CHAPTER XI.

'Asleep still? Is there any hope, Mother?'

'Sh! The doctor thinks she will wake about four o'clock, and I am on the

watch to give nourishment as soon as she can take it.'

'I asked the doctor what he thought, and he says, if the poor little

thing comes to herself and speaks collectedly, why, there's every hope

of her getting on fair and bright. But it all depends on that.'

'I am that anxious I don't know what to expect, and I don't care to look

one way or the other. But we must not be talking so close to her, or she

will be waking before her time. You stir up the fire, Jack, and just see

that the soup isn't too warm for her to drink, and I will watch here

quiet a bit. It will be hard to lose her after such long weeks of

nursing.'

Jack went away to do as he was bid, in the silent manner of one

experienced in sick nursing; as well as in many another work to which

the 'handy man' is so often called during a life spent at sea. Mrs.

Wright, seating herself on a chair close to the little bed, took up her

work, and soon nothing was heard in the room but the click of the rapid

knitting-needles.

Jack, having put the soup where it would keep just warm, slipped out of

the room, letting the curtain at its entrance fall behind him. The sun

was touching the white bedclothes with a lingering ray. Passing softly

away, it left the room in shade which felt pleasant after the hot day.

The sick child moved. Just a faint motion of the head, a trembling of

the eyelids, and a sigh. Mrs. Wright stopped her work to look. Estelle

stirred again, slightly.

How long she had slept she did not know. She felt warm and comfortable,

but not in the least inclined to get up. It seemed to be morning, too,

for the light appeared quite bright. How weak she was! It was an effort

to open her eyes. Not even to save her life could she have raised

herself. Somebody came to her and put something in her mouth with a

spoon, but she was too tired to see who it was; so, without trying to

think, she dropped asleep once more.

When she awoke again she felt stronger, and, hearing a movement, opened

her eyes. A strange face was bending over her; a sweet face, though old,

wrinkled, and weather-beaten. Estelle stared at it in amazement. A poor

woman, evidently, but clean and tidy in her coarse blue serge dress and

white apron. A black lace cap almost concealed her grey hair, and in her

hands was a great bundle of knitting. Seeing the child was awake she

hastily put this down, and brought some broth from a little saucepan

over the fire.

'Now, my dearie, you just swallow this,' she said, 'and we shall have

you about in no time.'

So gently and cheerily did she speak that Estelle smiled, and made an

effort to lift her head to take the soup, which smelt most delicious.

'We have not come to that yet, my dear,' said the old woman, smiling.

'But it will come! it will come! You will be running about as blithe

and strong as ever, please God, in a week or two. But there's no hurry.

Lie still and rest now. You'll get up all the better for it.'

Putting her arm round the child, she held the cup to her lips with the

skill born of long practice in nursing.

'What! every drop?' she cried, as she arranged Estelle comfortably on

her pillows. 'That's something like, and better than you have done for a

very long time. Do you know that? If you go on as well as this, we shall

have you up in no time.'

'Where am I?' whispered the child; then wondered at the faint, far-away

sound of her own voice.

'With those who will care for you till you are well again,' returned the

old woman, smiling encouragingly, and smoothing the closely cropped head

tenderly.

All Estelle's lovely curly locks had been cut off. Her thin face looked

thinner than ever.

'Have I been ill?'

'Indeed you have. But you're getting better every day. Now, you must not

talk any more. Try to sleep.'

When Estelle next awoke it seemed to be night. A candle, shaded by an

open book, was burning in one corner of a low room, a fire of logs

smouldered on the hearthstone, and in the light they gave she could see

the woman asleep in an old-fashioned armchair, which had head-rests on

each side of its upright back. She looked very tired, Estelle thought.

There were deep shadows on her face, and the flickering firelight gave

it a very sad expression. Estelle wondered why she did not go to bed

instead of sitting up in a chair, wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes

wandered from the woman, round the room. She could not imagine where she

was. Never in her life had she seen such a room. It was very low, the

black ceiling making it appear even lower than it actually was. The

window was merely a square hole, without curtain or blind. The furniture

was scanty--indeed, she could see nothing but a cupboard and a table

with a basin and jug on it. The walls were black and grey, like rock,

and a thick curtain hung over what might be the door.

Staring at this curtain in puzzled astonishment, Estelle saw it move and

sway. A man entered the room with the noiseless tread of a sailor. He

was so very tall, with shoulders so broad, that he seemed to till the

little room; his head almost touched the ceiling. A neatly trimmed

sailor's beard of dark hair gave him a fierce aspect, but he did not

appear to be really fierce, for he bent very tenderly over the sleeping

woman without rousing her. Estelle watched him with great curiosity.

What did he want there? To her dismay, he soon turned round, and,

approaching the bed, looked down at her. Seeing she was awake, he put

his finger to his lips for silence; then slipping away in the same

noiseless fashion, he quickly brought her some warm milk, which he gave

her most deftly.

'Poor Mother's quite worn out,' he whispered. 'We will let her have her

sleep out. Do you want anything more? Shall I move you?'

Estelle smiled, but shook her head. She thought he would leave the room

when he found there was no more to be done, but he lay down at full

length before the fire, after putting on an extra log or two. Once more

silence reigned, and Estelle fell asleep.

But though she was able to rouse herself a little now and then, she lay

for the greater part of the day in a dreamy state, often dropping

asleep, and having to be coaxed to take the necessary nourishment. Very

white and frail she looked, as if it would not take much of a puff to

blow her away. Nevertheless, each day brought an increase of appetite

and strength, and each day she grew fonder of her careful, tender nurse,

as well as of Mrs. Wright's giant son. As Estelle grew stronger, she

began to notice how the two loved each other with no ordinary love. 'Her

Jack' was everything to his mother; yet Estelle, listening in the

dreamy, half-conscious way produced by extreme weakness, was sure she

heard a sigh sometimes when Mrs. Wright was speaking of him. Jack's

manner, too, often made Estelle think he had hurt his mother in some

way, and was trying his best to make up to her for it by love and

devotion.

(_Continued on page 198._)

MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

VI.-PLYMOUTH BREAKWATER.

[Illustration]

Through Mr. John Rennie, the builder of London Bridge, was the chief

designer and engineer of the Plymouth Breakwater, the waves of the

English Channel gave him great assistance; and unlike other workmen,

they asked for no pay. We shall see presently how they worked. In 1806,

the Lords of the Admiralty made up their minds, for good and all, that

something _must_ be done to make the splendid harbour of Plymouth Sound

a safer place of refuge in case of storm. Mr. John Rennie and another

engineer, named Whidbey, were asked to go to Plymouth and look at the

Sound, and then say what they thought should be done.

The authorities took five years to make up their minds. But Rennie

persistently called attention to the map of Plymouth Sound.

'If you build a long stone pier out from either shore so as to break the

force of the waves,' said he, 'you will interfere with the free flow of

the currents from the river-mouths, and cause them to drop the sand and

soil, which they are ever carrying out to sea, until the harbour-mouth

is choked by them. The harbour has been formed into its present shape by

the free actions of current and tide, and if these be altered by

artificial means, the shape and safety will be destroyed.' Then he went

on to explain that the proper thing to do was to build a wall in the

Sound itself, without letting it touch the land at either end. The

tides, thus only slightly confined between the shores and wall-ends

(but allowed to run in their old accustomed channels), would keep their

channels free. The Lords of the Admiralty thought it all over, and on

the 22nd June, 1811, issued an order for the work to begin.

Then no more time was lost. Down to Plymouth went the engineer and his

staff again. They searched for a quarry to dig the stone from, and found

it at Oreston, in the north-east corner of the Sound. In March, 1812,

crowbar and gunpowder began to be busy there. Meanwhile, on the water of

the Sound, two and a half miles south of Plymouth Town, a number of

buoys were moored in two parallel lines, extending over a distance of

one thousand two hundred yards, east and west. They marked the place

where the great barrier was to be built, and their anchors partly lay on

a reef of dangerous, submerged rocks, and partly in deep water. By the

time they were safely fixed, the first shiploads of stone were ready.

But ten of the ships were not like other ships. All along the deck and

all down the middle of the lower part of the vessel, ran lines of rails,

and on these were small trucks each carrying one large stone. The stones

varied in weight from half a ton to ten tons and more. They were

rough-hewn from the quarry, for as Rennie was going to let the sea build

the wall, it was better that the stones should be irregular in shape.

Each ship, being loaded, sailed to the line of the buoys, and, safely

moored to one of them, proceeded to unload. This was done by wheeling

the trucks, one after another, to an opening in the stern, where the

truck was tilted on one end and the huge stone toppled into the water.

The process of unloading took each ship about three-quarters of an hour.

There were forty-five other ships, each capable of carrying some fifty

tons of small stones and rubble. These latter cargoes were shot into the

water in much the manner that ordinary ballast is unloaded.

The first large stone, marking the beginning of Plymouth Breakwater,

went gurgling to the bottom of the Sound on August 12th, 1812, amid the

flutter of flags and the booming of cannon. It was the Prince Regent's

birthday, and Lord Keith, commander of the Channel Fleet, came to

witness the beginning of the great task. The stone fell on a spot called

the Shovel Rock, near the centre of the lines of buoys, and was very

soon covered by rubble from the next ship. Then the procession was kept

up with such diligence that by the end of the following March, the top

of the pile peeped above the water at low tide--forty-three thousand

seven hundred and eighty-nine tons had been dropped! Bit by bit this

point of new land grew longer and longer, until it became possible for

workmen to disembark upon it, and when a storm broke in March, 1814, a

number of ships were glad to seek its shelter, among them being the

famous warship, _Queen Charlotte_. So satisfactory was the protection it

even then afforded, that the engineers decided to raise it higher than

was originally intended, not stopping until two feet above high water

was reached; thus rendering the water between it and Plymouth calm

enough for small vessels.

[Illustration: Plymouth Breakwater.]

When making his survey, Rennie had come to the conclusion that the slope

of his great bank of stones, where it faced the open sea, should be at

an angle of five feet to one. That is, in climbing from the bed of the

sea, it should rise one foot in every length of five. But others did not

agree with him, and the slope was made three feet to one, until the

waves themselves took up the argument, and proved that John Rennie was

right. In 1817, they broke over the bank in such a storm that large

quantities of stone on the seaward side were swept over the top, and

littered down the opposite side. When the gale was over, examination

proved that the sea-slope was five to one. Yet for seven years more this

curious dispute was kept up, and not until 1824, when Rennie had been

dead for three years, did the sea at last have its way, and convince

those in authority that it (and Rennie) knew what the proper slope

should be. On November 23rd, 1824, so fierce was the storm that it

hurled several thousands of tons of ponderous stones from one side of

the Breakwater to the other. That was the final word, and the Breakwater

stands to-day as the sea ordered it.

[Illustration: "The weight of the two birds had the desired effect."]

When this huge pile of loose stones and rubble more than a mile long,

rising from a broad base at the bottom of the sea, had been formed into

a close mass by the action of the waves, a coating of masonry was laid

over them. At either end, east and west, the great wall bends slightly

for a short distance northward, and is finished in a circular platform

of solid masonry. At the west end stands a handsome lighthouse; at the

east, a beacon, and between these and the shore are the two entrances to

the harbour--one a quarter of a mile wide, and the other three-quarters.

The width of the wall at the top is forty-five feet, but at the bottom

it is three hundred and sixty feet, and weighs nearly four million tons.

Surely it would be a boisterous sea that would carry this away. Its

total cost was about one million five hundred thousand pounds, and it

was finished in 1848.

Before the lighthouse was built, it became necessary to warn vessels of

the position of the new sea-wall, and for more than twenty years a

lightship burned a signal there. This was the state of affairs when that

terrible storm of 1824 swept up the Sound, and among the wrecks it

caused was one of an unusual character. A small vessel, laden with cork,

was nearing the mouth of the Sound, when she was suddenly struck by a

violent gust of wind and turned completely over. The captain, a boy, and

two passengers were the only ones below at the time, and these, finding

the water rushing in, sought refuge in the ship's coal-hole, which,

owing to the reversed position of the hull, was now above them instead

of below. In total darkness, and lapped by the encroaching water, they

floated thus for six hours. In the early morning they struck against the

west point of the Breakwater, heeled over it and drifted toward the

lightship. Those on board the latter, little thinking that the wreck had

life on it, pushed the hull away with poles, and, caught by the tide, it

soon drifted from sight. Three hours later it appeared again. The return

tide had washed it back, and a little later a larger wave than usual

carried it on to the rough stones of the unfinished Breakwater, where it

held fast. The water receded, and the four unhappy voyagers crept out on

to the rocks, to be rescued half an hour later by a pilot boat. Such was

one of the unexpected services rendered by the Breakwater at Plymouth;

but its expected benefits, worthily accomplished, have been too numerous

to record.

JOHN LEA

UNION IS STRENGTH.

A True Anecdote.

A water-hen, seeing a pheasant feed out of one of those mechanical boxes

which open when the bird stands on the rail in front of the box, went

and stood in the same place, as soon as the pheasant quitted it. Finding

that its weight was not sufficient to raise the lid of the box, it kept

jumping upon the rail to try to open it. It could net succeed in lifting

the lid sufficiently high, and so the clever bird went away, and

returned with another bird of its own species. The weight of the two had

the desired effect, and they both enjoyed the reward of their sagacity.

LITTLE WORKERS.

I saw a little flake of snow

Fall down towards the land;

'Twas such a tender little thing,

It rested on my hand.

But after, when I went abroad,

And looked on field and hill,

The snow had covered everything,

And all the land was still.

I saw a little daisy-bud

Peep upwards through the green;

It was a tiny little flower,

And yet it promised spring.

And when the summer days had come,

The little blossoms fair

Had made a carpet red and white

That covered everywhere.

A child--it is a little thing,

How weak its hands! how small!

What tiny footsteps it doth take,

How soon 'twill slip and fall!

Yet all the wonders of the world.

The towers and castles fair,

Were thought and planned and built by men,

Who once small children were.

A NEGLECTED SALUTE.

An anecdote is told of one of the sons of the German Emperor which shows

that the faults of youth are common to all ranks, and that princes, no

less than ordinary boys, require to be trained in the way they should

go.

This little prince was a great favourite, and his winning ways made him

very popular. It was always his delight to receive the military salute

when he passed through the palace gates, and for this reason he looked

forward to his daily walk with his tutor.

But in the nursery he was inclined to be unruly, and there was at one

time great trouble in making him take his morning bath. One day, to his

surprise, when he rebelled he was allowed to go without it, and he

thought he had certainly gained the upper hand.

Later in the morning, when he passed the sentinel, the usual salute was

not given. He stormed and raged, but no notice was taken. At luncheon,

the little prince, with tears of wrath, complained of the insult which

had been offered him, fully expecting the immediate punishment of the

sentinel.

But the Emperor only shook his head. 'What else could you expect' he

said. 'Surely you did not imagine that the guard would salute a dirty

boy?'

After this there was no more trouble about the morning tubs.

A STORY OF THE UNFORESEEN.

'It's no good, Baker, the thing we must decide is whether Billy or

Pottles will give us the most lines; for we shall get them from one or

the other, and that's certain.'

'Bosh! there's another two days yet before we must have the books back,

and, at any rate, I know where Billy has put them.'

'What's the good of that? We are not allowed in the school buildings

except in work-hours, and then, if his study is not locked, it's because

Billy himself is inside it. If you could get him out without locking the

door, in the lunch-hour, there would be some use in all your ideas.'

'If I could make him put his head out of the window, that would do quite

as well,' said Baker, meditatively. 'The books are on the cupboard just

inside the door.'

Paynton laughed. 'It would take an awful uproar in the quad to wake

Billy, and if we are creating an uproar, how are we to fetch the books

out? It is all your fault. Whatever made you say Billy's window was the

window of our class-room?'

'Well, I thought it was.'

'You shouldn't think, you should be sure. If only we'd thrown in

anything but the algebra books it would have been all right; but Pottles

promised to teach us a lesson next time we came to class without them,

and you know what that means.'

'Shut up, Paynton--I've got an idea.'

'I hope it's a better one than throwing books in at wrong windows,' said

his friend, and the two boys went along together still arguing busily.

Baker and Paynton were the despair of Mr. Potter, the master of the

Lower Fourth, rudely called Pottles behind his back; and even Mr.

Wilson, the somewhat absent-minded Head Master, nicknamed Billy by his

irreverent scholars, was beginning to wonder whether it would not be

better to suggest to the parents to try whether sending them to a fresh

school would have any effect on them. It was useless to cane them, it

was useless to give them 'lines.' They took their punishment as the

natural part of a day's work that was otherwise devoted to 'scoring off'

the masters and avoiding the pursuit of knowledge. On this occasion Mr.

Wilson had by no means forgotten that he had ordered the two boys to

come to his study to claim the books that they had thrown in there by

mistake, but he was rather glad that they did not arrive at once, as he

wanted to think of some fresh means of impressing them.

* * * * *

The following morning when the upper school began its lunch interval,

the lower was being drilled in the 'quad,' round three sides of which

ran the school buildings. On the fourth was an iron railing with the

big school-gates in the middle, and at one of the windows appeared Baker

and Paynton as soon as the bell rang. At the next window Mr. Wilson's

back was visible as he wrote at his study table.

'Right, left; right, left!' drilled the sergeant, and the small boys

marked time steadily. But his instructions were suddenly cut short, for

something charged through the gates behind him and stretched the

unfortunate man flat on his back. By the time he had raised himself

again to a sitting posture and had begun to wonder what could have

happened, he found that the orderly lines had disappeared, and that the

whole of the lower school, headed by a rough-looking farm-boy with a

piece of broken rope in his hand, was engaged in chasing the most wily

and cunning black pig that ever made his escape. He dodged and doubled

turned and twisted, charged down the small boys and avoided the large

ones, till the whole 'quad' resounded with cries of 'Catch on to his

tail!' 'Don't let him pass you!' 'There he goes!' and the windows began

to fill with interested spectators. At last Mr. Wilson himself threw

open his own window to see what was happening.

A few minutes later Baker and Paynton sauntered into the 'quad' and

joined in the chase, which was ended, eventually by the pig being driven

into a corner, so as to allow the farm-boy to refasten the rope.

By that time Mr. Wilson had also descended, and was inquiring sternly

into the meaning of the pig's presence in his school-yard.

'Well, it's this way,' drawled the boy stolidly, 'it's no use trying to

keep this pig shut up, and a pig that isn't shut up puts on no fat, so

Farmer Jones says to me on Monday, "Bill, that pig's no good; take him

into market on Thursday and see what you can get for him," and just as

he was passing your gate he broke his rope and in he bolted.'

'Well, another time see that he breaks his rope somewhere else,' said

the Head Master.

'He won't have another chance of breaking ropes with me,' said the boy

as he touched his hat and turned away. Then he caught sight of Baker on

the outskirts of the crowd.

'Oh, there you be, Master Baker,' he said with a grin;' if so be as you

could give me that sixpence now it would save me another walk into

town.'

'Why does Master Baker owe you sixpence?' inquired Mr. Wilson with

interest.

'Oh! he lives next door to Jones's, he does, and he says to me yesterday

when we was talking together, "Bill, if you do a job for me, I'll give

you sixpence," and I've done it and I want my money.'

'The job in question being to drive that pig into the school-yard?' said

the Head Master sharply.

'I said I'd say nothing about it and I won't,' answered the boy

stolidly.

Mr. Wilson eyed Baker with an air of meditation that took in everything

from the guilty expression on his face to the algebra book under his

arm.

'Give the boy his money, Baker,' he said, 'and I should like to see you

and Paynton in the study after afternoon school.'

'You won't catch me following any more of your precious plans,' said

Paynton, as, having paid the sixpence, the two boys hurried back to

their class-room.

* * * * *

When they entered the Head Master's study in the afternoon, a surprise

awaited them. Tea, accompanied by the most delicious cakes, was prepared

on the corner table, and Mr. Wilson talked to them and pressed the good

things upon them as if there were no such thing as a cane in the

cupboard behind the door. Under these strange new circumstances, their

awkwardness wore off, and they were soon talking to their Head Master in

a manner that surprised themselves.

It was not until tea was over that Mr. Wilson mentioned either the pig

or the algebra books, and then he did it in such a friendly way that he

astonished them more than ever.

'Well, now, about the pig this morning,' he began, 'suppose you arranged

the whole business in order to make me look out of the window, and give

you an opportunity of regaining the algebra books which you thought I

had forgotten?'

'Yes, sir,' said Baker, feebly.

'And I expect it was something to do with you two boys that the school

fire-brigade was summoned out by a false alarm last week, and that no

one could go into your class-room without the most frightful attacks of

coughing, one day in the week before.'

Baker nodded, but said nothing. He was wondering why he had ever

considered the Head Master absent-minded. Even Mr. Potter had not

connected him with either of these two exciting events.

'Well, these things all show a very high power of organization. You

evidently possess the abilities which, well trained and properly

disciplined, would be capable of manoeuvring an army, or at any rate, of

carrying their owners to a high rank in the Service.'

The boys stared in astonishment. They had never worried themselves as to

the particular nature of their abilities, but the idea of leading armies

appealed to them.

'I see that both your names are down for Sandhurst,' went on Mr. Wilson;

'but unless you can get through the classes much faster than you have

done as yet, there is not the smallest chance of your being ready for

the examination. With really hard work, you might still get into the

Army Class at the proper time, and I must leave it to you to decide

whether you consider it worth while to do so or not. You can think it

over, boys. Good-bye for the present,' and Baker and Paynton found that

the dreaded interview with the Head Master was over, and that he had

given them a great deal to think about.

The result of their meditations may be summed up in the remark Paynton

made to Baker as they went into school next morning.

'I almost wish Billy had caned us,' he said in a regretful voice. 'It

will be all right to end up as celebrated generals, but it will be jolly

slow in school if we're not going to have any more larks.'

[Illustration: "The most wily and cunning black pig that ever made his

escape."]

[Illustration: OPPORTUNITY MAKES THE THIEF.]

[Illustration: "'See! A Matabele!'"]

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By HAROLD ERICSON.

V.--SAVED FROM THE MATABELES

'Look here, Teddy,' said Rolf Denison, addressing Vandeleur, whose turn

had come round again for a yarn, 'You promised to tell us more about

young what's-his-name, the Matabele boy who was half English, or

something of the sort, and said he was a White Witch; you left him

disappearing into the jungle, offended, and promised you would tell us

about him reappearing "at a critical moment." I want to hear about that

critical moment.'

'So do I,' Bobby chimed in; 'I was rather interested in that chap--what

was his name--Um something---- '

'Umkopo,' Vandeleur laughed. 'All right, here goes, then, for my yarn; I

fancy you'd be still more interested in Umkopo if you knew as much about

him as I do; I didn't know _then_, mind you, when all this happened, nor

did Umkopo himself; maybe I will make that into a yarn too, one day.'

* * * * *

Well, it was just at the beginning of the first Matabele war that I

first came across Umkopo, and it was not until the middle of the second

war--the rising in Mashonaland--that we met again. I was out hunting

again when the new troubles broke out, and finding myself not far from

Bulawayo when the rumour of war reached me, I made all haste to reach

the town before I should be cut off by one of the large bands or _impis_

of natives at that time prowling about in search of defenceless

foreigners in outlying farms.

I was about thirty miles from Bulawayo, when a couple of Kaffirs, flying

south, came across us and gave us news. The Mashona boys were 'up'

everywhere, full of fight and full of mischief; already many farms had

been attacked, and though the alarm had been sent east and west, and

south and north, yet there were many of the new settlers in great

danger, and--so far as human probability went--all or most of those who

were not safely in Bulawayo would be cut off and murdered, and their

homes pillaged and burned.

'You are as good as dead already,' they cheerfully informed us, 'unless

you can somehow get safely into the town, and that is very unlikely

indeed, because the Matabele are all round it, preventing people leaving

or arriving.'

Of course this was said in Kaffir English, and certainly our informants

looked frightened enough to warrant the truth of their news.

'Aren't they doing anything at Bulawayo to help the outlying farms?' I

asked. 'Surely the towns people are not leaving them all to be murdered

in cold blood?'

'They expect to be attacked themselves--the town is going to be

besieged,' said the frightened Kaffirs; 'they are fortifying themselves

and forming an army, but they are sure to be killed, every one of them.'

This sounded cheerful, indeed. Of course, so far as Bulawayo and its

population were concerned the news was only partially true. Bulawayo, as

probably you will remember, behaved most excellently; it not only

defended its own women and children from attack, but contrived to send

out parties of rescue to many of those known to be exposed to danger in

outlying parts of the country, saving numbers of British men, women and

children, who would have otherwise perished.

The Kaffirs continued their flight southward, and I found myself

suddenly called upon to make a very important decision.

Twenty miles away, northward and eastward, lay the farm of a man who had

offered me hospitality quite lately. This was Gadsby, a man of some

thirty-five years, married and with three small children. His partner,

Thomson, lived with him. In all probability these two men, Mrs. Gadsby,

and the three little ones--dear little people, two girls of six and

five, and a boy of about seven--were all, at this moment, in deadly

danger. Surely the least I could do would be to hasten to their

assistance; what with my two rifles, a few Kaffirs to keep watch and so

forth, and my humble self to help with the shooting I might be of the

greatest service--possibly even turn the scale against their enemies.

If I were to decide to take this course instead of making for Bulawayo,

I should, of course, run the risk of encountering an _impi_ of natives

on the warpath, and I should then have my work cut out to come safely

through the danger. But, on the other hand, the journey to Bulawayo was

beset with equal risks, and Bulawayo was farther from this spot than the

farm.

Naturally, there was in reality only one course open to a

self-respecting man, and I decided at once that I would go to the

Gadsbys.

I thought it right, however, to explain the matter to my Kaffirs; for it

was clear to me that the news had greatly alarmed them, and some of them

might prefer to go southward out of the danger-zone.

Three of the five decided to take this course; two--much to their

credit--decided to stand by me; one was the driver of my ox-waggon; the

other my chief hunter, a man who called himself Dicky Brown, a far

better fellow than the Kaffir Billy who figured in the rhinoceros

adventure, and who did not then greatly distinguish himself.

So we three set our faces towards Gadsby's farm, and we had not

travelled five miles before trouble began.

We had stopped at the bank of a small river in order to search for a

ford, when, sitting on a rock, awaiting the return of the Kaffir I had

sent to prospect around, I heard a peculiar sound: a kind of rhythmical

tramp as of many feet working together, walking quickly or trotting,

accompanied by curious noises as of grunting, groaning, coughing, and so

on.

'Matabeles--an _impi_!' said the Kaffir Dicky, his dusky skin looking an

unwholesome ash-colour with terror.

Probably they had struck our trail and were in pursuit; it was a bad

business at the best!

Well, there was not much time for preparation--five or ten minutes,

perhaps, which we spent in fortifying ourselves as far as possible. That

is, we placed the waggon along the river-bank in order to protect

ourselves against an attack in the rear. We got the oxen tethered

behind the waggon, and so we awaited developments.

The impi was now in full view, the whole five hundred or so of warriors

trotting over the ground in step, going at a business-like

pace--something like seven or eight miles an hour, the usual speed of a

Matabele 'regiment' on the warpath.

Two hundred yards or so from us they pulled up, and one or two _indunas_

or officers came forward. The Kaffirs were able to converse with the

men, at any rate to understand their demands, and it appeared that I was

summoned to give up my oxen, my stock of provisions, and my rifles and

ammunition. When I should have done so to their satisfaction, I should

be permitted to proceed to Bulawayo.

'To get my throat cut long before I got near the town!' said I. 'Tell

them if they want my property they had better come and take it.'

This reply evidently did not please our friends, who returned to their

main force looking wicked, and muttering I don't know what threats. Then

I saw the entire _impi_ spread itself out in a kind of semi-circle as

though in preparation for attack; but instead of attacking us at once,

as I expected, the men all sat down and ate the provisions they had

brought with them. Doubtless it was their dinner-time and they saw no

reason why they should not refresh themselves. _We_ were caught all

right--they had us in their power and they knew it. It was the delay

that saved our lives, of course; for if they had 'rushed' us then and

there, nothing in the world would have saved us from destruction.

We employed our time in attempting to strengthen our defences; that is,

we brought stones from the river and built up a kind of little wall

underneath the waggon so that at least no one should attack us from

below; as for ourselves we got into the waggon, and I was busy teaching

Dicky how to load my Winchester quickly, when the second Kaffir uttered

an exclamation:--

'See--see!' he cried. 'See, master, a Matabele coming over the water!'

I looked up. Sure enough a 'nigger' was swimming the river, which was

deep just at this place and about thirty yards in width.

I was about to raise my rifle to shoot the fellow, for at first sight it

appeared to be an attack in the rear; but something about the man caused

me to look closer; I seemed to know the face, which, though dark, was

not quite so dusky as the usual complexion of the Mashona fellows,

neither was the type of face that of the Matabeles.

I set down my rifle and waited until he should land. It had occurred to

me that this might be Umkopo. A moment or two later he climbed

ashore--it was Umkopo, sure enough.

'Umkopo!' I hailed him--'it is you!' I saw the youth stand and gaze at

me. He was taller now than two years ago, and he wore--in spite of his

soaking condition at this moment--an air of much dignity. He had on a

Norfolk coat and trousers of obviously English make, though they were

none that I had given him. Moreover, when he spoke to me in English,

though he was by no means proficient in our language, yet he certainly

spoke it much better than when I last saw him.

'Come up here and speak to me,' I said. 'Why are you there?'

Urnkopo laughed. He pointed in a dignified way towards the Matabele

_impi_ in the distance. 'I am here,' he said, 'because these fools are

here. If I was not here you would die.'

(_Continued on page 205._)

THE GLOW-WORM.

It lights its little lamp each night

Upon the leaf or ground,

And sheds abroad its tiny light,

Till day again comes round.

Though it is but a tiny spark,

It makes the darkness seem less dark.

So gentle deeds of kindness done,

By little hands like mine,

And kind words spoken one by one

Like to the glow-worm shine;

They shed abroad a tender light,

And make earth's brightness seem more bright.

THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

VII.--IRISH, SCOTTISH, AND WELSH HARPS.

From very early times the inhabitants of our islands were skilled in the

use of the harp. In Ireland the harp was called Clarsach, and in Wales,

Telyn; in both countries it was the national instrument. Perhaps the

oldest Irish harp known is that said to have been used by King Brian

Boru. The story goes that his son left his native country for Rome,

taking with him his father's harp and crown. These he presented to the

Pope, hoping to induce him to grant his forgiveness for a murder he had

committed. Whether he won forgiveness we do not know; but it is certain

that a very old Irish harp remained at the Vatican until the reign of

our Henry VIII., when the Pope sent it to England. Finally, after

passing through various hands, it attained its rest in the library of

Trinity College, Dublin. The instrument is about three feet high, and

broad and strongly made, which no doubt accounts for its long existence.

One of the oldest and most beautiful of Scotch harps is known as Queen

Mary's harp. The carving is still very fine; in former times it was also

adorned with the portrait of the Queen of Scots, and with the arms of

Scotland set in gold with jewels; but during the rebellion of 1745 the

latter ornaments vanished. The harp is only thirty-one inches high by

eighteen inches wide, and was played resting on the left knee of the

performer, leaning against the left shoulder; the upper strings were

played by the left hand. These harps were strung with brass or steel

wire, and plucked with the finger-nails, which were kept long on

purpose. Queen Mary took her harp for a tour in the Highlands, and while

there gave it to a lady who, by marriage, passed it over to its present

owners, the Stewarts of Galguse.

No amount of repression and misery during the ceaseless rebellions

against their English masters seems to have affected the Welsh love for

their national instrument. In the year 1568, Queen Elizabeth herself

brought her mind to bear upon the matter, and ordered a congress of

bards to be held at Caerwys. Here the really good players received

degrees and rewards, whilst the indifferent performers were invited to

seek some other honest profession; failing this they were liable to be

apprehended and punished as rogues and vagabonds. From this meeting the

Eistedfodd seems to have arisen, though after awhile Welsh music

suffered an eclipse, only reappearing in force during the nineteenth

century. The chief prize for many years of the musical contests was a

model of a harp in silver, about six inches high, and beautifully

executed.

[Illustration: Harp of Brian Boru.]

[Illustration: Silver Prize Harp.]

[Illustration: Harp of Mary Queen of Scots.]

England also had its harpists, and we all remember that King Alfred

visited the camp of Guthram and delighted him with his music. Chaucer, in

his Prologue to the 'Canterbury Tales,' speaks of one who played a sort

of harp so well that when he sang,

'His eyes twinkled in his head aright,

As do the stars upon a frosty night.'

HELENA HEATH.

THE KESTREL'S EGGS.

[Illustration]

Ralph Norton was home on leave from the _Britannia_, and it was not easy

to find a sufficient outlet for his energies in the quiet neighbourhood

where he lived. So when his sister Marjorie told him that she wanted a

kestrel's egg for her collection, he explored a wood not far away, and

discovered a nest which would give him a good piece of climbing.

'Don't take more than one--or two, at the most,' Marjorie said. 'I can't

bear to make the birds miserable, but I don't think they can mind

losing one egg out of a whole batch.'

[Illustration: "'Hold hard there!'"]

It was a lovely spring morning and Ralph stood at the foot of the tall

fir and looked up at the nest, which was built on a branch quite near

the top.

'It is a stiff climb,' he thought, 'and it's a good thing I am not

heavy, or that branch would never bear me.'

But he was not a _Britannia_ cadet for nothing, and the harder the climb

the better fun he would think it, so up he scrambled.

A few minutes later a game-keeper came along, and stopped when he got

near the fir-tree.

'I will just put a charge of shot into that hawk's nest,' he said to

himself. 'Hawks do too much damage. I may catch the bird sitting there,

and at any rate I can smash the eggs.'

He raised his gun to take aim when a piercing yell seemed to come from

the sky. He lowered it hastily, and it was fortunate the shock did not

make him discharge it.

'Hold hard there!' came a shrill voice from the direction of the nest.

'If you don't look out, you will bring down a bigger bird than you

reckon for.'

The kestrel at this moment flew swiftly away, and the keeper was so

perturbed he missed his opportunity of bringing her down.

'Oh, it's you, is it, Master Ralph?' he shouted. 'I declare I never can

tell what prank you will be up to next. You do frighten a man most out

of his wits.'

'And what about me?' Ralph retorted. 'I have had about as much of a

scare as I want. It was hard-enough work getting up, without seeing the

ugly muzzle of a gun pointed at me. And a jolly good thing I did see it,

or you might have been had up for manslaughter.'

'Well, I like that!' muttered the game-keeper. 'I wonder who is about

his proper business--that daring young scamp, or a harmless man like

myself?'

But he knew from experience he did not often get the better of Ralph in

a war of words.

'As you are up there, sir,' he called, 'you might take all the eggs, and

then I need not waste my shot.'

'Right you are!' was the answer; but Ralph found there were seven, and

he thought of Marjorie's injunctions.

'I will leave a couple,' he decided, and even then he hardly saw how he

could get the others safely down. Two could be carried in his mouth in

the orthodox fashion, and the other three must take their chance in his

pocket; not much of a chance though, considering the scramble before

him.

However, he was soon on the ground beside the keeper, displaying his

treasures.

'A good set too,' he said, 'from rusty red to one almost white. But you

did give me a turn with that old gun.'

'I'm sure, sir, I am thankful enough I didn't fire it off, but I should

have been doing no more than my duty, and that's more than you can say,

seeing that this wood is strictly preserved.'

Ralph laughed, and they sauntered off together, and the kestrel sailed

back to her despoiled nest. If only she had known it, she had reason to

be grateful to Ralph, for if he had not been in the act of robbing the

nest, she might have been shot herself, and at any rate her eggs would

have been destroyed. As it was she had in time two little downy

fledglings to console her, and this fact was a comfort to

Marjorie, though perhaps Ralph thought more of the fun of the little

adventure than of the bird's feelings.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 187._)

Having seen Mrs. Wright and her son about her from the earliest moment

of consciousness, and after the first feeling of strangeness in her

surroundings had worn off, Estelle took everything quite naturally, as

if she had never known any other life. With the experience of the

child's terrible illness to frighten her, Mrs. Wright dared not perplex

her mind with questions, or attempt to rouse her memory. Till she had

strength to think and realise under what altered conditions she was

living, the child had better be treated with simple love and care. Being

naturally healthy, Estelle soon began to gain in strength steadily. The

headaches from which she suffered gradually grew less distressing, and

as soon as she was able to sit up, she was carried in Jack's strong arms

into another room, and laid upon a great soft couch.

Estelle looked about her with a growing wonder and delight. She was in

the queerest and quaintest room she had ever seen. It appeared to be a

little of everything: a sitting-room and a kitchen and a cave. There was

a big fireplace, in which huge logs of wood were burning on the floor,

partly supported by iron dogs; the floor of the room was of sand, with a

rug here and there. The ceiling and walls were of rock, the light being

admitted through an opening at a great height above the ground. Very

large, high, airy, and beautifully clean, it was yet very marvellous. A

long dresser covered with plates and jugs stood against the end wall; an

old-fashioned oak settle occupied one side of the fireplace, and the

couch on which she lay the other side, thus forming a sort of cosy

encampment in the great cave. A big round table stood in the centre,

decorated with a bowl of wild flowers, in honour of Estelle, arranged by

Jack's deft fingers. A number of books, some work, and a few photographs

were scattered about on this table, for no meals were ever served on it.

Another and smaller table close to the settle was used for this purpose,

in front of the wall on which all the brass and copper pans were hanging

in shining rows.

Curious and wonderful relics of a seafaring life were visible

everywhere: from Japanese cabinets to nautilus shells; from flying fish

to the sargasso weed in bottle; from the wedding dress of a Solomon

Islander to the exquisite models of the ships he had sailed in, executed

by Jack's skilful fingers. He had also rigged up shelves, or made

cupboards into which to put his curiosities; and every addition of his

handiwork increased the air of quaint comfort in the room.

Estelle was never tired of asking questions about all she saw, and Jack

never showed any weariness in answering them, and showing her his

treasures. He would tell her long stories of his sea-life, and describe

many a curious scene and object he had seen in the wild islands he had

visited. But in all his tales Jack never said a word that Lady Coke

would not have liked; and there always seemed some good in every person

he had met, even the roughest and toughest. Estelle delighted in his

stories. They served to beguile many an hour of weakness and weariness.

When, however, even these did not please her, Jack would carry her round

the room, and point out various little things she had not noticed. He

would tell her how he had found them, or he would take down one of his

ships, and show her how to rig them, while he taught her the names of

the spars and ropes. As she grew stronger, Estelle would read aloud to

Jack and his mother, while the latter knitted her jerseys and

sea-stockings for sale, and Jack made or mended sails and fishing-nets,

or carved little trifles for Estelle with the view of teaching her. She

was an apt pupil, enjoying these lessons and showing much ambition to

out-rival her master. Thus her strange life and surroundings occupied

her thoughts fully, and very seldom did she appear confused by any

chance word recalling a forgotten memory. Mrs. Wright, watching her

carefully, would not as yet risk any suggestions. The child appeared to

be quite happy and contented, and evidently loved the friends who had

shown her so much kindness. That was enough for the present.

'Such pretty ways as she has!' said the good woman one day. The little

girl having fallen asleep on her couch, she covered her carefully with a

rug. 'One would think she had known us all her life, she's that fond of

us.'

'I shall be sorry enough when she goes,' returned Jack, in a hushed

voice. 'So will you be. You haven't been nursing her for so long, and

loving and caring for her as none knows better how to do, without

feeling as if she was a bit like a child of your own. Oh, I know you,

Mother! She's a little lady and no mistake; but come what may, neither

you nor I will ever look upon her quite as we do on other people, nor

she on us--I'll be bound. That's Jack Wright's opinion, right or wrong,'

he wound up, laughing noiselessly.

Mrs. Wright smiled. It was evident she agreed with him, having just as

soft a spot in her heart for the little waif as he had.

'I'm sorry in one way,' went on Jack, sitting down on the settle and

lighting his pipe; 'sorry we can't find the little Missie's friends. But

somehow I can't be properly sorry either. It is funny how one has a

double sort of feeling about it. I'd be really anxious about her if she

was taken away from us before she was well, and I'd miss her pretty eyes

and her "Thank you, Jack!"'

Mrs. Wright was bending over the fire, cooking their mid-day meal of

Scotch broth, and apple dumplings, while keeping a watchful eye upon a

dainty dish of fish for the child. She smiled at her son, but a little

sigh escaped her also as she shook her head.

'I won't be saying that you did not take trouble enough to find her

people,' she remarked. 'I should love to keep her here, but it makes me

all the more grieved for her friends. It's hard on them to lose a dear

little girl like that. I suppose your skipper had such a fright with

that gunboat that he will not be likely to take another trip to English

shores?'

'We only got off by the skin of our teeth as it was,' replied Jack, with

a grin at the recollection. 'After all, the Frenchman owed his escape to

an Englishman being at the helm. He looked pretty grim about it. He has

no taste for fines, but it's a jolly sight worse when they have to be

paid into British pockets. He never had quite such a narrow shave as

this one, and I fancy he will not be in a hurry to cruise in that

direction again.'

'What will you do, then?'

'Wait. There's nothing else for it. I have no money, and I don't know

where the child came from, nor how far she floated. I don't know the

coast, nor anybody living about there. The child will be able to help us

by-and-by.'

'What were you saying about me, Jack?' asked Estelle, waking up just in

time to hear the last few words.

'"Ask no questions and you'll hear--" You know how that proverb ends,

Missie,' laughed Jack, getting up to place a chair for her at the table.

'Here's dinner ready, and Mother only waiting for you.'

Mrs. Wright was indeed in the act of carrying the steaming dishes as

Estelle went to her seat. She was so much stronger that she could manage

to sit through a meal, supported by cushions and the arms of her chair.

Jack told her he had a great treat in store for her, provided she ate a

good dinner. Watching her face as he spoke, with its varying colour and

delicate outline, Mrs. Wright felt anxious.

'I fear whether it isn't a risk, Jack?' she said.

'Not a bit, Mother. It's a lovely day--calm as a mill-pond, and will do

you good as well as the little lady.'

'For half an hour only, then,' said Mrs. Wright, still doubtful of the

wisdom of Jack's proposal.

'What is it? Oh, do tell me!' cried Estelle, flushing and paling with

eagerness.

'Perhaps, if you eat a good dinner, I will take you out,' returned Jack,

smiling. 'Now, if you want to hear any more, you will finish that

plateful of fish.'

'Am I going out for a walk? Oh, how lovely! You will come too, dear

Goody?' Estelle had learnt to call Mrs. Wright by this pet name.

'Well, you see, we have all to wait till that plate of yours is clear,'

answered the old woman, laughing.

Estelle laughed also, and set to work. Her appetite had scarcely begun

to be keen as yet, and Jack and his mother agreed that a little fresh

air and sunshine might be good for her, if it could be managed without

fatigue. Estelle was persuaded to eat all that was expected of her, and

promised to lie still upon the couch till Mrs. Wright had cleared the

table. Then, while Jack went out to make his preparations, his mother

put on her bonnet, and collected some cushions and rugs.

(_Continued on page 202._)

[Illustration: "Jack told her he had a great treat in store for her."]

[Illustration: "Jack sprang out with Estelle in his arms."]

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 199._)

It was not very long before Jack returned to tell them all was ready,

and to laugh at Estelle's eager face and sparkling eyes.

'I don't want you to tell me what it is,' she cried. 'It will be a real

surprise. I love surprises!'

Jack called her a 'contrairy' young lady, who wanted to know every thing

one moment and nothing the next. Mrs. Wright, in a wonderful black

bonnet, appeared at that instant, her arms full of warm things. Estelle

sprang to her feet in delight, scarcely able to stand still a second to

have her hat put on, and the big cloak wrapped round her slender little

figure.

'Gently, gently, dear,' said Mrs. Wright, as the child bounded towards

the door the moment she was released.

Jack laughed. 'That will never do,' he said; 'you must walk before you

can run, Missie.'

As long as she went out, she did not care about the manner of her going,

and willingly allowed Jack to lift her in his strong arms. Mrs. Wright

opened the door at the end of the kitchen, and Estelle found herself on

a terrace, where some high shrubs hid the view beyond, and a few flowers

had been planted wherever there was soil enough for them. A steep path

led down the cliff till they came to a wider place, whence there were

two routes--one which Jack pursued, narrow and rough; the other, broader

and paved here and there with cobble stones, in order to keep the earth

from being washed down the hill.

'That's the way to Tout-Petit, our little fishing village,' said Jack.

'You may walk miles before you will see anything half so pretty. But oh,

the dirt!'

'Everything is thrown out into the middle of the street,' added Mrs.

Wright, making a face as if the remembrance of certain sights was not

pleasant. 'It takes a good heavy rain to wash them places clean. Oh!' as

a stone rolled under her feet. 'I do believe, Jack, this path gets worse

and worse.'

'I wish I could carry _you_, dear Goody!' said Estelle, smiling at her

over Jack's shoulder, and brimming over with a happiness which made her

long to impart some of it to others.

'Or that I could carry you both at once,' laughed Jack. 'Mother is an

independent body, Missie, and many's the time I'm obliged to take the

law into my own hands, when it's a matter of helping her for her good.

She does not like to be done good to against her will.'

'And Jack takes after his mother if that's her character,' retorted Mrs.

Wright, laughing.

'Then you would not wish him to be different,' said Estelle, with a look

of affection at Mrs. Wright.

'Yes, she would!' exclaimed Jack. 'I've got some ugly faults, and she'd

rather see me without them: wouldn't you, Mother?'

'Have you faults?' asked Estelle, in such an incredulous tone that both

her listeners laughed.

'He's getting the better of them by degrees,' answered Mrs. Wright,

suddenly becoming grave, as if some thought troubled her.

They had now reached the end of the path, and, turning round by a group

of pine-trees which grew at the foot of the hill, came out upon the

sandy beach. Oh, what a sight for the enchanted eyes of the little girl

who had been a close prisoner for so long!

The sun was shining in a sky flecked with soft, fleecy clouds. Before

them was the rippling, dancing sea. Far in the hazy distance the grey

smoke of a passing steamer could be seen, while white-winged boats or

brown-sailed fishing smacks dotted the wide bay. Estelle's eyes were

full of tears as she uttered exclamations of delight and surprise.

'How lovely! How lovely! Are we going to sit on the beach?'

'Better than that, Missie,' replied Jack, marching down the pebbly slope

with long, easy strides. 'Don't you see the skiff down there on the

sands? It's a trip in her you will have, where you will get fresh air,

with nothing to tire you.'

'Dear Jack! How delicious! Are you not very happy, Goody?'

'I am if you are, dearie. But if you go and get excited, you will have

to come back. It will never do to have you ill again.'

Declaring she was not excited, only happy, Estelle clung to Jack as to a

tower of strength against any return. He laughed.

'Obey orders, little Missie,' he said; 'be happy, but keep quiet.

There's no call to tire yourself.'

'Why, you silly Jack, you are carrying me! How can I get tired?'

The boat had been drawn up on the beach, and Jack now put Estelle into

it, making her a comfortable nest among the cushions and rugs, and

erecting the umbrella over her head. Then, assisting Mrs. Wright to a

seat near her, he ran the boat into the water, springing in as it slid

off. With a 'long, long pull and a strong, strong pull' he rowed them

out of the shadow of the rocks into the open sea. There he ran up the

sail, while Estelle lay quite still in an ecstasy of pleasure. It was

one of those golden moments which are seldom forgotten in a lifetime,

when mere living and breathing are a delight; when the tongue is silent,

because the eyes and thoughts are full of the beauty of the light, and

the colour of trees, sea, rocks, and sky! With anxiety Mrs. Wright

watched her little charge, as, speechless with delight in the sunlight

and sweet air, she lay drinking in health with every breath. But Mrs.

Wright was no longer young, and believed in moderation in all things,

especially first things. She insisted that the sail should be a short

one. Jack, therefore, put back at the end of the allotted time, in spite

of Estelle's imploring eyes. She gazed at him as he lowered the sail,

and took up his oars, till he almost fancied there were tears in her

eyes.

'I did so want to go on!' she sighed. 'It may rain another day, and it

is so long since I have seen the sun.'

Mrs. Wright shook her head, however, as one who is deaf to appeal.

'No more to-day, dear,' she said. 'If it is fine to-morrow you shall go

again--that is, if you are none the worse for what you have done

to-day.'

Jack, who could not bear to see his 'little Missie' distressed, assured

her it _would_ be fine to-morrow, and probably for some time longer.

April would soon be upon them, and the time for the singing of birds

begin. _That_ meant fine weather.

'He ought to know,' added Mrs. Wright; 'it is a sailor's business to

understand the sky.'

The words appeared to rouse some train of thought. After gazing

earnestly at Jack's smiling face, Estelle knitted her brows, as if

puzzled, saying, with some hesitation, 'A sailor? Yes, I know a

sailor--now, where did I see him? He had something about him. Oh, what

was it? You must remember, Goody. Will you tell me?'

'I have known a good many sailors, dear, in my time, being the wife and

mother of sailors; and this one,' putting an affectionate hand on Jack's

knee, 'is the biggest of them all.'

But Estelle was not diverted from puzzling over where she had seen the

sailor she wanted to remember, whose name and circumstances she was

conscious had something especial about them.

'I can't recollect!' she exclaimed, putting her hand to her head.

'Somebody said something, and we were sorry--what could it have been?'

'Don't try to remember, dear. It does not matter. As likely as not it

was only a story somebody told you,' urged Mrs. Wright, alarmed at the

flush and distress this first effort to recall anything in the past had

produced.

'Here we are!' cried Jack, cheerfully pulling round into the bay, and

running the little boat as high as possible up the shelving beach.

The tide coming in fast had already covered the sands, and was roaring

on the pebbles. Holding the painter of the boat in one hand, Jack sprang

out with Estelle in his arms, and, after putting her down on the dry

shingle, proceeded to haul the little craft sufficiently high out of the

water to enable his mother to land.

'Sit still, Missie,' he called to Estelle, 'and I will carry you up in a

jiffy.'

(_Continued on page 214._)

A WONDERFUL WEIGHING MACHINE.

The Bank of England has in use a machine so delicately adjusted that it

can give the accurate weight of a speck of dust, whilst the same machine

will also weigh metal up to four hundred pounds. A postage stamp placed

on this scale will swing an indicator on a semi-circle a space of six

inches.

PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.

VII.--SOME CURIOUS NURSERIES.

You will find--many of you have found already--that the longer you

pursue the study of Natural History the more fascinating it seems to

become. Now, a part of this fascination is certainly to be traced to the

fact that the unsuspected is always happening; and this, too, happens

even to those who have studied nature's ways long enough to know that

what we call the 'rules of nature' are always subject to exceptions.

That is to say, we know that it would be wrong to suppose that, after we

have traced out the life-history of any particular creature, we have the

key to the life-history of _all_ its near relatives.

For example, you will remember that not long ago we described the

complicated history of the starfish, sea-urchins, and sea-cucumbers.

Strange and different as were the changes which these creatures passed

through when young, we agreed that they were all cast by their parents

adrift into the great world while yet so tiny as to require a microscope

to see them; and each mother sent forth her young in this defenceless

state by the thousand, so that, as a natural consequence, perhaps not

more than a dozen of each family survived. But there is one species of

sea-urchin which appears to assume some sort of responsibility and

tender care for her young ones. This is the Hemiaster sea-urchin. She

lays but a few eggs, and these she jealously guards in a number of

pouches on her back. Here they hatch, and in due time become young

sea-urchins (fig. 2). One of the starfish, again, carries its young on

its back under a wonderful tent stretched across the tips of specially

constructed spines; and, in order that water may constantly reach her

family, the roof of this tent is pierced with holes! Even the unsightly

sea-cucumber, or sea-slug, is not to be outdone. In what are known as

the 'plated' sea-slugs--so called from the overlapping stony plate borne

on the back--the young are housed in a nursery on the back of the

mother, the plate referred to serving as a roof (see fig. 1). In another

of the sea-slugs the young cling to the skin of the mother until they

are big enough to shift for themselves.

In all these cases, you will notice, the extraordinary forms taken by

their unprotected relatives during early life are dispensed with. The

reason of this is clear after a moment's reflection. The peculiar shapes

which we described earlier are so many special devices designed to aid

the young in gaining a living until their full-grown shape has been

developed. But when these are specially sheltered in nurseries, they

have nothing to do but grow, for their food is brought to them.

The higher we search in the scale of animal life, the more numerous and

striking become the instances of the love and care shown by parents for

their children. Among the fishes and the frogs and toads, for example,

there are such wonderful instances of this that we must deal with each

of these groups separately.

When we come to birds and mammals, we find it hard indeed to select

instances, because, with but few exceptions, these creatures are most

exemplary parents. Let us take, by way of example, one or two cases

among the mammals.

The ponderous hippopotamus carries her young one on her back when

swimming, to save it from the jaws of the hungry crocodile. Some of the

opossum family are remarkable for devotion to their young: one species,

for example, though considerably smaller than a cat, cheerfully carries

her large family about on her back, though each of them is as large as a

full-grown rat! They maintain themselves in perfect safety, while the

mother climbs about the trees, by twisting their long tails around

hers, which is purposely turned forward over her back after the fashion

shown in our illustration (fig. 4). Bats, again, undertake what almost

seem impossible burdens, for the mother, though she has to obtain all

her food when on the wing, refuses to leave her young one, as would seem

but natural, in some place of safety, but carries it with her wherever

she goes. The little mite clings tightly to the soft fur of the under

side of the body (fig. 5). In some cases as many as four baby bats are

carried in this way at a time!

[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Sea-slug, with young.]

[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Sea-urchin, with young.]

[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Australian Bear, with young one.]

[Illustration: Fig. 4.--Opossum, with young.]

[Illustration: Fig. 5.--Bat, resting, with young.]

The curious Koala, or native 'bear' of Australia, carries her young on

her back (fig. 3), and apparently without serious inconvenience, though

she has to make her way about the topmost boughs of the giant gum-trees.

Finally, we must refer to the kangaroo, which carries its young in a

special pouch, too well known to need description here. The point to

which we would direct attention is the burden which all these animals

are willing to bear for the sake of their young ones.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.

[Illustration: "I was received with joy."]

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

V.--SAVED FROM THE MATABELES.

(_Continued from page_ 195.)

I looked at Umkopo in astonishment. What did he mean by that, die? Did

he think that by his presence with us we should gain so much in strength

that we should now beat off the enemy?

Umkopo laughed again. 'You shall see,' he said'; I am the White Witch;

that which I say will be obeyed.'

manner of Umkopo, though his words sounded no better than conceited

nonsense.

'Do you mean to go among them?' I asked; 'I warn you, Umkopo, it is a

dangerous thing to do. They may kill you.'

'Kill me--these children?' he said, with scorn; 'you shall see.'

He strode straight away, with these words, towards the Matabele hosts.

'Stop, Umkopo,' I cried after him; 'you are unarmed--take a rifle, at

least, or a pistol.'

'Give me a pistol,' said he, stopping a moment to think; 'a lion may

show his teeth when a hyena yelps, that is no shame.'

I gave him a loaded revolver. 'What do you mean to do or say?' I asked.

'I will say "go away," and they will go,' he laughed; 'I will say "dare

not threaten those who are of my race--I am the White Witch."'

'But if they refuse to obey?' I asked.

Umkopo gave me a glance brimful of haughty contempt. 'You speak

foolishness,' he said. With which he strode away towards the Matabele

fellows.

Well, I watched him with some interest and anxiety, as you will readily

believe. The Kaffirs, too, watched him in fear and trembling.

'I have heard of the White Witch,' Dicky muttered. 'The Matabeles are

like his children, so men say.'

Umkopo went among the indunas who squatted in front of the regiment and

sat down with them. We could see that there was excitement among the

black warriors when he was seen and recognised. We could even catch

occasional exclamations, when loudly uttered. These mostly consisted of

the one word, Umkopo. Men seemed to be going from group to group

conveying the news that the White Witch had appeared.

The indunas and their visitor rose to their feet, presently, having, I

suppose, concluded their arguments, but one man seemed still to be

engaged in heated conversation with Umkopo. Suddenly a shot rang out,

and the man fell.

With one accord the Matabele hosts sprang to their feet; they gazed for

a moment at Umkopo, who seemed to give some order in raised tones, his

arms outstretched. Almost instantly the entire regiment turned their

faces and began to depart. First they walked, then ambled, then

gradually they formed into lines and trotted in their former rhythmical

fashion. In five minutes all were out of sight, Umkopo alone being left

upon the field of battle--he and the dead induna.

Umkopo returned slowly towards my waggon; his dignity--'_side_' would be

a more exact description--was indescribable; at any other moment it

would have been actually amusing, but at this crisis I had no room for

any feeling excepting one of deep gratitude, mingled with amazement. The

lad had certainly saved us from immediate destruction--how in the world

had he done it?

I met him and we shook hands. 'Umkopo, you are a wonderful fellow,' I

said, most sincerely; 'how did you do it?--what did you say?--what is

the meaning of it?'

'The meaning?' he repeated. 'The meaning is that I am Umkopo; let him

disobey me who dares. There are few of the Matabeles who dare. One there

was; I knew him before, the induna Gongula: he was jealous of Umkopo; he

dared not once, not twice, only to speak in my face--see where he lies;

the rest have gone; they will not return.'

'But why do they obey--what is your power over them?' I asked, in

genuine surprise; 'I do not understand.'

'Bah!' he said, 'what matters? You are alive and not dead; that is

better than to understand. I am the White Witch--it is enough!'

'No, it is not enough,' said I. 'You have saved our lives, Umkopo; you

have saved mine a second time to-day; how shall I repay you?'

'Bah! we are friends, that is enough. Where do you go? To your death,

that is certain, unless I know in time.'

'I go to Gadsby's farm--a day's journey north and west,' said I. 'Is the

country clear between?'

'It is clear to-day. I know Gadsby's farm. It will be attacked

presently, like others. If he has not yet gone when you get up there,

tell him not to go until Umkopo comes. I cannot be everywhere. Where I

am, they dare not touch the men of my race.'

'Have you now discovered for certain that you are English?' I asked.

'Since we met I have learned many things,' he said. Then, before I knew

that he meant to leave us, he was in the river and half-way across.

Before long he disappeared in the jungle, which grew almost to the

water's edge on the far side of the river.

We lost no further time, but found a shallow place, crossed the river,

and trekked onward towards Gadsby's as quickly as possible. We reached

the farm before dusk.

Here we found that the Gadsbys had had warning of the danger, and had

conveyed the news to farms to right and left of their own. Within the

house were assembled Gadsby and his family, his partner, two young

bachelors, Morrison by name, from an adjacent property, twelve miles

away, and a second family of children, with their parents, from a farm

still further away from Bulawayo. They had thrown themselves into

Gadsby's large house for mutual protection.

I was received with joy. My rifles and ammunition would be of the

greatest service, for Gadsby and his brave companions fully intended to

defend the house, and even had hopes of doing so successfully, until

relief should arrive from Bulawayo, which, they were sanguine, would

come in good time.

This being the case, an extra man, well armed and a pretty fair shot

(spare my blushes) was a distinct acquisition.

I found every man in the place busily engaged, some in cutting down and

removing everything within two hundred yards of the house which could

serve the Matabeles for cover. Others were busy boarding up the windows,

and some Kaffirs were saturating the lower portion of the house with a

hose, in order that any attempt to set fire to it might be frustrated.

(_Concluded on page 226._)

A BUTTERFLY'S WING.

O brother, do tell me,' a little ant said,

'What was it went flying just over my head?

'Twas caught in the sunbeam that pierces the yew;

Its colours were crimson, black, orange and blue.

It looked like a flag that the fairies might fly

If leading an army from here to the sky.

And out of the shadow it came from the lane

To flit through the light into shadow again.

O brother! dear brother! what could it have been?

Such colours, such beauty, I seldom have seen.

Look! there in the distance it flutters once more,

Now right and now left by the summer-house door.'

And like one bewitched he set off at a bound,

Though jungles of grasses grew thickly around.

'Heed not,' cried the other, 'so simple a thing;

'Tis nothing on earth but a butterfly's wing.

They flit through the garden all hours of the day,

They turn to each bud in a purposeless way,

And many a time have they halted to see

What fun could be made of my neighbours and me.

But who cares for them? On their way let them go.

When the summer has passed they have nothing to show,

While one of our efforts more profit will bring

Than ten thousand strokes of a butterfly's wing.

Come! back to our work.'

And without more ado

He dug 'neath the soil where an artichoke grew.

The little ant followed, and though I must say

He worked in a rather preoccupied way,

He owned that to duty 'twas better to cling

Than follow the flight of a butterfly's wing.

'THOSE HORRID BOYS.'

[Illustration]

Dora and Nellie were on a visit to their grandfather, and, as Nellie

said, they might be having a lovely time if it were not for 'those

horrid boys.'

'I wish Grandfather would not ask us all at the same time,' sighed

Nellie. 'It quite spoils our fun.'

But Grandfather thought it was a good thing for the cousins to meet,

though Tom and Frank were a few years older than Dora and Nellie. The

two little girls would have thoroughly enjoyed their yearly visit to

Grandfather's, if it had not been for Tom and Frank's unmerciful

teasing. They could never play a peaceful game together without the

dread of being discovered; but this particular afternoon they had taken

their dolls to a new hiding-place, an old loft full of hay.

'Anyway, the boys won't dare to tease us much after what Grandfather

said this morning,' Dora remarked.

'No, they would be miserable if they couldn't go to the circus, said

Nellie. 'I'm very glad Grandfather heard them. Now he knows what they

are like, and Tom will have to be more careful.'

'Doesn't Arabella look lovely? said Dora, who had just dressed her best

doll in new clothes.

'Make haste, Nellie, we shall have to go and get ready ourselves very

soon.'

Just at that moment the boys' voices were heard in the stable below, and

the children stared at each other, dismayed.

'Come on, Frank, let's climb the ladder--I've never been up here

before,' and Dora scarcely had time to bury Arabella under a handful of

hay before Tom's head appeared.

'Hullo! here are the girls with their silly dolls. Let me have a doll to

play with,' and he caught hold of one roughly.

'You had better leave them alone, Tom, if you don't want to get into any

more rows,' Frank said, and the little girls begged them to go away.

'This is a jolly place! Come on, Frank, I will bury you in the hay,' and

Tom snatched up an armful.

But there was something in the hay he had picked up. Dora gave a loud

cry as she saw her beautiful Arabella flung into the air and through the

trapdoor opening into the stable below. In her haste to get down and

pick up her poor doll, she herself slipped and fell on the hard floor.

By the time Nellie and the boys had scrambled down, she was weeping

bitterly, not over her own hurts, but over Arabella's smashed face, and

she took no notice of Tom when he declared again and again how sorry he

was. Of course it had been an accident, but Dora felt too angry and too

miserable to forgive him at once.

'Now then, what's all this fuss about? Have you broken that doll, boys?'

It was Grandfather's voice, and he looked very angry as he took in the

scene.

No one answered. 'Well, of course,' Grandfather said, 'you boys cannot

go to the circus this afternoon, after this. Don't cry over your doll

any more, Dora, but run and get ready, and I will buy you a new one.'

But Dora had stopped crying already, and had caught sight of Frank's

disappointed face. Now was her moment of revenge; should she take it?

She had to decide quickly.

'Please, Grandfather,' she said,'it was an accident. Tom did not mean to

do it, and I have quite forgiven him.'

'Oh, in that case, perhaps he _may_ go to the circus,' said Grandfather,

relenting; he was much too kind-hearted to wish to leave any one at

home.

So they all went to the circus, and had a splendid time. The girls

forgot their broken dolls, but Tom did not forget Dora's generosity, and

he made up his mind to give up teasing them. Indeed, from that day they

were all good friends, and Dora and Nellie agreed, when they went home,

that their cousins were very nice boys, after all.

[Illustration: "'Let me have a doll to play with.'"]

[Illustration: "The African beauty was greatly taken with Lauder."]

STORIES FROM AFRICA.

VII.--THE BEAUTY OF WOW-WOW.

We have mentioned the two companions who accompanied Major Denham to

Kouka, and were left there while he made his campaign with the Sultan's

army. But Lieutenant, afterwards Captain, Hugh Clapperton is far too

delightful and interesting a person to be dismissed with so little

notice. Before he joined Major Denham he had managed to get into his

thirty-four years adventures enough to fill a volume, and after

returning with the Major to England and contributing his part to the

story of the expedition, we find him starting again, six months later,

with Captain Pearce and Dr. Morrison as his companions, from Badagry, on

the Bight of Benin, on the West Coast of Africa. But the deadly climate

soon diminished the little party. It was only three weeks before

Clapperton had to read the burial service over the graves of his two

comrades, and found himself left to carry on their work, with his young

servant, Richard Lauder, as his only companion.

But Clapperton was not the man to turn back from any task to which he

had set his hand, and in Lauder he had a colleague ready to follow him

through thick and thin. The two were as unlike in appearance as they

could well be: Clapperton was six feet high and broad in proportion, a

strong, genial, simple-hearted sailor, with a love of fun which must

have helped him through many a dark day; and Lauder was small and slim,

less robust, and probably less light-hearted than his master, but with a

passion for change and adventure which had drawn him from his Cornish

home, against the advice of friends and kindred, to volunteer for the

expedition. And in Captain Clapperton he found a hero to match with any

of those whose stories had delighted his boyhood. It is from him that we

have the history of their journey together, and every page is full of

loving admiration for the master whose courage no danger or suffering

could daunt, and who was yet full of thought and consideration for his

companion, carrying him on his back across the rivers when he was too

weak to ford them on foot, and writing continually to cheer him when

obliged to leave him behind to rest and recover. There are records of

hair-breadth escapes, of suffering and homesickness and parting, as in

most stories of African travel, but this tale has to do with laughter

instead of tears.

The travellers halted for some time at a place called Wow-Wow, where the

King, Mohammed, was friendly to them. There lived there a certain widow

named Lyuma, or 'Honey,' very rich, and, according to Wow-Wow taste very

handsome, though her portly figure, her hair dyed blue, and hands

stained red and yellow, and the crimson teeth which gave the finishing

touch, might not have been admired in England.

This great lady soon made friendly overtures to the two Englishmen,

calling every day at the hut they occupied, arrayed in gorgeous garments

of striped silk, and glistening with beads and ornaments. Great was the

amusement of the jovial Captain when he discovered that the African

beauty was greatly taken with Lauder, and most unmercifully did he chaff

them both as he sat, puffing at his pipe, at the hut door, much to the

confusion of the shy young Cornishman and the delight of the lady,

Lyuma, who took all his remarks seriously. Poor Lauder at last got so

alarmed that he called upon her, and solemnly informed her that he could

not make up his mind to an African wife.

The beautiful Lyuma, however, was not at all disconcerted, but at once

turned her attentions from Richard to his master, whom she tried to

dazzle by the magnificence of her jewels and the number of her slaves.

The Captain, fairly punished for his teasing, decided to pay a short

visit to the neighbouring King of Boussa, whom he wished to conciliate,

and left Lauder at Wow-Wow in charge of his luggage. But no sooner did

Lyuma hear of his departure than she set off in pursuit, splendidly

arrayed in red, with scarlet morocco leather boots, and attended by a

body of slaves, who cheered the way by discordant music. She looked in

before starting to bid good-bye to Lauder, who may well have laughed at

this turning of the tables upon his master.

But the affair soon took a more serious turn, for King Mohammed,

summoning Lauder to his presence, sternly informed him that his master

and the lady Lyuma were plotting rebellion, and that he himself and the

Captain's luggage would be detained at the King's pleasure. Richard

found remonstrances and explanations of no avail; and, feeling that

Clapperton must be warned of the King's suspicions, he managed to escape

from his guards and hastened with all speed to Boussa. Here he was met

by the news that the Captain had already started on his return journey

by another route, still followed by the admiring Lyuma. The King and

Queen of Boussa received Lauder with the greatest kindness; indeed, the

Queen was so much touched by his pleasant manners and weak look (for he

had but just recovered from fever), that she asked anxiously whether his

mother were living, and sighed when he answered 'No,' because he had no

one to watch and wait for him in far-away England. And when the weary

young Englishman, in spite of desperate efforts to be polite, dropped

asleep in the royal presence, the sovereigns, with courtesy which would

have done honour to a more civilised Court, quietly withdrew, sending

him a message that he must stay long with them and rest well.

But Lauder was anxious to rejoin his master, and, hurrying back to

Wow-Wow, reached it just as Clapperton, who had outdistanced his fair

pursuer, arrived there himself. The gallant Captain, hearing of his loss

of favour, took the bull by the horns and went at once to the King. He

quite disarmed that angry monarch by his frank greeting and assurances

that he had not seen such a handsome face since his departure as that of

the sovereign of Wow-Wow; but Mohammed, to make all sure, refused to

allow the Captain to proceed on his travels until Lyuma was safely under

supervision. So that the lady, when she arrived, found herself obliged

to submit to the royal authority and stay quietly at home, while the

Captain and Lauder, by no means sorry to escape, bade farewell to

Mohammed, and left the poor beauty to find a husband among the gentlemen

of Wow-Wow.

We might end the story there, with a laugh over poor Lyuma's

disappointment, for the rest of the tale that Lauder has to tell is sad.

For weeks the two explorers were delayed by tribal wars, and the long

inaction in the deadly climate broke down even Clapperton's hopeful

spirit. When they sat together in the evenings at the door of their hut,

and Lauder sang the old Scottish songs that had been familiar to his

master as a child, the foreboding seems to have fallen upon the Captain

that he would never tread his native hills again. He fell ill of the

sickness that had claimed so many victims, and gave his papers and

instructions, with business-like calmness, to his 'dear boy,' as he

called the young servant, who tended him with the devotion of a son. The

man who had before bidden Lauder never to forget his prayers knew where

to turn for help when his own splendid strength and energy could avail

him no more. But sorely desolate Richard Lauder must have felt, when he

laid the British flag over the body of him who had been master and

comrade in one, and, with broken voice, read the Burial Service, with

its words of faith and hope, over the lonely grave.

He himself returned safely to England, and has left us the portrait of

the man he served, the portrait of a brave, kindly Christian gentleman,

one of the most gallant of the army of pioneers who have heard the

'everlasting whisper' which calls men into unknown lands.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1806.

VII.--CHARLES JAMES FOX.

[Illustration]

On the 10th of September, 1806, died Charles James Fox, a man of such

talents that perhaps his age did not produce his equal. He was born in

1749, and was the second son of Lord Holland, who spoilt his child by

letting him have his own way in everything. At nine years of age,

Charles was in the habit of reading his father's dispatches, Lord

Holland being then a Secretary of State; and one day Charles crumpled up

the dispatch, saying calmly, 'Too feeble!' and threw the paper into the

fire. Lord Holland, far from rebuking him, merely re-wrote the dispatch.

Perhaps no child ever received so bad an education from his father as

did Charles James Fox. The result was that Charles grew up into a most

confirmed gamester, losing immense sums at cards and on the turf.

He was always extreme in all he undertook. As a young man at college,

he walked fifty-six miles in one day for a wager, and, when in Ireland,

swam twice round the Devil's Punch-bowl, at Killarney. In dress, too, he

was always noticeable--at first as a great dandy and a member of the

famous 'Maccaroni' clique, who wore red-heeled shoes, carried muffs, and

seemed only to live to make themselves talked about; and later on--in

the days when he sympathised with the Republican movement in France--Fox

affected great simplicity in dress, and at last became such a sloven

that he did not even wear clean shirts.

But these were but the foibles of genius, for, notwithstanding all his

fast life and many vices, Fox was hardly surpassed as a scholar, an

orator, and a linguist; and, as a politician, Pitt himself--a life-long

rival--frankly admitted that 'Fox was a magician, who laid a spell upon

his hearers as long as the words issued from his lips.'

Once, in 1793, Burke was passionately addressing the House of Commons on

the necessity of placing foreigners, who were then flocking into our

country from France, under strict police supervision. It was the time of

the French Revolution, and Fox, though regretting the crimes then

committed, was yet in favour of the Republican Government for that

country, as offering greater freedom, and was very firm against

declaring war with France.

Burke, however, went on to declare that these foreigners would soon

infect Great Britain with their revolutionary ideas, and (hoping to

produce a startling effect) he finally drew a dagger from his bosom, and

flung it on the floor of the House, saying: 'That is what you are to

expect from an alliance with France!'

For a moment the House was startled, but Fox, with a readiness that

never failed him, turned towards his opponent with a mocking smile, and,

pointing to the dagger, said jestingly: 'The Honourable Member has given

us the knife; will he kindly favour us with the fork?'

The House burst into peals of laughter, and the incident, which Burke

meant to be so solemn, ended in making him a laughing-stock.

Perhaps the last years of Fox were his best years; he settled down and

married, living very happily with his wife, and taking great delight in

gardening.

On the death of Pitt, Fox was chosen a member of the 'Ministry of all

the Talents,' but he did not survive his great rival by many months. He

was a dying man when he made his last supreme effort to address the

House on the suppression of the Slave Trade.

'If,' said the dying statesman, 'if this Bill becomes law, and I had

done that, and that only, I could retire from public life with comfort,

feeling I had done my duty.' He was never again able to leave his room,

but his friends did not realise that his end was so near.

One nobleman called on him, and said he was making up a party for

Christmas, and hoped he might have the honour of including Fox amongst

his guests. 'It will be a new scene, sir, and I think you will approve,'

he said, persuasively.

'I shall indeed be in a new scene by Christmas,' said Fox, quietly, and

then he went on, 'My lord, what do you think of the immortality of the

soul?'

The nobleman hardly knew what answer to make, and Fox continued, calmly:

'I shall know by next Christmas.'

A few days later he was dead, and, after a most imposing funeral, his

body was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, but eighteen inches from the

spot where, but a few months before, had been laid the body of his great

rival, Pitt.

THE ARBALIST, OR CROSSBOW.

[Illustration]

Amongst the weapons used in early English times, there was hardly one so

deadly and effectual as the crossbow. It is not familiar to us now,

being different from the ordinary bow and arrow, which we still see

sometimes. It gets its name because it has the appearance of a cross,

and is a very interesting old weapon, for with its trigger and spring it

led to the invention of the musket.

[Illustration: Loading a Military Crossbow.]

The Normans used the crossbow, and had also a sort of machine, not

unlike it, that threw out showers of arrows, or even stones.

[Illustration: Crossbow and Arrows used for Sport.]

Another name for the crossbow was 'arbalist,' and its arrows were called

quarils, or bolts. These were made of various sorts of wood; about a

dozen trees were used for the purpose, but ash-wood was thought to be

the best. Generally the arrows had a tip of iron, shaped like a pyramid,

pointed, though for shooting at birds the top was sometimes blunt, so

that a bird might be struck down without being badly wounded. One old

writer says that a great difference between the long-bow and the

crossbow was, that success did not depend upon who pulled the lock--a

child might do this as well as a man--but with the long-bow strength was

everything. In fact, during the Tudor times, the kings specially

encouraged the archers to practise shooting with the long-bow, and

people were even forbidden to keep crossbows. The crossbow, however,

when it had reached perfection, carried much further than the ordinary

long-bow.

The crossbow is said to have been invented in Italy, but it seems that

the Saxons had this bow, though it was not used much until long after,

when the Normans came over. According to an old tradition, it was by a

bolt from a crossbow that King Harold received a fatal wound at the

Battle of Hastings, For some reason or other crossbows were condemned

by a Council in 1139, and Christians were forbidden to use them, but

during the wars with the Saracens they were again made serviceable, by

command of King Richard I. Strange to say, Richard himself was killed,

we are told, by a bolt shot from the ramparts of the Castle of Chaluz,

which he was besieging.

[Illustration: A Contest with the Longbow.]

The pay of a crossbowman in the reign of Edward II. was sixpence a day,

probably equal to three or four shillings of our money. There are old

houses in England where crossbows are still to be seen; one among them

is said to have been Robin Hood's. During England's wars with France the

bow was an important weapon. At the famous Battle of Cressy the English

had about three thousand archers, mostly armed with long-bows; the

French had arbalists, or crossbows, and, on the whole, they were less

successful, as, again, at Agincourt. During the reign of Elizabeth,

however, the crossbow was once more popular, owing to an improved kind

being invented in Holland. It then became the chief weapon of the

Artillery Company of London, which still exists.

THE DISOBEDIENT MOUSE.

'O Mother,' cried a little mouse,

Hurrying down the cellar stairs,

'As I was coming through the house

I met the kitten unawares.

'And as I passed she called to me:

"Come back! come back! I've much to tell.

And most delighted I shall be

If your mamma would come as well."

'So mother, let us hurry, _do_!

To keep her waiting would be rude:

And asking _me_, as well as you,

I think was very kind and good.'

But mother mouse with terror cried--

Her eyes were round, her cheeks were pale,

And leaping to her baby's side

She held him by the paw and tail.

'No, no!' said she; 'you must not go!

You should not trust a kitten's word.

Her claws are sharp: she is our foe--

The direful foe of mouse and bird.'

But when an hour had passed away,

The baby mouse said soft and low:

'I wonder what she had to say?

I'll just creep out and ask her now.'

And heedless of his mother's call,

In self-opinion sadly vain,

He met the kitten in the hall--

And never more came back again.

CONQUERED BY LOVE.

A soldier in the American army was the terror of his company. He was

disobedient, quarrelsome, and vicious. As a result he was often

punished, but there was no reformation. In due time a captain from

another regiment was placed in command of that company, and was informed

of the bad character of this soldier. Very soon the man broke out, was

arrested, and brought before the captain. He looked at him for a moment,

and, speaking to the sergeant, said, 'Let him go to his quarters.'

'Shall I keep him under guard?' inquired the sergeant.

'Oh, no,' said the captain, quietly.

That evening the captain called his sergeant, and said: 'Go down to

Blank's quarters and tell him to come up to my tent; I wish to see him.'

'Shall I bring him up under guard?' asked the sergeant.

'No,' said the captain. 'Just tell him to come.'

In due time the soldier stood inside the captain's tent, cap in hand.

'Take a seat,' said the captain.

The soldier obeyed, but all the time looked defiance. The captain

inquired of his home and his relations, and then said: 'I have heard all

about you, and thought I would like to see you privately, and talk with

you. You have been punished often--most times, no doubt, justly, but

perhaps sometimes unjustly. But I see in you the making of a first-class

soldier--just the kind of a man that I would like to have a whole

company of. Now, if you will obey orders, and behave as a soldier

should, and as I know you can, I promise on my honour as a soldier that

I will be your friend, and stand by you. I do not want you to destroy

yourself.'

With that the soldier's chin began to quiver, and the tears trickled

down his cheeks, and he said: 'Captain, you are the first man to speak a

kind word to me in two years, and for your sake I will do it.'

'Give me your hand on that, my brave fellow,' said the captain. 'I will

trust you.'

And from that day on there was not a better soldier in the army.

THE SYMBOLS OF JAPAN.

The Imperial House of Japan owns three symbols which are carried before

the Emperor on all state occasions. These symbols are the Mirror, the

Crystal, and the Sword, and each has its own significance. The mirror

signifies 'know thyself;' 'be pure and shine,' is the message of the

crystal; whilst the sword is a reminder to 'be sharp.'

HARE VERSUS PHEASANT.

Two friends while driving past a field of young grain observed a number

of pheasants together, a couple of the male birds being engaged in a

fight. A little way off they also saw a fine hare, which seemed to be an

interested spectator of the battle.

The hare, to the astonishment of the spectators, began to hop towards

the pheasants, and when a few yards off, charged them full with fore

feet and head. One of the cocks sneaked off, but the other tackled the

hare, and for a few seconds fought gamely, flying up and striking at the

hare's head with beak and spur, the hare in return butting with his

head. The fur, however, proved too much for the feather, and in the long

run the pheasant had to retreat in an exhausted condition.

That the cock pheasants should have a sparring match is nothing unusual,

but that the hare should interfere in the quarrel is not easily to be

explained. Can any readers of _Chatterbox_ who live in the country

explain this strange scene?

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

8.--GEOGRAPHICAL ARITHMOREM.

_British Isles._

1.--50, tears, e, 100. A Warwickshire market town.

2.--100, war, 1000, 50, bee, 50. A South London parliamentary borough.

3.--500, run, in, fee, 1000, 50. A city of Fife.

4.--100, no, 500, tears. A town in Yorkshire.

5.--500, u, yes, r, 50. A town in Gloucestershire, near the

Cotswold Hills.

6.--1000, 500, 50, 500, 10, I see. A county in England.

C. J. B.

[_Answers on page 254._]

* * * * *

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 179.

7.--1. Macaroni.

2. Caviare.

3. Sauerkraut.

4. Welsh rabbit.

5. Chocolate cream.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 203._)

Looking back before passing through the gap in the scrub, Jack saw his

mother was toiling very slowly up the shingle, as if the rolling stones

and steep incline were a little too much for her rheumatic limbs. It

gave him a pang to think how much better she had managed this same

ascent before the severe nursing of the past three months.

'I must get back and help her,' he said to Estelle. 'The climb is a bit

stiff for her now; so you won't mind if I just run up and put you down

in the kitchen as quickly as possible?'

Estelle begged to be allowed to walk up, but of this he would not hear.

His long legs soon brought them to the cave-door, where, unwinding the

child from the folds of the rugs, he threw the cushions down, telling

her to lie on the couch and rest. Then he ran off to his mother's

assistance. More tired than she could have thought possible after her

taste of fresh air, Estelle waited anxiously for Mrs. Wright and Jack,

fearing some accident; but before long she heard their voices. Presently

Jack appeared with his mother in his arms.

'I never thought he could do it. I am so heavy now,' said Mrs. Wright,

half laughing, half crying, 'But he wouldn't take "no." It might not be

a word in the dictionary for aught he cared. Was there ever the likes of

him?' she added, looking up proudly into the strong face of her son.

'And he does not seem a bit puffed or blowed by the weight of me, does

he, dearie?'

Jack, however, had disappeared to attend to his boat. Estelle thought

she had never seen any one so strong in all her life, or so good or so

nice. Mrs. Wright said but little more, however, and as usual ended her

praises with a sigh.

'Why do you do that?' asked Estelle, wondering how she _could_ sigh

after Jack's kindness had pleased her so much.

'What did I do, dearie?' demanded Mrs. Wright, sitting down on the

settle, and removing her huge black bonnet to fan herself with it.

'You always sigh when you speak of poor Jack! He is so good and kind. Is

he going to die?' she asked, distressed.

'Heaven forbid!' cried Mrs. Wright, aghast. 'Why, what are you thinking

of, child? My Jack die!'

'Why are you always so sad about him if he is not going to die?'

Mrs. Wright was unusually moved. Instead of answering, she hastily

collected all the walking things, and carried them off to her room. Much

astonished, as well as conscious that she had asked an unwise question,

which must have sounded like prying, Estelle, in distress, ran into the

bedroom.

Mrs. Wright was on her knees at the bedside, sobbing as she murmured her

prayers for her 'dear boy.'

Horrified and startled, Estelle slipped away again without disturbing

her, taking refuge among the cushions of the couch. Here she cried

hysterically till she suddenly found herself lifted bodily up in Jack's

powerful arms.

'Worn out, little Missie?' he asked, softly. 'It was too long for a

first trip.'

'No, it is not that, you dear, kind Jack!' she sobbed. 'But I have made

Mrs. Wright angry with me, and I didn't mean to--indeed, I didn't.'

'Angry!' returned Jack, surprised. 'Mother has not been angry for years,

that I know of. I can't just believe that, Missie. Let's come and see

what it's all about.'

'Oh, no!' cried Estelle, shocked at the idea. 'She is crying, and saying

her prayers, and they are all for you.'

Jack's face flushed suddenly into a deep red.

'Oh!' he said in a peculiar tone. Estelle thought it sounded as if he

were too sorry for words. He did not again offer to take her to his

mother.

'I am sorry. I did not know I should hurt her, or I would never have

asked her---- ' cried Estelle, looking up in surprise and dismay at the

change in his face.

Putting her down, Jack arranged her couch more comfortably. She had

tossed all the cushions into a heap in her agitation, and while

replacing them he said quietly: 'You have made a mistake, Missie. Mother

is not angry with you. She is sorry for me; I have not been what I

ought, after all her love and good training. I will go to her now, and

she will soon be all right. Poor Mother!' he ended, with a sigh like his

mother's.

Before he had time, however, to get to the bedroom, Mrs. Wright

appeared, and returned his look of anxiety by stretching up to give him

a kiss. Estelle was glad to see how loving was the meeting. Neither said

a word on the subject of their trouble. The understanding between them

was too complete. Mrs. Wright put her arms round Estelle, and kissing

her affectionately, said, 'Forgive me, dearie; I am tired and a little

upset. It is so long since I have been out, and walked up that steep

path, that it seems to have knocked me over. We will just have a cup of

tea, and that will make us all bright and cheerful again.'

Estelle began to speak, but her old friend would not allow her to finish

her sentence. The subject was over, and she bustled about preparing the

meal, and chatting about the sea and the French sea-folk. Jack had left

the room, and did not appear again till Estelle was in bed. Then she

heard him say, as he wished his mother good-night, 'The past is past,

and can't be undone. The future is in our hands, and it won't be my

fault if I don't do my best to redeem it. Perhaps some day atonement may

be possible.'

Being half asleep Estelle did not catch the reply. Tired out with the

afternoon's expedition and the excitement following it, she slept more

soundly than she had done since her illness. Morning found her more

lively and vigorous than usual, and with a better colour in her face.

The cloud her unfortunate question had occasioned appeared to have

cleared off. Perhaps Jack was more quiet, as if some of his joyousness

had gone; but no one but sensitive Estelle would have noticed anything

amiss. Mrs. Wright was as cheerful as ever, as kind and careful towards

her little girl, and even more tenderly loving to Jack.

The day was bright and clear, the weather spring-like, as Jack had

promised. Taking advantage of it was the best medicine and tonic that

Estelle could have. The trips in the boat became longer, and very soon

there was even a talk of a walk in the village, which Estelle much

wished to see.

This desire was greatly increased when one afternoon, on returning from

their boating, she found 'la mère Bricolin,' as she was called, sitting

with Mrs. Wright. Madame Bricolin was housekeeper to M. le Curé, and

held herself a little above the fisher-folk, rarely stopping to gossip

with them. But Mrs. Wright was different--as different as Jack was from

the men with whom he went out to ply the nets.

'What do you say, dearie?' cried Mrs Wright, as Estelle entered the

room. 'Here's Mère Bricolin telling me the great fair is to come off

next week.'

(_Continued on page 222._)

[Illustration: "She found 'la mère Bricolin' sitting with Mrs.

Wright."]

[Illustration: "The promise of a thousand songs."]

THE SINGERS YET TO BE.

Oh, touch them not, the loving toil

Of wild birds fair; he surely wrongs

Both Heaven and earth who seeks to spoil

The promise of a thousand songs.

Think! in these fragile caskets lie

The unborn singers who will give

Day-long their sweetest harmony

From dawn until the quiet eve--

The choristers, whose morning praise

Is one glad psalm of hope and joy,

Long, long before their heads upraise

Each sleeping, dreamy girl and boy.

Grey larks, how often I have heard

You singing in the golden noon,

Until my heart within me stirred

To thank you for your music's boon.

Yet sweeter still than all the rest,

The last clear hymn at eventide,

When, dropping to each well-hid nest,

You gaze to where the sun has died.

Faced to the splendid purple West,

You pour full-throated forth a lay,

Giving to God and man your best,

As come the shadows soft and grey.

So touch it not, this present home

Of future singers: pass along--

They'll soon, from out the sky's great dome,

Repay your gentleness with song.

CAUGHT BY A TREE.

A natural history student was one afternoon, during a prolonged drought,

hunting for ferns in a dense wood. Towards evening, it grew suddenly

dark, and a few drops of rain gave warning that a storm was coming. At

that moment, the student's eye fell upon a big, hollow tree-trunk on the

ground.

Striking a match, the man peered within, and saw, as he thought, a

convenient place of shelter. With feet foremost and arms pressed closely

to his side, he wormed himself into the log.

Presently the rain came down in torrents, and the student congratulated

himself on having found so snug a shelter.

Fatigued with his long tramp, he fell asleep. How long he slept he did

not know, but by-and-by he was awakened by a sharp pain in his head, and

a feeling of cramp in his whole body. The rain was still falling, the

darkness was intense. The bodily discomfort was, of course, due to the

man's cramped position; the pain in his head was caused by a continual

drip of water from above on to his forehead.

He drew his head back out of the way of the drops, and, in spite of his

uncomfortable position, actually fell asleep again! But the next time he

awoke, the pain in his head was intolerable. It seemed impossible to get

out of reach of those maddening drops, and 'wherever they fell,' says

the student, 'they seemed like a sharp iron boring into the skull.'

But the worst was yet to come. When the poor fellow tried to crawl out

of the log, he was unable to do so! The opening by which he had so

foolishly entered had been only just large enough to admit his body, and

the wood, shrunken by the long drought, had in the rain swelled to such

an extent that he was now caught, as he says, 'like a rat in a trap.'

Throughout the night the wretched victim shrieked, struggled, pushed,

kicked, and wriggled in vain. He could not raise his hands to tear at

the wood.

Happily, he was discovered the next morning through the good services of

a sagacious dog, which led a search-party to the spot.

Even then, however, his sufferings were not at an end. Before he could

get out of his prison, it was found necessary to cut away a part of the

log with an axe.

A PAGE FROM AN AUTOGRAPH BOOK.

Count Ensenberg, who was formerly the Hessian Ambassador in Paris, was a

collector of autographs, and there was one page of his autograph book of

which he was specially proud.

This page contained the writing of three celebrated men--Guizot, Thiers,

and Bismarck. Guizot had written: 'During a long life I have learned to

forgive much and forget nothing.' Thiers, for many years Guizot's most

bitter political opponent, wrote under this: 'A little forgetfullness is

a great help to reconciliation.' Some years later Bismarck closed the

page with the words: 'For my part, I have seen it best to forget much,

and to let others forgive me.'

MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

VII.--THE NILE DAM AT ASSUAN.

[Illustration]

The waters of the River Nile have been put into harness and made

manageable for the benefit of Egypt. The mighty stream, swelling to a

flood and overflowing once a year, was wont to bring fertility, in its

own way, to the fields on either bank. But too soon these refreshing

waters sank away, and too soon the short harvest was followed by a

period of drought. It was a case of having more than enough water at one

season and not enough at another, and it was plain to see that if the

supply could only be regulated, the bare, parched plains of Egypt would

have abundant crops more than once a year.

The best way to accomplish this would be to get control of the flood

waters, and to keep some of them back in a huge reservoir, until the

rain-regions, from which they came, began to stop supplies, and the

river sank to its usual size. Then the gates of the reservoir could be

opened, and the pent-up flood be allowed to gush forth again to refresh

the thirsty fields.

In 1898 the performance of this task was undertaken by the engineering

firm of John Aird & Co.,[1] at a cost of two million pounds, and in May

of that year the scene of operations was chosen, four miles south of the

town of Assuan. Here it was proposed to erect a dam, or barrier, right

across the Nile. It would stand on the crest of a cataract and would be

one mile and a quarter long. But as the river at flood-time carries down

large quantities of rich deposit which is extremely beneficial to the

soil on which it settles, it would never do to erect any obstruction to

check this in its flow. Therefore this Nile dam must be a barrier

capable of letting the river pass until its treasure was safely

delivered in Egypt. _Then_ the waters must be checked and the great

reservoir filled. This could only be done by means of a number of

sliding doors in the dam, which could be opened and closed at will.

[Footnote 1: To whom we are indebted for permission to reproduce the

illustrations of the Dam.]

The first examination of the cataract seemed to show that it flowed over

sound, hard rock, and no difficulty was expected in finding a good, firm

foundation. But when, to keep the water back while the work was in

progress, sand-banks and temporary dams were built across the four

channels through which the river flows to the cataract in the spring, it

was found that the granite of the river-bed was 'rotten,' and in many

places it was necessary to dig down thirty feet, before solid rock could

be found. This was a sad surprise, for it seemed impossible to start

building at such a depth, and carry the masonry to a sufficient height

before the Nile in flood would come roaring down to Assuan. It was a

race with time; and if the engineers failed to win, their temporary dams

would be washed away, and would have to be built again next year before

the great barrier could be gone on with. Already the Nile had more than

once laughed at these temporary banks of sand and stone, and had broken

through them and leapt upon its course as though jeering at human power.

So persistent had been its attacks that the engineers almost despaired

of finding anything heavy enough to hold its own in the opening which

the water had made. At last two large railway waggons were filled with

stones in wire cages, securely tied into the waggons with steel ropes.

These, weighing altogether fifty tons, were pushed along a pair of rails

on the top of the 'sudd' (or thick growth of weeds and flotsam) till

they fell with a tremendous splash into the opening. Then the Nile was

beaten. It could not move such a weight, and the masons worked on in

peace--three hundred and fifty-three of them, night and day.

Fortunately, too, the builders were encouraged by telegraphic reports

received from stations farther up the river to the effect that the

waters showed no signs of rising. The flood, in fact, proved unusually

late that year, and by the time it came, the dam at Assuan was raised

sufficiently high to be independent of the temporary 'sudds.' For three

months work was suspended while the water roared through and over the

stonework, but at the end of that time work progressed more rapidly than

ever.

So cleverly had matters been arranged that no delay was caused by having

to wait for materials. The granite was quarried in the neighbourhood,

but was no more prompt in arriving at the scene of action than the coal

and cement that came all the way from England. During the time of

construction no less than twenty-eight thousand tons of coal were burned

in the engine fires; and seventy-five thousand tons of cement were mixed

to bind the granite blocks together, or to be formed into smooth slabs

for facing the sluice-ways. In the long wall thus erected, which is

seventy feet high in places (the bed of the river being so uneven) there

are one hundred and eighty gateways or sluices, each nearly seven feet

wide and twenty-three feet deep--except a few which are just half that

depth. These openings are arranged on different levels, the bottom row

being sixty feet below the surface of the water when the reservoir is

full. They are all contained in a length of four thousand six hundred

feet, the rest (one thousand eight hundred feet) of the dam being solid

masonry. The sluice-ways are closed by iron gates which work vertically

in grooves of steel, and can be raised or lowered from the top of the

dam--a roadway sixteen feet wide. That these huge iron curtains may be

lifted more easily, one hundred and thirty of them are fitted with

rollers, and whatever the pressure of water, they rise and fall with

great smoothness.

Five years were allowed for the accomplishment of this great task, but

by diligence and promptness, John Aird & Co. were ready to pack up their

tools and come away a whole year sooner than was expected. His Royal

Highness the Duke of Connaught went to Assuan, in December, 1902, and

declared the great dam fit to begin its important duties.

[Illustration: The Nile Dam at Assuan.]

And this is how those duties are performed. Early in July each year,

every sluice is opened to its widest, the iron doors being lifted as

high as they will go. The Nile at that time is seen to be rapidly

rising, and nothing must obstruct its passage. For five whole months it

is allowed to rush in growing volume on its course. By that time, the

rich deposit, of which we have spoken, has all passed through the

sluices, and the time has arrived for checking the clearer and less

turbulent water by which it is followed. The first gates are lowered

early in December, being of course those in the lowest part of the dam.

These are followed by fifty more on a higher level; and so on until all

the sluices are carefully closed, with the exception of some which are

left open for surplus water to pass through. The reservoir is not full

until the end of February, and thus takes three months to collect its

waters. But so vast is its extent, that the stoppage is said to affect

the river one hundred and forty miles farther south. The water thus held

back is not allowed to escape until May, when it is most wanted in the

fields below the dam; and it is, of course, all gone by the beginning of

July, when the sluices are gaping wide again to let the new floods pass.

It need hardly be said that the order just described varies a great

deal according to the moods of the river. The dam must be regulated to

those changing moods, or the benefits it gives could not be relied upon.

Thus from the fickle stream a constant blessing is drawn, and year after

year, with the shifting seasons, those stately gates will rise and fall;

the river channel will always have its water, so long as the gates last,

and there will be corn in Egypt.

[Illustration: "What a feast I had!"]

GREY-SKIN'S ADVENTURES.

But for an undue affection on my part for fruit of all kinds, you would

probably never have heard my story; for I might possibly have been free,

and the happiest lives, they say, are those which have no history.

What happy times we had in that far-away land over the seas--the

gambols and the pranks we played! I was always fond of freedom, in fact

I loved it beyond anything, and it was this that first led me into

misfortune.

I disobeyed my good old mother, by going beyond the bounds appointed,

and through this I was brought into captivity. An elephant-hunter caught

me, almost before I knew where I was, and then, good-bye to freedom!

I was shipped on board a huge vessel. What a voyage it was to be sure! I

trumpeted for hours in misery. Once I felt certain I was going to the

bottom, but my fears were unfounded, for we reached England in perfect

safety, none the worse for our stormy experiences. Shortly after

landing, I was dispatched to my new home.

I should not have minded so much if I had been sent to the Zoo, for I

hear some of the elephants there have fine times and are treated like

royalty. But I was bought by a circus company. Fancy, taking _me_ to a

common thing like a circus! At first I moped; who would not, under such

trying circumstances? By degrees, however, I got used to my

surroundings, and learned to do all sorts of clever things. I was young

and teachable, so they said. I could stand on a tub, sit at a table and

dine, ring the bell for the waiter to come and clear away, after which I

would eat my dessert with the air of a gentleman.

In fact, I was 'The Children's Delight,' 'The Elephant Extraordinary,'

and 'The Marvel of the World.' That is what they said on the

circus-bills! I used to feel proud, at times, of all the praise which

was bestowed upon me, and gave myself airs. You see, it is not everybody

who is 'The Marvel of the World.'

However, praise alone did not satisfy me for very long. Freedom was what

I wanted, and one day, to my delight, freedom was what I managed to get.

And didn't I enjoy myself!

Never mind how I accomplished it; let me say simply that I eluded my

keeper and got into a sort of forest (I suppose it was a country wood),

and there I stayed all night, laughing in my trunk to think what a panic

the circus company would be in. If only I could have made my way to some

seaport town, and have been shipped off home again, I would gladly have

endured the roughest voyage to be once more in my own dear native land.

Towards morning I got weary of my loneliness, and hungry too, I must

admit. Feeling a bit more courageous than when I first escaped, I

decided to take a walk, and I found my way into an adjoining town. Here

it was, alas! that I came to grief.

I met a baker's boy on the road with a basket of rolls. I gobbled up

every one, and so partly satisfied my hunger.

The boy was dreadfully scared. Had I not been so busy with my breakfast,

I should have been quite anxious about him. For a few seconds he stood

open-mouthed with fear; then he flew like the wind. What for, I did not

know, for I had no intention of doing him any harm. All I wanted was his

rolls.

Of course, after having appeased my hunger, I ought to have made my way

back to the woods again. I realise this now.

But I saw, not far off, a greengrocer's shop, and the things there

displayed were enough to tempt any one's appetite, I simply could not

resist them. I broke the window, and upset the fruit over the pavement.

What a feast I had to be sure! The people in the shop were afraid to

interrupt me, so I had it all to myself. Two basketsful I demolished,

and was prepared to attack a third, when suddenly, to my horror, I was

caught.

My keeper, with two or three other men, who were helping in the search,

happened to see me in the middle of my feast, and then--well, here I am,

again in captivity.

I said I liked fruit. Yes, but that is a thing of the past, now.

I have pretty well settled down again to my life as 'The Children's

Delight,' and 'The Elephant Extraordinary,' although at times I still

yearn for the freedom of the forest. But this one lesson I have

learnt--that if you cannot get the things you want, the wisest plan is

to make the very best of the things you have.

THINK THIS OUT

An Arabian proverb, which contains a lot of meaning very closely packed,

runs as follows: 'Who knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is

foolish; shun him. Who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is

humble; teach him. Who knows, but knows not that he knows, is asleep;

wake him. Who knows, and knows that he knows, is wise: follow him.'

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 215._)