. When desirous of rest, it drops to the bottom of the
sea, and clutches hold of some bit of rock or branch of seaweed by means
of the bunch of 'fingers' below the body, which we have just described.
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
[Illustration: Fig. 7.--Rosy Feather-star.]
ROSIE.
The Lees were a clever family; all their friends said so. Tom was good
at games, and had carried off several prizes at the school sports; Percy
was a first-class reciter; Emma sang, and played the piano; whilst Alice
drew very well, and had a larger collection of picture post-cards than
any other girl she knew.
Rosie, however, the youngest, was not in any way remarkable: 'Indeed,
you would hardly think her one of us--she is so unlike the rest,' Alice
would say, with a slighting glance at the little sister who never did
anything particular; only worked and helped, and was at everybody's beck
and call.
Rosie was used to being made of small account, and did not mind it much.
When a rich aunt of the Lees announced her intention of coming to pay
them a visit, and then perhaps choosing one of the young people to be
her companion during a long stay in London, it did not for a moment
occur to the little girl that she could be the favoured one. She
listened without jealousy to the chorus of brothers and sisters,
planning what they should do in the event of being chosen.
'I would go to a cricket match at Lord's,' said Tom. 'And I,' said Emma,
'to some of the best concerts.' Alice had fixed her heart on seeing the
picture galleries, and Percy was resolved to hear some great speakers.
Each of them thought it very likely that he, or she, would be Aunt
Mary's choice.
Aunt Mary, when she came, kept her own counsel. She was kind to all her
nephews and nieces, but did not single out one more than another. It was
not until the last day of her stay arrived that she said to their
mother, 'If you will let me have Rosie for a companion, my dear, I shall
be only too glad to take her to town, and give her a really pleasant
time.'
Rosie's surprise, and her disappointment for the sake of her brothers
and sisters, silenced the rest: when they could speak, it was to ask
each other what their aunt could possibly see in her. If they had
overheard a talk between Mrs. Lee and Aunt Mary, later in the day, they
might have understood.
'Your other young people are charming,' said Aunt Mary, 'so bright and
clever; but they are a little--just a little--too apt to be wrapped up
in themselves and their own pursuits. If Rosie goes with me, I shall
have some one who will think of me too, for the child does not seem to
know what selfishness is.'
WAITS.
Some old customs die out very slowly, and even in the neighbourhood of
go-ahead London there are many districts where the waits still go round
a few days before Christmas. But the waits do not treat you with music
for love--they come for payment afterwards.
Why were these Christmas serenaders called waits? About that matter, we
find that opinions differ. One old author says that the waits we have
now, represent the musical watchmen, who were well known in many towns
during the Middle Ages. They sounded a watch at night, after the
inhabitants of the town had gone to bed, and then some of them marched
about the streets to prevent disturbances and robberies--in fact, acted
rather like our modern policemen. 'Wait' it is supposed means 'watch,'
and they had to be in attendance upon judges or magistrates; at the
courts of many of the kings, too, there were the waits who attended upon
royalty, and who had to perform on their instruments, if music was
wanted, by day or night. Another idea was, that the waits who are
connected with Christmas season are meant to be a sort of rude
imitation of the angelic host, who sang in the fields at Bethlehem at
the birth of Christ. This would seem to men in the Middle Ages a very
natural way of illustrating the sacred story.
The old Romans are also said to have had a kind of waits, who were
called Spondaulæ; it was their business to attend upon the priests in
the temples of Jupiter. They sang a poem, accompanied by some wind
instrument, while incense was being burnt, or a sacrifice offered.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 159._)
'Directly Peet appeared with the key,' continued Colonel De Bohun, 'we
made a thorough search, and I do not think there was a nook or corner we
did not examine, even to a considerable distance down the passage. There
was, however, no trace of Estelle. We found in the inner room that the
window had been broken, and a rope was still hanging from it. That
window is not more than three feet from the floor of the room; but, as
you know, the drop from it into the moat must be at least twenty feet.
Whether the child managed to scramble out by means of the rope, or
whether she was carried out, I don't know. Peet insists that Thomas has
had a hand in the matter. A very valuable orchid, which he had been
cultivating in that inner room, has disappeared, and Peet feels sure
that Thomas has stolen it.'
Colonel De Bohun began to tell Lady Coke of the attempts made by Thomas
and another man to enter the ruined summer-house, as witnessed by Alan
and Marjorie, and of Alan's adventure in the cave, but she had become so
faint that he was alarmed. Mademoiselle ran off to fetch a glass of
water, while he did his best to soothe her. She begged, however, for
further details.
Very unwillingly, he went on to tell her how they had dug for a couple
of hours in the effort to penetrate the mass of stones and earth which
the bang of the door had shaken down from the roof. It was extremely
dangerous work, and he had not dared to urge the men to go on with it,
after their efforts revealed no trace of the child. They had also
entered the passage from its cliff end, under the guidance of Alan, but
had not been able to proceed far, the fall of the roof making it almost
as perilous as from the summer-house end.
'There is one strange thing about this unfortunate business,' he
continued, 'which we cannot explain. The dog, Bootles, that had been
with Estelle, was found in the wood, just at the entrance to the
passage. He appeared to be in great distress, and anxious that we should
follow him to the beach.'
'And did you go there?'
'Yes, but we found nothing to help us in our search. He ran about,
snuffing and moaning, and it was only with some trouble we got him to
come away with us.'
'Search till you find the child, Godfrey,' urged Lady Coke, taking the
water which Mademoiselle had now brought to her. 'I shall know no peace
till she is restored to me. My little girl! Confided to me at her dead
mother's wish! How have I fulfilled my trust?'
Her distress exhausted her so much that Colonel De Bohun was rejoiced to
see his wife enter the room, saying she intended to remain the night
with her aunt. The Colonel almost carried his aunt upstairs, promising
that the search should not be given up as long as the faintest hope of
tracing the child remained.
Thomas, for whom a hunt was at once started, had disappeared, and with
him the stranger. No one had seen them; but gradually a rumour got about
that a boat was missing from among the many on the beach of
Tyre-cum-Widcombe, and it was whispered that no one knew the coast
better than the young gardener.
Thomas was just such a person as Lady Coke had described to the children
when she told them the story of Dick. Little bluntings of conscience had
begun his downward career--temptation not at once resisted--then the
gradual yielding as the bribe became more dazzling. And this was how it
happened.
The Moat House was celebrated for its orchid-houses. In no part of his
work did Peet take so deep an interest as in the care of these beautiful
and curious plants. But keen as was his pride and delight in them, it
was fully shared by his mistress, Lady Coke. She visited the hothouses
constantly, frequently bringing her guests to enjoy the sight of the
flowers in full blossom.
Peet had a brother in India, who belonged to the Woods and Forests
Department, and now and again he had received roots and seeds from him
of some more than commonly beautiful plants found in the wilds of the
jungle. Sometimes the attempt to grow these had proved a failure; but
some had richly rewarded the effort. The pleasure taken in the
cultivation of the flowers, and the value of many of them, was pretty
well known to all the under-gardeners, Thomas among them.
It appeared that Peet had lately received a small parcel from India,
which had been packed with even more care than usual. Being busy he had
not had time to examine it till his work was done, when, as he smoked
dreamily in his armchair, he suddenly remembered the little bundle he
had put away in his room. Mrs. Peet was with Dick, who always went to
bed early, and the old gardener was glad to seize the opportunity to
examine his treasure alone. On removing the outer covering, and opening
the box, he discovered a bulb carefully wrapped in cotton fibre, and
under it was a closely written sheet of paper. It was a note from his
brother, relating how he had come across the most curious plant of the
orchid tribe he had ever yet seen. It was not a profuse grower, and he
had only succeeded in finding one or two specimens, in the crevices of
rocks at the entrance to a cavern. This cavern was half-way up a
mountain, and in a cooler climate than most of the plants he had sent
previously. After giving certain particulars as to soil and habits, he
added: 'Its value should be great, as I believe it to be a new
variety--a cave orchid--an unknown species as far as I know.'
Peet examined the bulb, and sat pondering with the letter in his hand.
He was feeling drowsy after his day's work in the heat of August, and it
was in a half-dream that he pictured to himself the scene his brother
described. In the same dreamy way he regretted that no cave answering to
the conditions was available in which he could experiment with the new
plant. Still pondering, he must have fallen asleep, for the next thing
he heard was the voice of his wife, saying, as she laughingly shook him
by the shoulder, 'Why, Father, whatever is the matter?'
He looked up sleepily.
'You're calling out about that there ruined summer-house, and the inside
room, and a plant, as if the whole thing was to be shouted from the
house-tops. A secret, too, for you cry, "Now, don't you be telling my
lady. It's quite a new thing." What does it all mean, anyhow?'
Peet growled, but roused himself, confessing he had been dreaming. No
more was said, but the dream had started ideas at which he smiled even
to himself, and carried out, half ashamed of his queer fancies. He would
keep the plant a secret; it should be cultivated in the inner room of
the ruin, the broad south window of which would provide all the warmth
necessary. He would also carry out his dream by making the orchid a gift
to Lady Coke. Had she not been an angel of goodness to him and his? What
more beautiful an offering could he make in return for all she had done?
Poor Peet! it was his way of proving his gratitude.
The very care with which he guarded his secret had roused the curiosity
of Thomas, and he had spoken of it contemptuously to a friend, a
gardener on a neighbouring estate. It so happened that at that very
moment the man had with him a Dutchman, who had come on business to
England, and had run down to pay a visit to his friend. When Thomas
turned to go, this man offered to accompany him a little way. He soon
found out all that Thomas could tell him about the new plant, which
certainly was not much. Thomas was encouraged, however, to discover all
he could, and promises of a rich reward were held out if the plant
proved to be as rare as Thomas imagined. The man, being a dealer in
bulbs, was fully aware of the probable value of such a discovery, and
took pains to enlarge on the huge prices paid for new specimens. Thomas,
as a boy, had read _The Orchid Hunters_, and was not wholly ignorant of
the vast sums spent in sending men out to various parts of the world,
especially India and South America, to seek for new treasures in these
beautiful plants. He listened, therefore, with eagerness, but at the
same time assured himself he did not intend to steal the plant. He would
only discover all he could, especially where it was to be found, which
the Dutchman told him was the most important point.
It had indeed been 'here a little, there a little;' so little that
Thomas had considered it was not worth thinking about. A bit of
information that was all. Yet it had led to the theft of what he knew to
be of great value, and to the loss of his kind mistress's little ward.
It might well be said, 'How great a matter a little fire kindleth!'
(_Continued on page 172._)
[Illustration: "Peet looked up sleepily."]
[Illustration: "The head of a snake thrust out close to him."]
STORIES FROM AFRICA.
VI.--A TRAVELLER'S TALE.
[Illustration]
The bombardment of Algiers not only broke the power of the pirate
nation, but gave to England a prestige which extended far beyond the
dominions of the Dey; and three Britons who, a few years after Lord
Exmouth's campaign, started from Tripoli on an expedition into the wilds
of West Africa, found the fame of their countrymen stand them in good
stead. Two out of the three, Major Denham and Lieutenant Clapperton,
R.N., had won their laurels already in the great war with France, and,
being but little over thirty, were by no means disposed to settle down
quietly on half-pay. These two, and their companion, Dr. Audney, had
felt that strange summons which comes to one man and another in every
age and nation, the call into the unknown, into the mysterious places
where none of their race have ever trod. And if they did not expect to
meet men with heads growing below their shoulders, such as the mediæval
travellers looked for, yet the heart of Africa might hold marvels almost
as strange. Seventeen years before, Mungo Park, the great Scottish
explorer, who set forth for the last time to follow the course of the
river Niger, had passed away into the silence of the unknown land. It
was hoped that this new expedition might succeed in recovering his
papers and journal.
The party started from Tripoli early in December. Their journey at first
was quite a triumphal progress; the English dress and speech were
honoured everywhere, and the strangers treated with the reverence due to
the representatives of the great unknown king whose sailors had
conquered Algiers. Many were the questions asked about the mighty
monarch, and we may be sure that the magnificence of the mysterious
'Sultan George' (King George III. of England) lost nothing in the
description his subjects gave of him. There were delays, however, owing
to the bad faith of the Sultan of Tripoli, and it was not till February
that the expedition reached the city of Kouka, the capital of Bornu.
Strange indeed is the description of this wealthy city, where the Sultan
sat to receive his visitors behind the bars of a golden cage, and where
corpulence was looked upon as so necessary a part of a fine figure that
the young dandies of the calvary regiments padded themselves out to the
proper size, if they had the misfortune to be naturally thin.
The travellers had plenty of time to study the peculiarities of the
place, being detained there some time, first from want of camels for the
journey, and then by Dr. Audney's serious illness. Major Denham, growing
weary of inaction, and hearing that the Sultan of Kouka was planning an
attack upon a neighbouring tribe, begged leave to accompany the
expedition. The Sultan, who was very much impressed by the importance of
the English visitors, and by the idea of the pains and penalties that
might follow if any harm came to them, refused for some time to let him
go, and it was not until the last moment before the departure of the
expedition that the Major wrung from him permission to be of the party.
In fact, it _was_ rather a doubtful proceeding for a member of a
peaceful mission, and Major Denham freely owns in his journal that the
attack was unjustifiable and did not deserve to succeed. However,
neither he nor any of his personal attendants took part in the fighting,
and the opportunity of seeing the country and the native methods of
warfare, together with the chance of an adventure, were too attractive
to be missed; and certainly, so far as excitement was concerned, the
daring Englishman got enough and to spare before he rejoined his friends
at Kouka.
The attacking party found the enemy stronger than they had expected, and
their advance on the position they hoped to storm was met by storms of
poisonous arrows, which scattered their cavalry in hopeless disorder.
Major Denham found himself obliged to turn his horse's head with the
rest, and fly before the foe, who followed with yells of vengeance, and
fresh flights of the deadly arrows.
Denham's horse was wounded and fell with him, then, maddened by fright
and pain, struggled up, unseating his rider, and dashed away into the
bush, leaving the Major surrounded by the enemy. He received two
spear-wounds, mercifully not poisoned, was instantly stripped of most of
his clothes by his captors, and gave himself up for lost. But the novel
garments so delighted the natives that they left the late wearer while
they wrangled over the spoils.
Denham, wounded as he was, determined on a dash for safety, slipped into
the bushes, and ran as fast as he could, the thorns of the tropical
plants tearing his defenceless feet as he went. A river, flowing between
high banks, barred his way, and he had seized a bough to swing himself
down when a new peril appeared--the head of a snake, one of the most
deadly of African serpents, thrust out close to him from among the dense
foliage! Either the horror-stricken fugitive lost his hold, or his
involuntary recoil broke the bough to which he clung; at any rate he
fell headlong into the stream below him. The shock of the cold plunge
brought back his failing senses, and he struck out boldly for the
opposite bank, reaching it in safety, though almost at the end of his
powers. He had distanced his pursuers for the time being, but his
position, as he dragged himself ashore, was terrible enough to have
daunted even his brave spirit. He was alone in the enemy's country,
wounded, without food or weapons, and night coming on--the night of
tropical Africa, when the reign of wild-beast life begins. His first
thought was to find some tree, into which he could climb and put himself
out of reach of prowling leopards; then the remembrance of his late
narrow escape recalled the fact that there were dangers in the branches
as horrible as any on the ground; and while he hesitated, it seemed as
if the question were to be decided for him, for suddenly upon his ears
came the gallop of horse's hoofs, and an armed band bore down upon him.
For a moment Major Denham thought all was over, for he was past further
flight and had no weapon. Then, as one of the new-comers dashed up to
him, he recognised, with relief and thanks, the negro servant of the
Sultan's chief officer. They were his friends, flying in disorder
indeed, but mounted and armed, and able, in some sort, to protect their
guest. There was no time to be lost. The Englishman, draped in classical
fashion in an exceedingly dirty blanket, was helped on to the
bare-backed horse ridden by the negro, and the flight continued with all
possible speed. It was a terrible journey, with constantly diminishing
numbers, for men and horses, wounded by poisoned arrows, dropped and
died on the way.
Denham learned later on that a consultation was held over him, while he
lay sleeping from sheer exhaustion during a short halt, in which some of
the party urged that it was folly to hamper the flight by the burden of
a man who would probably die. One man, however, spoke up stoutly for the
unconscious foreigner, vowing that one who had been preserved through so
much must be fated to be saved. To him Major Denham owed it that, after
infinite danger, pain and fatigue, he arrived, with the remnants of the
army, at Kouka, and lived to set foot again, two years later, on English
shores, there to delight the stay-at-homes with such a traveller's tale
as has rarely been equalled, even from the mysterious land of the 'ever
new.'
SANTA CLAUS'S POSTMAN.
'Twas Santa Claus's Postman!
I heard him singing low
Among the trees beyond the hill,
And through the valley dark and still,
Where frozen rushes grow.
And cosy 'neath my counterpane
I listened as he sang,
While miles, and miles, and miles away
I heard him cross the marshes grey,
Till close to where I snugly lay,
His changing carol sang.
I heard him slam the garden gate
As o'er the lawn he crossed,
Till, half in fright, I raised my head
To hear how through the grove he sped;
Then far away, and farther still,
By vale and wood and moor and hill,
His noisy song was lost.
Upon the pillow, soft and white,
I nestled down once more,
To think about this Postman, who
Goes singing all the dark world through,
And beats a noisy, wild tattoo
On every winter door.
And when again with joy I saw
The frosty sunshine glow,
I quickly drew the blind aside,
And through the frosty window spied
The letters he had scattered wide
In drifts of dazzling snow.
The leafless trees stood mute and still
By snowy field and lawn;
Each twig was graced with whiteness new,
And everything that met the view
Showed how the Storm, the Postman true.
Had done his work and--gone.
THE HOOF-MARK ON THE WALL.
A German Legend.
If you visit the Castle of Nuremberg, in South Germany, you are certain
to be shown a mark, said to be that of a horse's hoof, on the top of the
outer wall; and the following story will be told to you, to account for
its presence.
Some four hundred years ago there was constant war between the Count of
Gailingen and the citizens of Nuremberg, and, after numerous encounters,
the Count had at last the misfortune to fall into the hands of his
enemies, and was at once imprisoned in one of the gloomy dungeons of
Nuremberg Castle.
This was bad enough, but worse was to follow, for, on the meeting of the
magistrates, the young Count was sentenced to be beheaded, and the
sentence was to be carried out on the following day.
First of all, however, according to an old Nuremberg custom, the
condemned man was allowed to have a last request granted--whatever that
request might be.
'Let me.' said the Count, 'once more mount my faithful charger, and ride
him round the courtyard of the castle.'
No sooner said than done! The beautiful black steed, that had so often
carried his master to victory, was saddled, and horse and master met
once more under the open sky.
The Count patted the horse's arched neck, and leapt into the saddle; the
horse began to prance and kick up his heels, as he had been taught to
do. This made such a dust that the attendants were glad to shelter
themselves in the guard-room.
'Let the Count enjoy himself; it is his last chance,' said his jailers.
'Our walls are too high for escape, and we can take things easily.'
So they troubled themselves but little over either horse or rider, and
the Count felt that now or never was his chance.
The walls were very high, and beyond them was a wide ditch, so that his
jailers were right in thinking escape impossible. Yet 'impossible' is an
unknown word to some men, and the Count was one of these.
He bent down caressingly over his horse's mane, and whispered some words
in his ear. Whether the good beast really understood or not cannot be
said, but the next minute there was a rapid gallop across the courtyard.
The Count dug his spurs deeply into the sides of his steed, and the
latter, with a supreme effort, bounded up, and reached the wide brim of
the castle wall. An instant's pause, and he had leaped the wide ditch,
and in a few seconds more both horse and rider were out of reach of all
pursuers.
This story _must_ be true, say the Nuremberg people, for there stands
the print of the horseshoe on the wall to this day!
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
VI.--THE SOUNG, OR BOAT-SHAPED HARP OF THE BURMESE, AND ARPA OR DRUM OF
OCEANA.
[Illustration]
All the world over, tradition tells of harp-shaped instruments, usually
played by mysterious harpists in the cool depths of river or ocean. In
Scandinavian lore, Odin, under the name of Nikarr, was wont to play on a
harp in his home beneath the sea, and from time to time allowed one or
more of his spirits to rise through the waters and teach mortals the
strains of another world.
[Illustration: The Burmese Soung.]
According to Finnish mythology, a god invented the five-stringed harp
called 'Kantele,' which was for many centuries the national instrument
of Finland. His materials were simple--the bones of a pike, with teeth
of the same for tuning pegs, and hair from the tail of a spirited horse
for strings. Alas! that harp fell into the sea and was swept away, and
so the inventive god set to work to make another, this time of birchwood
with pegs of oak, strung with the silky hair of a very young girl. This
completed, he sat down to play, with magical results. Wild beasts became
tame, birds flocked from the air, fishes from the sea, to hear the
wonderful sounds; brooks paused on their way and winds held their breath
to listen. Women began to cry, then men followed their example, and at
last the god himself wept, and his tears fell into the sea, changing on
their way to beautiful pearls.
According to Greek mythology, Hermes made a lyre, which is a kind of
harp, out of the shell of a tortoise, and on a vase in the Museum at
Munich is a figure of Polyhymnia playing a harp with thirteen strings,
of the form which was used in Assyria.
[Illustration: The Arpa.]
The harp (the Soung) shown in the illustration is a favourite Burmese
instrument, and is chiefly used to accompany the voice: it is always
played by young men. It also has thirteen strings, made of silk, and is
tuned by the strings being pushed up or down on the handle. It would
sound strange to our ears, as the Burmese scale is differently
constructed from ours. Every learner of music knows, or ought to know,
that our scale has the semi-tones between the third and fourth, and the
seventh and eighth notes, which gives a smooth progression satisfactory
to our ears; but the Burmese scale places the semi-tones between the
second and third and the fifth and sixth, which is quite different and
to us has not nearly such a pleasant effect. The Soung is held with the
handle resting on the left arm of the performer, who touches the strings
with his right hand.
The Arpa or drum of Oceana is made of wood, and imitates the head and
jaws of a crocodile, with a handle for carrying purposes. The head is
covered with snake-skin, which sometimes gives it an unpleasantly real
appearance. It is used by the natives of New Guinea, especially by those
dwelling around the Gulf of Papua.
HELENA HEATH.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 167._)
The mysterious loss of their cousin Estelle plunged the three children
into the deepest grief. Alan's sole consolation was that he was allowed
to be of the search-party as soon as he was well enough. Marjorie had
not this consolation. Georgie had some dim idea of creeping away all by
himself to search all their haunts on the common, or in the woods round
St. Cecilia's Well; but a timely remembrance of how stern his father
could be prevented him. Finally, the thought of Aunt Betty, and how
sorry she would be if he disobeyed orders and went wandering all about
the country alone, made him give up the desire. But it seemed very hard
to be obliged do so.
[Illustration: "It seemed as if the whole roof must be coming down."]
Marjorie was overwhelmed with grief, and shut herself up in her room
that she might be alone, since she could not talk to her mother. Lady
Coke being seriously ill, Mrs. De Bohun was unable to leave her for
more than a few minutes now and then. It was a terrible time for them
all, especially as day after day passed and no clue came to guide the
searchers. Colonel De Bohun was constantly stirring up the police, or
riding about the country, with Alan at his side, trying to gather some
information. Nor were he and Alan alone in the search. The whole
neighbourhood, rich and poor alike, were on the alert, in doing all in
their power to help, though their efforts were fruitless. On hearing all
that Alan had to tell, many believed that Estelle must have been crushed
under the falling stones; or else, should she have succeeded in getting
through the passage, she must have fallen into the sea, and have been
swept away by the tide.
Colonel De Bohun consequently consulted the sailors at the coastguard
station. The officer, who was a personal friend, said that the tide had
been quite deep enough at the hour mentioned to have swept the little
girl away, and the currents were very strong in and around the bay. The
evening had been memorable to him, for a French fishing vessel had been
daring enough to ply its nets in English waters--that is, within the
three-mile limit--and he had sent the news to one of the revenue
gunboats. The stranger had, however, been so cleverly handled that it
had got away in time, and no chase had been made.
Meantime the Earl of Lynwood had to be informed. No one was surprised
when a telegram was received telling them that he had started for home,
and would be with them as quickly as train and boat could bring him.
This news depressed the children even more. It seemed to them that all
hope of finding Estelle must have been given up before so serious a step
as sending for their uncle had to be taken. But this their father
denied. He comforted them with hopes that their uncle might think of
fresh measures which might be more successful in discovering some trace
of their cousin.
Lord Lynwood's arrival certainly caused the search to be renewed with
vigour; but, alas! as time went on, hope dwindled, and there was
scarcely a person who believed the little girl to be alive. Lord Lynwood
was almost the only person who refused to give up the search. It was
quite possible, he said, that she had been carried off by Thomas or his
companion, in spite of Alan's not seeing her with them.
Clinging to the idea, the Earl sent for detectives and put the matter
into their hands. They had means for carrying out their researches at
home and abroad, which must, he considered, lead to obtaining some
information sooner or later.
Meanwhile, the Earl lingered on at the Moat House as long as his leave
of absence allowed, hoping to see his aunt become a little stronger, and
to give her what comfort he could by his presence. Her patient trust in
Him Who could bring good out of evil was a great consolation to the
saddened father in the sorrow that had fallen upon him.