The excitement in Tout-Petit increased as the day of the _fête_ drew
near. The arrival of huge vans, decorated with gaudy colours and glaring
pictures, was received by a crowd of all sorts and conditions of the
peasant folk. This great fair was an annual business, and was held in
April each year.
It was held in the great meadows beyond the village, where there was no
limit to the space which it might occupy if its promoters chose to
stretch it out--space for booths innumerable; space for the great
circus, with its big tent for animals as well as men, women and
children; space for the huge varieties of shows, and space enough and to
spare--one would think--for the motley crowd to wander about in.
Neighbours from all the country round visited the _fête_. The richer
women, of all classes, secured lodgings. The poorer, who could not
afford this luxury, procured rooms among friends. Others camped out all
night with their husbands and sons, returning to their homes only when
the very last van and show had disappeared.
All Tout-Petit collected to watch the putting up of the booths, the
erection of the tents and marquees, and the getting into line of the
menagerie. This part of the _fête_ Mrs. Wright and Jack had wished to
avoid. Jack would not have allowed Estelle to be exposed to the rough
sights which were to be seen on such occasions. He was annoyed that the
subject had been mentioned before her. He considered it wiser, however,
to make no objection, as the idea had caught her fancy, and he and his
mother would be there to protect her. Nevertheless, as the day drew
near, he disliked the thought of the crowd more and more. The child
might catch any sort of complaint, or meet with unhealthy adventures, or
see cruel sights. But even these did not altogether account for the
dislike he felt to taking her to the _fête_. After doing his best to get
rid of his own fears, he resolved to consult his mother. She, after all,
was a better judge than he. Since his great trouble he had shunned any
large concourse of people. Rarely had he gone to any village festivity,
though he had lived at Tout-Petit for many years. Mrs. Wright never
cared for them either. Estelle's presence had brightened her up,
however, and her opinion now appeared to have altered. She spoke of all
there would be to see as if she quite looked forward to a bit of
pleasure. The desire to please Estelle was of course the reason for this
sudden change of mind. It was with some hesitation, therefore, that,
Estelle having gone to bed, Jack broached the subject a few evenings
before the _fête_.
'What can happen to the child?' asked Mrs. Wright, surprised. 'We will
take care not to lose sight of her. There's plenty of room for stirring,
and it won't be difficult to steer clear of the crowd. You are a tower
of strength, Jack,' she added, with a proud look at him. 'With you as
our guardian, we have no one to fear.'
Jack gave an uneasy laugh. 'I can't account for the misgiving I have,'
he said, sighing.
'The child would be bitterly disappointed if we made difficulties now,'
continued his mother, wondering what had suddenly made her son fanciful.
He could not be afraid of meeting any of his own countrymen, could he?
That was not likely. What did he fear then? Concluding that he was out
of sorts, she did not encourage his talking more about the subject. She
meant to go, she meant the child to enjoy herself for once in a way, and
there was nothing in Jack's objections which could reasonably interfere
with their intentions.
(_Continued on page 262._)
[Illustration: "'What! You here, my little patient!'"]
[Illustration: 'CHORUS, PLEASE!']
[Illustration: "'You have found me out!' said the captain."]
THE CAPTAIN'S PUDDING.
The following story is told of an American captain and his mate.
Whenever a plum-pudding was made, most of the plums, by the captain's
orders, were put into one end of it, and that end was placed next the
captain, who was rather a greedy and selfish man. The captain, after
helping himself, passed it to the mate, who never found many plums in
his portion.
After this trick had been played for some time, the mate coaxed the
steward beforehand, and got him to place the plumless end next the
captain. But the captain no sooner saw the pudding than he discovered
that he had the wrong end of it.
Picking up the dish, he turned it about in his hands, as if examining
the china.
'This dish,' he said, in a casual manner, 'cost me three shillings in
Liverpool.' With these words he put down the dish, with the 'plummy' end
of the pudding turned towards himself.
'Really,' said the mate, in his turn lifting the dish, 'I should not
have thought it worth more than a shilling.'
Then, with apparent carelessness, he put down the pudding, with the
plums towards himself.
The two men looked at one another. The captain laughed. The mate
laughed.
'You have found me out!' said the captain. 'Well, we will cut the
pudding lengthwise, and in future the plums shall be fairly
distributed.'
FIRE PICTURES.
Watch the pictures in the fire;
How they gleam and come and go,
Making trees and birds and cows,
And red houses in a row.
Did the fairies put them there
When the coal was underground,
So that we, at eventide,
All their hidden treasures found?
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By HAROLD ERICSON.
VI.--HOW WE LEARNT SKI-RUNNING.
'I don't know whether any of you fellows have tried snowshoeing,' began
Bobby on the following evening, when it was his turn to spin a yarn,
'_ski_-running, as they call it in Norway?'
'Yes,' said Ralph, 'I have. Why?'
'Well, I was thinking of telling you how I and another fellow, Billy
Onslow, took it up one winter when I was in Russia. We--at least, I--had
read about the competitions at Holmen Kollen, near Christiania, when the
Norsemen have their annual fling for the great "ski-hop." Reading of
this had caused me to have a great ambition to be able to shoot hills
and precipices upon snowshoes as the Norse fellows do, and I persuaded
Billy to be ambitious also, and to practise the things with me near St.
Petersburg, where they use the same kind of snowshoes or _ski_'
(pronounced _shee_).
* * * * *
My cousin Tom, being an expert snowshoe-runner, accompanied us to the
country place where we should find slopes of every grade of difficulty,
in order to show and explain how the thing was done.
'You may fall about a bit,' he said, 'at first, but you will soon learn
to glide down a moderately steep hill-side safely enough. You won't be
qualified to compete at Christiania this year though, Bobby, for it's an
art that requires much practice before perfection is attained. One
cannot do anything well that is worth doing,' added Tom, 'without a lot
of trouble; that is a lesson one is constantly learning through life!'
Well, we found this true enough, for the _ski_-running gave us a lot of
trouble, as Tom had hinted.
The shoes are peculiar-looking things. They are about six or seven feet
in length, some four inches in width, and are made of thin, strong,
seasoned wood, half an inch thick, running to a point in front, the
'toes' turning up, of course, for otherwise they would catch in the
snow. One stands in the middle, inserting the foot in a strap, which
closes round the instep. Then one slides along the surface of the snow
in the best way one can--which, at first, is a very awkward way indeed.
We drove down to a shooting-lodge, near Lavrik, and then, having
lunched, we called for snowshoes and strapped ourselves into them.
'Now then,' said experienced Tom, 'we will just walk off towards the
gully, where there are some nice easy slopes for you to begin upon.'
With these words Tom glided away upon his shoes; it looked the easiest
and most delightful thing in the world. Tom moved forward like a bird
upon the wing, slid a dozen yards away, turned, and came back to us.
'Lovely, isn't it?' he said. 'Come along, just skate forward; keep the
front part of the _ski_ well apart, or the points will cross, and you
will come to a sudden stop.'
Billy made a few awkward slides forward; one of his shoes went
south-east and the other south-west; one of his feet left the earth as
though it would soar heavenwards. Billy sat down with some violence.
'Here, I say, that won't do,' he observed.
'What made the things behave like that?' I said.
'Keep the ends apart'--Tom laughed--'but not so far as that; point them
both the same way, but keep them six inches or so from one another.'
Billy got up and tried again. The points of his shoes now rushed towards
one another like old friends who meet after long parting. Billy's
progress was instantly checked, and he sprawled forward on his face in
the most ignominious fashion.
Billy scrambled up awkwardly, for one of his _ski would_ stand on the
other and keep it down. He fell three times before he finally stood
erect.
'You said it was so easy,' he said, reproachfully. 'Stop laughing,
Bobby,' he added, 'and try yourself.'
I did so, profiting by Billy's experience, and slid carefully forward.
Ten yards I covered in safety, then a small birch-tree suddenly rose up
before me. I knew no way of giving it the go-by. I tried to guide myself
to one side of it, and, lo! one snowshoe went to the right of the tree,
the other to the left, and I found myself jammed against the trunk.
'I say, help!' I cried. 'Cut down the tree, or take me out of the
snowshoes. I can't move!'
Tom shrieked with laughter; so did Billy, who ought to have known
better.
'Try to back away from the tree,' Tom suggested.
I endeavoured to do so. This time the heel ends of the shoes crossed,
and I sat down very suddenly, while Tom and Billy laughed even more
rudely than before. I began to realise that the art of _ski_-running was
not a perfectly easy one even upon the level. What would it be, I
wondered, when we reached the hill-side?
Though the gentle slopes chosen by Tom for our first lesson were distant
but a short mile from the lodge, I think we took at least three-quarters
of an hour to reach the place. The pointed ends of our
snowshoes--Billy's and mine--went exactly where they pleased. They
behaved like ill-natured animated things, and did us all the harm they
could. This was not much, of course, except to make us appear very
ridiculous; but Billy and I soon got tired of laughing at one another,
so that it did not matter after a while. But when we reached the
hill-side, and made our first efforts to 'shoot' the slope, the real fun
began.
Bill took the first attempt. Tom had shown us how it was to be done. He
had poised himself upon the top of the hill like a bird about to take
wing. He had allowed his _ski_ to tip over the edge, and in an instant
he was in full flight, going at nearly thirty miles an hour over the
slippery, even surface of the snow, bending slightly forward, keeping
his two shoes straight as arrows, and heading, true as a bullet, for the
point which he had fixed upon.
'How easy it looks,' said Billy, 'and how delicious it must feel to go
through the air like that, eh?'
I answered nothing, for I felt that what mattered most to me at present
was whether the snow was nice and soft for the somersaults which I felt
sure I was about to perform. No question for me, as yet, of a delightful
thirty mile an hour excursion through air. I was going beneath the snow,
and knew it.
However, Billy led off. Tom came back, and placed him carefully, saw
that his snowshoes were straight at starting, gave him his final
instructions. 'Don't bear too much forward, or you will over-balance. If
you feel yourself going, sit down; that will save you a header under the
snow; but you needn't be afraid of hurting yourself in any case, the
snow is very soft.'
For a few moments I really thought Billy was about to pass through the
ordeal with success. He glided down the first twenty yards of the hill
in a manner which recalled the impression of 'easiness' which Tom's
skill had aroused. Then something happened which inclined our poor
William to direct his right snowshoe towards his left one. Instantly the
left one, like an angry dog, resented the liberty, and turned upon its
companion. They crossed; then disaster overtook William Onslow. For an
instant he suggested a catherine-wheel at the Crystal Palace fireworks;
he went three or four times head over heels, his snowshoes looking like
the arms of a windmill as he went round. Then he stopped, and it seemed
as though a sort of explosion had taken place. There was no sound, but
the snow was cast up on all sides to a great height, and Billy
disappeared. All that could be seen of our unfortunate William was the
point of a snowshoe sticking out of his snow-grave, slowly waggling to
and fro as though to remind us that Billy might still be found alive
somewhere down below if any one thought it worth while to look for him.
Until I glanced at Tom's face, I felt anxious about Billy. Could he
breathe down there? I wondered; and in how many pieces should we find
the poor chap when we dug him up? But Tom was bent double with heartless
mirth, and I concluded that probably he knew best about such disasters.
'Will he be all right?' I gasped.
'Rather,' Tom replied. 'He will struggle up in a minute.'
Billy did struggle up. There was a kind of upheaval in the white
hill-side, and from the midst of the eruption appeared our William,
gasping, angry, blinking, spluttering--snow in his mouth, in his
nostrils, in his eyes. Snow filled his ears, his pockets, his boots; had
crept between his neck and his collar; his hair was white with it, and
in the midst of this mass of snowflakes blazed two angry eyes, which
shot murderous glances at us because we laughed. Billy said nothing--he
could not until he had got rid of the snow which filled his mouth. When
he spoke at last he only gasped, 'All right, Bobby; your turn now. You
will think it awfully funny when you have been buried alive in wet
snow!'
'I'm sorry,' I said; 'but you did look so frightfully funny coming out
of the hill-side in a kind of volcanic eruption.'
'Oh, don't mention it!' said angry William. 'I see Tom's amused too; I
suppose he was never a beginner! Perhaps he will catch his foot in a
root one of these times, and may I be there to see!'
We soothed him as best we could, but he informed me that the only
consoling thing I could do would be to take my turn, while he watched.
There was nothing for it. I braced myself up for the enterprise, took my
position at the edge of the slope, adjusted the toes of my _ski_, and
started.
Was I a bird in air? Oh, the delight of it, this rapid passing through
crisp air! and how well I was doing it, ten--twenty--fifty yards in
safety! Why, it was quite easy. How disappointed dear old Billy would
be! Then, suddenly, a check, a whirl through the air, a sense of chill
and suffocation, blindness, deafness. What had happened?--Where was
I?--What was this hard thing in my mouth? Why was I standing on my head?
Where on earth were my arms and legs?
I found all these useful members presently; I also discovered that I was
chewing the end of one of my snowshoes. I seemed to spend a century in
making these discoveries, but I believe it was in reality a short
half-minute. Then I struggled up into the light of day. I spluttered the
snow out of my mouth and looked around. One of my _ski_ had finished the
hill-shoot 'on its own,' and lay on the level far below. Close by stood
Billy Onslow, behaving in a manner which provoked in me a momentary
feeling of hatred for him. He was loudly roaring with laughter, doubling
and undoubling himself in exaggerated mirth. I felt that the situation
was not in the least funny, and that Billy was simply--and in very bad
taste--taking his revenge.
[Illustration: "I struggled up."]
And that was how we began to learn ski-running.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
IX.--INSTRUMENTS OF PALESTINE.
[Illustration]
In the Great Synagogue of Aldgate, in London, a very fine specimen of
the Shophar or Ram's Horn is blown on New Year's Day, and on the Day of
Atonement.
This particular kind of trumpet is interesting because it is the only
known instrument used uninterruptedly from the earliest times to the
present day.
The Shophar is first mentioned in the Old Testament, when the Lord
descended upon Mount Sinai; it is frequently alluded to throughout the
Bible, and takes a prominent place in the Vision of St. John, or Book of
Revelation.
We must all remember, too, the description in Joshua of the downfall of
Jericho, at which the mighty blast from the rams' horns, with the great
shout of the Israelites, shook the walls to the ground and gave the
stronghold to the conquerors.
Shophar is the Hebrew name for what is usually translated 'ram's horns.'
It simply consists of a ram's horn flattened by the force of intense
heat, and blown through a very small opening or mouthpiece.
[Illustration: The Shophar or Ram's Horn.]
Shells have in many nations been used in similar fashion, and to-day the
ceremonies of the Buddhist religion are accompanied by the sound of
these primitive trumpets.
In ancient and modern times, whether in civilised or barbarous nations,
great events, such as the accession of monarchs or proclamations of war
and peace, have been announced by the sound of the trumpet. The
accession of the despotic rulers of Egypt many thousand years ago, and
of King Edward the Seventh in our own time, was proclaimed in much the
same fashion by herald and trumpeters. The original use of trumpets
probably had its origin in Egypt, and the frequent intercourse of that
country with Greece probably accounts for its introduction there. The
Greeks are said to have used it first in the Trojan war, when it took
the place of the rough conch shells, which had in their turn replaced
the ancient battle signal of the flaming torch. One of the coveted
prizes of the Olympic games was awarded for the best trumpet solo, and
we hear of one fortunate person, Herodotus of Megara, who gained this
honour more than ten times. It must have taken real genius to have
roused melody from the primitive trumpets of early days, and even with
all the facilities afforded by the scientific knowledge of the present
time, the trumpet requires great skill and careful playing to make it a
really musical instrument. It is usually made of brass, and occasionally
of silver, which is supposed to give a softer tone.
[Illustration: The Rehab.]
The Rehab is the violin of Palestine, and in appearance almost suggests
to European eyes a dustpan and brush. The frame is of wood, covered,
like a tambourine, with parchment, and placed across a handle from which
hangs a single string of thick, black horsehair, very coarse in texture.
It is played with a bow, also of horsehair, and is held much after the
fashion of a violin, being chiefly used to accompany songs and the
romances in which Eastern people delight. Playing is almost always done
by professionals, for, although music is much appreciated, it is thought
unreasonable to take trouble oneself when some one can take it for you.
At a Palestine Exhibition lately, amongst curiosities of great interest,
the writer was given for exhibition a specimen of the Rattle used by the
Jews at the Feast of Purim, held in memory of the deliverance of the
Jewish nation by Queen Esther from the plot of Haman. The Rattle was
made of tin; it was of the usual rattle form for twirling round and
round, and its use was to scare away evil spirits from the Feast.
HELENA HEATH.
TO THE RESCUE!
A True Story.
Chirp! chirp! chirp! Twit! twit! twit! Such a noise of chirping in the
ivy at the back of the house! Just like a crowd of children after a
school concert; but it was a much more serious affair than a concert.
We could not at first see anything to cause the disturbance, although we
could not help knowing that it was a sparrow in some sort of peril or
distress. At last one of us discovered that a poor little bird had
entangled itself in some stout string which dangled from the ivy, and it
was swinging at the end of this in a very dangerous manner. None of us
could think what to do, because it was too high up for our only ladder
to reach, and too far away to get at from any one of the windows.
While we were all standing looking at it we heard another chirp, as much
as to say 'Hang on, dear, and I will soon set you free,' and then we saw
another sparrow fly into the ivy and try and stretch itself far enough
to peck at the string. But, alas! the brave little ball of brown
feathers could not reach so far. The captive was perfectly quiet, and
seemed to understand that some help was coming to him; and when the
second sparrow found he could not reach it, he began to talk--shall we
say?--to the other. They seemed to consult, as two doctors do over a
patient, what was best to be done. All this time the captive sparrow was
hanging by one foot with his head downwards, except when he fluttered
about and tugged at the string. After they had talked for some seconds
the helper flew away, and we were very disappointed: but he had not been
gone long before he appeared again with another sparrow--a much bigger
one!
The first sparrow seemed to do just what the last comer told him to. It
was just as if he said, 'Now, my dear boy, you stand very firmly on my
back, and I will fix myself on a twig of ivy as near as I can to our
friend; mind you stretch as far as you possibly can, and if you cannot
reach him then, you may stand on my head. Jerk the string with your beak
and perhaps that will set him free.'
Number one sparrow did exactly as he was told, and nearly over-balanced
himself; he only just saved himself by spreading his wings and starting
to fly, and he could not reach the string. After another talk amongst
the three of them (the poor prisoner only chirped very softly now), the
two helpers flew away again in different directions, making as much
noise as they could; and then in a very short time a whole crowd of them
came. We counted fifteen of them; they talked and talked as they sat
together in the ivy, until at last, as if at a given signal, they all
flew out together. They fluttered, flew round and round, and pecked at
the string and gave it jerks all at once, till it shook and trembled
more and more.
They did this three times, each time returning to and starting from the
ivy, in perfect order, as if they had been drilled to it. At last they
were successful; they shook the prisoner free! Then they adjourned to
the branches of a tree, near where we were standing, and the poor mite
seemed to be telling them how he got into such a sad plight. It was a
beautiful lesson in kindness to us all, as well as a wonderful example
of the instinct which the Creator has given these little birds, so that
not one of them 'shall fall to the ground.'
FLOWERS AND COLOURS.
Some one has said that our English language is not rich in words
describing colours; occasionally we have to join two words, as when we
speak of something being bluish-green or reddish-brown. It is different
in China, where the people have a large number of words for colours,
belonging to their singular language. Many of the names of these colours
have been taken from flowers. In Britain we find that colours and
flowers are sometimes linked together; a plant has had its name from a
colour, or that of a colour has come from a plant. This has rather an
odd result now and then, because flowers may alter their colours; there
are white bluebells and white violets, and gardeners can raise crimson
primroses. Again, people who stroll in the lanes or fields have seen
such a curious object as a white blackbird, though it is rare.
The violet has given its name to a shade of blue--really blue with a
purple tinge. Some violets look decidedly red. The dog violet is usually
of a lighter blue than the sweet-smelling species. It does not seem to
have been called 'dog violet' because it had any connection with dogs;
the word 'dog' was an expression of contempt, and forms part of the name
of other English plants that were not admired. Some violets have been
raised of so deep a blue as to appear nearly black. The blue wild
hyacinth has given name to a colour, not very unlike the violet tint; it
is sometimes called the bluebell, but pink ones may be found in woods,
and garden hyacinths are of various colours. Other bluebells belong to
the Campanula family.
In the olden time, one of the London street cries was, 'Fine lily-white
onions!' the lily being commonly spoken of as a white flower. Yet we
have several kinds of lily that are not white: 'Lent lilies' are yellow,
and the showy tiger lily is red and black. Yellow is a common colour
among the crocuses and plants akin to them; saffron, taken from one of
these, has been used as a dye for ages. But of course our gardens show
blue and white crocuses, with other hues. It is curious that Homer
speaks of the dawn being 'saffron-robed.' We may notice ourselves that
sometimes, at sunrise or sunset, the sky is first deep yellow, and then
red.
Our gardens exhibit irises of many colours: blue, white, and brown kinds
are well known, but it is thought the plant took its name from Iris, the
Greek name for the messenger of the gods, and from the rainbow, because
the Greeks knew a plant of this kind which had three or more colours in
its flower. There is very little doubt that the Latin name of 'rosa,'
given to the queen of flowers, means red, that colour being familiar
before white and yellow roses had been grown. The carnation was so
called because one kind was like flesh colour, a tint of red; but many
carnations are much darker. Wild and garden pinks we all have seen, but
the commonest 'pink' nowadays is white. Again, we have lilacs that are
white, and not of lilac colour. Lavender is a colour taking its name
from the flowers of the fragrant herb; we might describe it as a sort of
blue-brown. Mauve is a colour approaching the hue of the marsh-mallow.
Cerise, a French name for a colour, is really the same as our cherry.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 255._)
Jack dropped the subject of the outing, and did not again refer to it
till the evening before the _fête_. Estelle had been very eager to see
the dancing at the Fontaine des Eaux, which was to begin at six o'clock
that evening. Mrs. Wright had consented, and both were ready to start by
five. It was quite half an hour's walk, but the way being on level
ground when once the village was reached, Mrs. Wright was equal to the
exertion.
Estelle, dressed in well-made (Mrs. Wright was an excellent dressmaker)
but quite plain, dark blue serge, was putting on a neat white sailor
hat, when Jack took advantage of her absence to say,
'Don't you think she would be satisfied with this evening's amusement,
Mother? Must we take her to the _fête_ to-morrow?'
'At it again, Jack? Why, what should hinder our taking her? I can't
think what has come to you that you make so many objections.'
Estelle came dancing into the room, in the wildest of spirits, and Jack
felt as if he were cruel to wish to disappoint her. Putting aside his
feelings, he determined that, as she was to go, she should enjoy
herself.
Estelle had been to the Fontaine des Eaux several times in her walks
with Jack. It was a favourite spot of hers. The way lay through the
village, across the rickety old bridge, and up the narrow valley to the
left, following the course of the river. The green hills on each side
had all the bright freshness of early spring, but the real beauty of the
walk was the Fontaine des Eaux itself. Here the valley broadened out
into a wild and lovely glen; the hills were wooded to their base; the
river, roaring and dashing over its rocky bed, followed the sweep of the
hills to the left, leaving a wide, grassy expanse on the right which
stretched to the foot of the hills, where it was broken up by a tangle
of rocks, wild flowers, and brushwood.
Here there were seats for the spectators of the dance. A rough sort of
shed had been run up, and boarded for those who feared night dews, or
early morning chills. Near the Fontaine, a little bubbling spring of
clear water fringed with delicate ferns and 'morning glory,' was a
refreshment booth, which appeared to be driving a thriving trade when
the little party of English arrived.
Everybody was in gala dress; everybody beamed with joy. The white caps
and beautifully embroidered bodices of the women--though their dresses
were all either black or dark blue--lent a brightness to the crowd; a
bright touch was added by the gay shawls of the elder dames, and the
broad slouch hats and flapping white collars of the men, got up in their
best.
It was a calm evening, with a silvery crescent moon, and very warm for
the time of year. Though it was scarcely dark yet, the Chinese lanterns
were lighted, lanterns of every shape and size and colour. The people
appeared to have gone mad on the subject. Not only did lanterns hang
from the trees, outline the sheds, and shine from the tops of poles
along the banks of the river, but some of the men carried them on their
hats, or hanging from their thick walking-sticks.
Mrs. Wright was warmly greeted by her numerous friends. Many a smile was
turned on her and on Jack, who had a bow and a smile for them all as he
made way for his mother and Estelle. The little girl found it very
bewildering and delightful after her long quiet days in the Hospice de
la Providence. She thought she had never seen such kind people. They
came to ask how she was, and commented on her looks with the politest of
compliments. Until now she had not known what a stir her arrival, and
the mystery which still surrounded her, had caused in the village. Shy
though she felt, her gracious manner, and gentle way of receiving all
the notice she attracted, charmed the simple people.
Jack found seats in the front row of the great shed. He chose them on
the side which was nearer the exit by which they could slip away if his
mother were tired. Here Estelle watched the animated scene, her chair
close to Goody's, too fascinated to talk.
The circus troupe had brought a fairly good band with them, and to its
music the gay, happy throng were dancing. Estelle was greatly
entertained by the vigour shown. Still more delighted was she when M.
Fargis (the captain of the boat which had picked her up) insisted on
Jack dancing with his daughter, to which the sailor consented. He did
not wish to appear surly or stand-offish. The manly grace with which he
bore off the young lady charmed Estelle, and she scarcely heard the
skipper's question: 'The young lady does not dance?'
Before Mrs. Wright could answer, M. Matou, the Préfet, was bowing in
front of her, his hat pressed with both hands on his chest. His son, he
said--a boy of fifteen whom Estelle knew well by sight--desired to be
presented to the little English lady, to pray her to give him the
pleasure of the dance. M. le Préfet was quite one of the _élite_ of
Tout-Petit society, and Mrs. Wright was fully conscious of the honour
paid to Estelle by this invitation. The boy had often seen her during
her walks with Jack, or when she accompanied Goody to market.
He had watched her from the moment she had appeared on the scene that
evening. His father, noticing his abstraction, rallied him on not
joining his companions, and making merry with the rest in the most
inviting waltz that was ever played. M. le Préfet, on learning his son's
wishes, at once offered to assist him in the accomplishment of his
desire. Alas for Julien Matou's hopes! Mrs. Wright answered him as well
as M. Fargis in the same breath:
'Mademoiselle cannot dance to-night. She is far from strong enough for
such exertion. She has only come to look on, and will be returning home
soon.'
M. le Préfet and his son were a little inclined to resent the refusal,
but Mrs. Wright thanked them for the honour they had done her little
girl, and Estelle smiled so prettily that they were disarmed. Drawing up
a chair in front of them, M. Matou sat down to talk to Mrs. Wright,
while Julien leant against the side of the shed, and, looking down at
Estelle, ventured on some shy remark.
Little did they think, as the elders chatted and laughed, and the
younger were gradually thawed into an animated talk, that a pair of eyes
were riveted on the little girl--at first in amazement, then in settled
purpose. Jack's strange instinct had not been altogether at fault. It is
not on record what the owner of those eyes would have felt impelled to
do if M. le Préfet and his son had not taken up their position close to
the little English girl.
(_Continued on page 270._)
[Illustration: "M. Matou was bowing in front of her."]
[Illustration: "He sat silent, waiting for the reply."]
STORIES FROM AFRICA.
IX.--THE MAN WHO NEVER MADE A SACRIFICE.
[Illustration]
Although the travellers' tales from Africa are so numerous and so
interesting that the difficulty is not to find them, but to choose among
them, there is one traveller who stands out head and shoulders above all
the rest. And though his name be 'familiar in our mouths as household
words,' we cannot speak of the heroes of Africa and leave it out. Yet,
strange to say, though there is no life-story more enthralling than that
of David Livingstone, it is less easy to find thrilling adventures in
his account of his own travels than in the journals of most explorers.
For the man whose heroism has helped so many was never a hero in his own
estimation. It is of his work, his beautiful surroundings, the poor
people he sought to help, the crying evils of the slave-trade that he
writes. He really meant what he said so simply in the Senate House at
Cambridge, 'I never made a _sacrifice_.' To be permitted to do such work
for his Master was, to him, reward enough. If it meant sickness,
suffering, separation from those he loved, and death at last alone in
the wilderness, these were just the incidents of no sacrifice, nothing
to boast of or to magnify him in the eyes of his fellow-men. Yet, even
from his own matter-of-fact account, we can see how, again and again,
his cool courage saved his own life and the lives of the men who
followed him.
During his great journey to the West Coast, Livingstone found himself in
the village of the Chiboque tribe, where the chief sent to him a demand
for tribute, in the form of a man, an ox, a gun, or some cloth or
powder. All the fighting strength of the village surrounded the
travellers--grim-looking warriors, whose naturally plain cast of
countenance was not improved by the prevailing fashion of filing their
teeth to a point. Livingstone overheard the sinister remark, 'They have
only five guns,' as if the Chiboque chief were quite prepared to measure
forces with the strangers. The Englishman knew his own followers to be
loyal, and by no means disinclined for a fight, and they would, he
believed, be a match for their assailants, but he was most anxious to
avoid bloodshed, and not to risk his character as a messenger of peace.
Accordingly, he sat down coolly on his camp-stool, his gun across his
knees, and graciously invited the very unpleasant-looking party to be
seated also. The Chiboque, accordingly, squatted on the ground, thus
giving Livingstone's men, who remained standing, spears in hand, the
chance of first blow, if it were impossible to avoid a fight.
Fortunately, they were all well under control, and stood watching for a
signal from their master, who quietly addressed the chief, bidding him
state what he wanted.
A man, an ox, or a gun would do equally well, the Chiboque returned, but
tribute he must have, as he always did from strangers.
The first-named was quite impossible, replied Livingstone, calmly; he
and his followers would rather die than give one of their number to be a
slave. Neither could they part with one of their guns; but he would give
a shirt as a present to the chief, who had no right to demand any
tribute at all from him. The chief was pleased to accept the shirt, but
wanted something more, and Livingstone followed it up with a bunch of
beads and a handkerchief. But seeing that each fresh treasure encouraged
the enemy's desire to plunder the party, he resolved upon a bold stroke.
It was clear, he said, that the Chiboques had no wish to be his friends.
He and his men would fight if they were obliged, but the Chiboques, not
they, should begin the attack and bear the guilt of it. Let them strike
the first blow. Having delivered his challenge, he sat perfectly silent,
waiting for the reply.
Should it come in the form of an attack, he knew that the first stroke
would be directed at the white man, and he admits that the moments of
suspense were, as he puts it, 'rather trying;' but he was 'careful not
to appear flurried,' as he sat with his life in his hand, the centre of
the wild group.
But the bold proposal succeeded. Perhaps the Chiboque measured the
strength of the resolute party, and came to the conclusion that 'good
words are better than bad strokes;' perhaps they felt the presence of a
superior power in the quiet, watchful-eyed white man. When at last the
chief spoke, it was to renew his demand for an ox. He would give in
return any present that the stranger liked to name, and they could be
friends. Livingstone, seeing approval in the eyes of his men, agreed,
asking for some food, of which he and his party were short, and which
the chief readily promised to supply. He and his warriors withdrew with
their prize; and, later in the evening, a messenger arrived with the
return present, a very little meal, and a few pounds of Livingstone's
own ox, which had been converted into beef in the meantime!
How the cheery-hearted traveller, whose sense of humour helped him
through so much, and whose laugh, Stanley tells us, was 'a laugh of the
whole man, from head to heel,' must have chuckled over the generous gift
of a bit of tough beast which he had brought so many miles along with
him!
But though no stouter-hearted traveller ever pushed his way into the
dark continent, we think less, after all, of Livingstone's heroic
courage than of the burning love for all mankind which sent him into the
waste places of the earth, to carry the truth to those in darkness. We
think of the little orphan girl who hid behind his waggon that she might
travel under his protection to seek her friends: of how he fed her, hid
her from her pursuers, and vowed that, if fifty men came after her, they
should not get her. And there is another story which we shall seek for
in vain in his own account of his life in Africa, but which has been
recorded by one who loved and honoured him.
The incident happened during those happiest days of Livingstone's
African life, when, with his true-hearted wife beside him and children
growing up around him, he lived in the house he had built for himself at
Kolobeng. A very busy, simple life it was, with plenty of occupation to
fill the days: teaching, gardening, building, doctoring, making careful
observations of the plants and animals, and winning the love and
confidence of the native people. One evening, news came to the little
settlement of a furious attack made by a rhinoceros upon the driver of a
waggon. The unfortunate man had been horribly gored; he was lying in the
forest, eight or ten miles away; would the doctor come to him?
The request seemed almost beyond reason, for the night--the terrible
night of Africa--was falling, and those words, 'when all the beasts of
the forest do move,' have a very real meaning in that land. Ten miles'
ride through the dense undergrowth, which might hide every conceivable
enemy, would scare the stoutest heart. But a fellow-creature was
suffering in those horrible shades, and Livingstone was not the man to
weigh the value of the poor native's life against his own. Promptly he
went on his way at the call of duty, but, alas! only to find the man
dead, and his companions gone, and so to ride back again by the same
'passage perilous.'
Seven years after, Livingstone's worn-out body had been laid in its
honoured grave in Westminster Abbey, where his countrymen crowded to do
him honour, and the African, who had watched so faithfully over his
remains, nearly threw himself into his loved master's grave. A man who
was also to lay down his life for Africa, met a native of the Rovuma
country wearing a part of an English coat. It had been given him, he
said, by one who treated black men 'as if they were brothers,' and who
knew his way to the hearts of men; and of all the honours paid to the
name of Livingstone, none surely would have pleased him better than that
memory, lingering among the dark brethren whose cause he had made his
own.
MARY H. DEBENHAM.
TIME FLIES.
Tick! tick! tick! the seconds go,
Flying, oh, so fast,
And almost before I know
Quite an hour is past:
Hour by hour goes quickly on,
Till another day is gone.
Day by day is going fast,
Morning grows to night,
Till they make a year at last
Vanished out of sight.
Days, weeks, months, all sped away--
Yet they wait just day by day.
As the days and minutes go,
Speeding one by one,
So my childhood, youth, I know
Will ere long be done:
Books and toys all put away,
Done with lessons, done with play.
Be it mine to use with care
Time that will not stay,
Doing always here or there
Something good each day:
For as streams to ocean flow,
Youth is speeding fast, I know.
THE SELF-HEAL.
The Self-heal has had a very wide repute for its good-qualities. It
belongs to the family of plants known as _Labiates_, which includes
mint, sage, thyme, and other aromatic plants; these flowers mostly have
a curious lip, and grow in a spike. The self-heal is not a tall plant,
though it flourishes more in the rich soil of a garden than on that of
the field-bank or the hedgerow. One curious thing about the plant is,
that the flowers do not open all together, but a few at a time, so that
it never looks in full bloom. These flowers are bright blue, with a
touch of crimson at the edges, the leaves being round and smooth. It is
the habit of the plant to throw out trailing shoots, so that when it
spreads over corn-fields, it causes much trouble to the labourers who
have to pull it up.
The name may seem a little singular. It does not mean the plant heals
itself, but that it contains the power to cure or heal without having to
be mixed up into a compound, with other articles added to help the
effect. Self-heal was used both inwardly and outwardly; a decoction made
from the plant was swallowed as a remedy, and it was applied to wounds
and sores. Even now, in Cheshire, Yorkshire, and some other parts of
England, the plant is said to heal wounds, and relieve sore throats,
though it is seldom called by the old name. Cheshire folk know it as
Carpenter; it is not clear why the name of Sickle-flower is also given
to it, unless it be that reapers use the plant for a wound made by a
sickle; a very similar name is Hook-heal. Some people in the West of
England call the plant the Fly-flower, though it has no particular
likeness to a flower, nor does it draw flies or insects more than other
plants. Yet another name is Irish; about Belfast it is known as 'Pinch
and Heal.' The Dutch and Germans seem formerly to have called it Brunell
or Prunel, which is nearly the same as the botanical name, _prunella_;
both Dutch and Germans, as well as the French, in old books, rank it
amongst the sovereign remedies for complaints.
APPLES OR THISTLES?
Every year, at Eynsford, in Kent, an 'Arbor Day' is kept, when a number
of trees are planted in different parts of that pretty village.
'Arbor,' of course, is the Latin word for 'tree.' There are not many
places in England which have an annual 'Tree Day.' It is an American
institution. An American settler in Nebraska, feeling sorry to see so
few trees there, suggested that on a certain day of each year the
children should devote themselves to tree-planting. This idea was acted
upon, and the youngsters of Nebraska doubtless enjoyed the fun. The
scheme succeeded so well that it was taken up by other States, and
introduced later on into Australia, and others of our Colonies.
[Illustration: "'Here is a nice little bit of work for you, my lad.'"]
The pleasant custom of 'Arbor Day' was begun in Eynsford in 1897, and
was initiated by Mr. C. D. Till, a local landowner. In that year the
farmers and cottagers planted many apple-trees, and the children set a
row of trees on a bank in front of their school.
The reliefs of Ladysmith, Kimberley, and Mafeking were commemorated by
the planting of special trees in the village street, and in 1902 thirty
trees were planted in memory of Queen Victoria.
[Illustration: "'It is only the masterful calf.'"]
But on the first 'Arbor Day' which was kept in Eynsford, it was
discovered that the planting of commemorative trees was by no means a
new thing in the place. Sixty years before that day, in 1837, a
cottager, named Howard, had planted an apple-tree in honour of the
Queen's accession. In 1897, this tree yielded thirteen bushels of
apples. The old man, upon being presented with a testimonial, made a
little speech. 'If I hadn't planted that there tree,' he said, 'I should
not have had all this here fruit.'
The story recalls another. A Scotch farmer's son amused himself one year
during the summer vacation by sitting on a gate and blowing thistledown
about. The natural consequence was a fine crop of thistles. When, the
following summer, Master Thomas came home for the holidays, his father
took him to the field. 'Here is a nice little bit of work for you, my
lad,' said the farmer. 'Just pull up all these thistles for me.'
As Thomas bent over his wearisome and prickly task, he said ruefully to
himself, 'If I had not scattered that thistledown, I should not have had
to do this!'
We are always sowing and planting something in our lives. What shall it
be? Apples, or thistles?'
E. DYKE.
AN INTRUDER.
The Leslies had taken a house on Dartmoor for the summer holidays, and
when they arrived and found it was a small farm their delight knew no
bounds.
Cook was very glad that they would be able to have plenty of milk,
cream, and butter, eggs and poultry, for there were no shops in that
desolate region, and she could not provide breakfasts and dinners out of
nothing.
Janet, the eldest girl, clapped her hands when she saw the chickens
running about the field in front of the house, the sheep and cows a
little farther off, and beyond, on the moors, the dearest little black
ponies, with shaggy coats and long manes and tails. From the window she
saw a girl crossing the field towards a gate where two big lambs were
bleating their loudest and trying to wriggle through the bars. She
rushed downstairs and across the field and found that Kate, the farmer's
daughter, was carrying the tame lambs their supper.
'Why do you feed them and not the others?' Janet asked?
'The other lambs have their own mothers to feed them,' Kate told her;
'but these two are orphans, so we have to bring them up by hand.'
'Oh, what dears they are!' Janet cried, as they began to jump and
frolic about her and about Kate, in eager expectation of their supper.
Then Kate filled a bottle with warm milk and tied the finger of a kid
glove over it, through which the lambs sucked eagerly in turn, each
trying to get a bigger share than his brother, and needing some quite
severe pats to keep them in order. A little corn was given them as a
second course, and, when nothing more was to be had, they gambolled away
and joined the games of the wilder members of the flock.
'Now I must call the calves,' Kate said. 'Will you carry the bottle,
because I shall want both my hands free?'
Janet could not quite understand this until, after a call by Kate, six
calves came galloping up from a distant part of the field. She held out
her fingers, and the nearest calves took them in their mouths, and so
she ran towards the farmyard, a calf clinging to each hand and the
others following close behind. Here she had two pails of milk, and with
one hand in each let the calves find her fingers and so lap up the milk.
'What greedy things!' Janet cried. 'How they shove and push! You are
clever to let each get his proper share.'
'They are just like children, and want some training and scolding to
make them behave properly,' Kate said. 'That big one is a most masterful
creature, and sometimes he upsets the pail and nearly upsets me too.'
The next morning Janet had proof of this. She was in the kitchen,
watching Cook make some pastry, when in through the door a great
creature bounded, knocking over one chair, and thrusting his head into a
large bowl of milk which was standing on another. The milk poured over
in a white flood on the floor. Cook screamed, and brandished her
rolling-pin.
'It's a great, fierce bull!' she cried. 'Oh, Miss Janet, run for your
life while I chase him out of the kitchen!'
'Nonsense, Cook,' Janet said, catching hold of the frightened woman's
arm; 'it is only the masterful calf, and I think it is very clever of
him to find his own breakfast!'
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 263._)
The watcher at the _fête_ had made no plans. His ideas did not develop
quickly, but one thing was certain: here was a chance ready to his hand.
Only an old woman, evidently rheumatic, was with Estelle. If she had no
other protector, his course was easy. Yes, it was well that the Prefect
and his son were there. It prevented the man from being in too great a
hurry. He must mature his plans. To further the process, he crept up
under shadow of the trees, to the side of the shed near to which the
party were seated. Jack's selection of places enabled him to get close
enough to hear every word that was said. Bitter was his disappointment.
It had been the joy of Julien to find that the conversation could be
conducted in French, of which language the watcher possessed but a
slight smattering. He had picked up enough, however, to learn that
Estelle would be at the _fête_ the next day; but at what hour, or with
whom, he could not understand. The probabilities were in favour of the
old lady being the child's sole protector; the boy, even if he did
accompany them, need not count. He could be made short work of.
Julien was by no means the only suitor who pressed for the honour of
dancing with Estelle. No less a person than the village doctor himself
came to beg her to tread a measure with him in the quadrille which was
just forming. They might make up a select little party of their own.
Mrs. Wright, smiling, but firm, said the little girl was not equal to
the exertion, and begged the doctor not to undo all the good he had done
during the many months of illness and delicacy by urging her to
over-exert herself now. So the good man, putting his annoyance in his
pocket, joined the group, much to the anger of Julien. Julien did not
care for the doctor's jokes, and disliked his engaging Estelle's
attention, and plaguing her with compliments. As he had promised himself
the pleasure of meeting Estelle next day at the _fête_, he was not sorry
that Jack's return broke up the party.
Estelle could scarcely sleep that night from excitement. It had been a
delightful evening, and there was all the pleasure of the next day to
look forward to. She had not seen the shadow so close to her at the
shed; neither had Jack. The shadow kept dark in dark places. It was
quite possible that the man had not seen Jack. The coming of the doctor
had caused a little stir, and fear of detection had made the shadow draw
back, out of sight of the little group. When he stood forward again to
watch Mrs. Wright and the little girl move away, it was impossible to
distinguish in the crowd who belonged to whom.