CHAPTER XVII.

Jack grew uneasy about leaving his home unless he had Estelle with him.

Yet he found he could not combine his duties as a fisherman with his

care of her. What was to be done? Fargis was quite willing to lend his

boat, knowing full well that he would be no loser by the bargain; and

both the doctor and M. le Préfet came forward with generous offers of

assistance. There seemed nothing to wait for, therefore, but the

weather.

April, always an uncertain month, could not be counted on for many fine

days, even so far south as Tout-Petit. The sky did not look promising,

and the fishermen shook their heads as they glanced at the clouds, and

spoke of 'squalls.' Jack and Fargis agreed, though unwillingly that it

would be wiser to delay the journey across the Channel till the

threatened storm had blown itself out. It would be foolish to run

unnecessary risks with their precious charge.

Meantime, Jack's anxiety communicated itself to those about him. They

all appeared to realise there was cause for alarm while Thomas was at

large, and his place of concealment unknown. Jack made Estelle accompany

him wherever he might go in the village, and Mrs. Wright amused all her

friends by keeping the pistols always within reach if by any chance

Estelle was with her, and Jack absent. Very proud and happy was Julien,

too, on being constituted her companion whenever the sailor was forced

to go from home. Strict orders were left that he was not to risk any

walks out of reach of friends, and Julien showed a praiseworthy

obedience to his instructions. He and Estelle were quite happy together

on the beach, or running in and out of the Treasure Caves.

One day, in Jack's absence, the two children, weary of games on the

sands, had run down to the shore as far as the tide would let them, to

watch for the return of the boats. Estelle began telling Julien of her

visit to the Mermaid's Cave, and of the wonderful echoes which the

sailor's voice had called forth. It had started to rain slightly, and

the light fitful wind was capping the waves with froth, but the tide was

coming in. Julien, therefore, proposed that they should go to the cave,

and he would see if he could rouse the echoes as Jack had done. It

would be better than standing in the rain and watching for Jack. No

thought of the incoming tide troubled them.

Crouched behind the rocks, unseen by the children, knelt the

ex-gardener, Thomas. He listened, with a pleased smile, to the

conversation, which showed him his chance had come. The prize he had

waited for so patiently was almost his: the little girl was walking into

the best trap he could have laid for her. Only a boy was there to defend

her. If only Jack remained away, the boy could be got rid of. No more

hiding in holes and corners. No more intimate acquaintance with

starvation.

Unconscious of any danger, Julien was making Estelle laugh at his witty

sallies as he helped her over the rocks on their watery road to the

ravine. They sobered down as they entered the high, gloomy caverns, and

were glad to get on to the broad daylight of the Cave of the Silver

Sand. Julien would have gone no further. The darkness and stillness

overawed him, impressing him with a sense of danger and misgiving. But

Estelle was greatly excited.

'I know just where Jack keeps some candles,' she exclaimed, eagerly,

'and I always put one or two bits in my pockets. Here they are, and some

matches. Do come on to the Mermaid's Cave, Julien! We have managed to

get through the Rift before.'

The boy agreed to anything she proposed, but his heart sank within him

in a strange, unaccountable manner. Still, he made no remonstrance, and

bravely concealed his fears.

Lighting a candle, Estelle scrambled on to a narrow ledge on one side of

the Rift, and, with much laughter and fun, she managed, with Julien's

help, to creep along without falling off till they reached the Mermaid s

Cave. Julien got more wet than he liked, for the pool was deep and the

ledge too narrow to help him as it did the much smaller Estelle. He had

not time, however, to think of his soaked condition, for Estelle was

running about, placing her candles here and there, and calling upon him

to admire the beauties of the cave. She insisted on standing exactly

where Jack had stood when he sang to her, and the boy, with a laugh,

took up his place near her.

'Let us sing just a few notes together,' said Estelle, with some

eagerness to join in raising those lovely echoes. 'We can sing the

beginning of the---- Julien!'

Her voice suddenly ended in a scream of terror, while, with wide-open

eyes, she stared towards the dark entrance to the Rift. Looking to see

what had alarmed her, the boy's heart stood still. His instinct had not

deceived him. He remembered Jack's caution all too late, and--Jack was

away!

Paralysed, he watched Thomas emerge from the Rift, and advance towards

them with a smile of satisfaction. In sudden panic Julien tried to

think. What was he to do? Escape was impossible. He was but a

boy--neither tall nor particularly strong. Thomas, on the other hand,

was big and powerful. Any struggle between them could end but in one

way. What _was_ he to do? Where should he go for help? How could he

leave Estelle even for one moment?

Thomas was approaching with quiet deliberation. There was no need to

hurry when his quarry was safe; and this Julien realised all too well.

With the instinct of protection, he stepped in front of the little girl

with a wild but silent prayer for the return of Jack--of _anybody_--to

protect them.

Clinging to him, trembling with the terror which Thomas always inspired,

Estelle also was silent. That scream was the only one she uttered. She

would try to be brave and help her boyish defender--at least, not hinder

his efforts in her behalf.

'_Allez-vous en_' ('Go away'), called out Thomas, as he came nearer and

nearer and glared at Julien. 'We don't want you. The little lady's right

enough with me, who knows her aunts and uncle, and all the little

cousins. It's downright audacious how they all try to keep you away from

me, my lady. Why, I know more about you than all these Frenchies put

together, now don't I?'

But Julien was no coward. He remained firmly in front of Estelle, though

he did not understand Thomas's English. The little girl clung to his

arm.

Thomas was not to be turned from his purpose, however. 'You come along

of me, my lady,' he said, in determined tones, 'and I'll take care of

you, and hand you safe to my Lady Coke.'

'Thomas,' said Estelle, desperation giving her the courage she had

hitherto lacked, 'I am with kind friends, and I am sure Aunt Betty would

like me to stay with them till Jack can take me home. Please go away.'

'Don't you believe it, my lady!' exclaimed the man, with an insolent

grin. 'There's nobody here to lay down laws. I do as I thinks right, and

I am sure that my Lady Coke will say so too. Now, if you come with me

quiet, it will be all the better for everybody. If you don't, why it

will be all the worse, for I mean to take you along with me. It's me as

will restore you to your sorrowing family. Now, are you coming quietly,

or not?'

'No!' said Estelle, her lips quivering, but her head held high.

Julien repeated the word after her more determinedly still. He did not

know what was being said, but he meant to support his _petite amie_ in

whatever she did. Throwing back his head and squaring his shoulders, he

placed himself in an attitude of defence. Thomas, however, put him aside

with ease. The boy was no match for him. Lifting Estelle in his arms in

spite of her struggles and cries, he began striding across the cave

towards the Rift. But though Julien was unable to fight with so big an

opponent, he did not lose heart. Thomas found he was not able to dispose

of him as comfortably as he had imagined. The sobs of his little friend

went to the boy's brave heart. A red flush mounted into his sallow

cheeks, and his eyes sparkled with fury at Thomas's action. With a bound

like that of an angry tiger, he flung himself upon the ex-gardener,

clinging to him with legs and arms in such a manner that Thomas felt as

if a snake had hold of him. In vain he tried to shake the boy off.

Julien gripped on him with all his might, straining every nerve to throw

Thomas down. Hampered by the struggles of Estelle, the man could

scarcely keep his feet; he could not get rid of his tormentor.

(_Continued on page 314._)

[Illustration: "'Are you coming quietly, or not?'"]

[Illustration: "It was Julien he held in his arms."]

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 311._)

Just at the critical moment another terror appeared on the scene. The

sea, having reached the level of the beach, now entered the caves, and

flowed smoothly but swiftly over the flat flooring of rock. In the

excitement of conflict neither of the three struggling in the Mermaid's

Cave had heard the sweep of the water in the outer caverns. It was not

till it was swirling round their feet that they became aware of the

danger.

Julien dropped to the ground at the exclamation of Thomas, while Estelle

cried out in despair. They knew of no way out of the cave except through

the Rift, and that was cut off by the deep water there and in the caves

beyond. Dropping the little girl as he realised the danger, Thomas

glanced round the cave, still lighted up by Estelle's candle-ends. His

quick eye noted the high-water mark, and some projections of rocky wall

which it would be quite possible for him to reach, and remain in safety

till the tide went down. But what about the children? For Julien he

cared nothing, but Estelle was of the utmost importance to him. It would

be better to lose his own life than let harm come to her. She

represented his gold-mine, without which he had no means of living. She

must be saved at all costs, therefore.

'We can't get out of this,' he said, at last, as he turned to the two

shivering children who were clinging to each other. Julien's face was

raised, his eyes seeking some place above high-water mark to which he

could take Estelle.

'I can save the little lady,' continued Thomas, 'but you, young master,

must look to yourself. I suppose you were not born near these caves for

nothing?'

'I will stay with Julien,' said Estelle, with great resolution. 'If you

won't save him, you shall not save me.'

But Thomas was not in a temper to listen. He would not waste time in

talk when the little girl was too small to offer any serious resistance.

Without another word he seized her in his arms, tore her from the French

boy's hold, and running towards the ledge he had noted, lifted her up

towards it.

'Catch hold of the rock, my lady,' he urged, holding her as high as he

could, 'and I'll help you up.'

Estelle, obeying instinctively, stretched up her hands, but the ledge

was beyond her reach. With no intermediate projection to assist her,

Thomas saw she could not get up to so great a height. There was nothing

for it but to put her down, pull himself up to the ledge, and drag her

up after him. Even this he could not do without the aid of Julien. The

little girl must be lifted up to meet his outstretched hands. Before he

could speak or conciliate Julien, however, the boy had rushed upon him.

Another struggle was about to ensue when a stronger wave than usual

washed half over them, wetting them to the skin.

'Why don't you help me to save her?' cried Thomas, angrily, pushing the

boy from him with violence. 'Do that or save yourself. You will drown

the lot of us if you don't show more sense.'

Julien fell into the surge of the water. Estelle screamed, and would

have flung herself after him, but Thomas held her fast.

'No, no; none o' that!' he cried. 'Let him get out himself. The water is

not deep enough to drown him yet, if he is not carried away by the

backwash.'

'Julien! Julien!' screamed Estelle, making frantic efforts to free

herself and go to him. 'You must save him, Thomas--you shall!'

But the boy had been swept beyond their reach by the under-current, and

for the moment they thought he would indeed be lost. He was drawn into

the whirl of waters, and sucked under. Beside herself with grief and

terror, Estelle clasped her hands over her eyes that she might not see

him drown. She was deaf to Thomas's urgent appeals that she would be

quiet and let him save her. Julien was in danger, and it was Thomas's

fault. If she could have broken away from that firm grip, she would have

jumped into the surging flood after her brave defender.

Meantime, Mrs. Wright, weary with the toils of the day, and feeling

comfortable and cosy in her big armchair by the lire, knitted peacefully

till, drowsiness overtaking her, she laid back her head and closed her

eyes. The wood crackled cheerily in the great chimney, the faint murmur

of the sea made the old lady still more sleepy, and in a few minutes she

was in dreamland.

And so Jack found her when he came home. The stillness of the whole

place showed him the children must be absent, and a vague alarm seized

upon him. His fears for Estelle were easily roused. Yet fear or danger

seemed very far from that bright, cheerful kitchen. Putting down the

armful of things he was carrying, he gazed tenderly at his mother as he

warmed his fingers over the genial flames. He could not bear to awaken

her, and surely it was not necessary. She would never be sleeping so

peacefully unless their little girl were safe. Yet something tugged at

his heart, making him stir uneasily. The movement, slight though it was,

awoke his mother. She opened her eyes, gazed at him a few moments

sleepily, and sat up with a laughing remark about her own laziness.

'Where's Missy?' asked Jack, as soon as he had answered all her

questions about his fishing and the luck he had had.

'They were playing on the beach,' she said, putting her cap straight

before taking up her knitting. 'M. Julien came to join her in watching

for your return. Did you not see them on your way up? If they are not

there, they must be in the caves,' she added hastily, seeing her son's

face change, and instantly becoming a prey to all sorts of fears. 'They

_must_ be there if they are not on the beach,' she repeated, turning

pale.

Jack only stared at her, his eyes wild, unable to believe the extent of

his mother's trust in so young a boy as Julien Matou. Recovering himself

quickly he rushed off without a word to his own room, and presently

reappeared with a long rope in his hand.

'What do you think has happened?' cried Mrs. Wright, rising quickly from

her chair in her fright at his face and manner.

'The tide!' exclaimed Jack, seizing a pair of grappling irons he had

laid upon the bench a few minutes before. 'If they are in the caves

there is but one way of saving them--the Treasure Cave. Pray that I may

be in time!'

He was gone almost before he had ceased speaking, his light step and

long limbs carrying him swiftly down the sandy path, and round the

corner of the spur of cliff. The tide had already reached the gorge. It

must be well into the caverns then. With firm feet he scrambled along

the rocks wherever they could help him, or took to the water when he

thought the waves would serve him better. As he drew nearer, he found

there was still time to gain the entrance to the outer cave before it

was submerged. With the tide in his favour, he managed this with ease.

His chief troubles would be with the strong under-tow and numerous

currents among the rocks.

Half swimming, half clambering, he made his way to the Cave of the

Silver Sand. Here the daylight was in his favour, but the whirl of

waters was dangerous and strong. Anybody who did not know the rocks as

well as Jack must have been sucked under to his destruction. Clinging to

the rocks, he made his way towards the Rift. Awaiting his chance, he

swam through this on the crest of a wave, and beheld the feeble light of

one remaining candle glimmering in front of him.

With anxious eyes he surveyed the darkness around, and then the objects

moving within the radius of that faint spark. Steadying himself against

the rocks, he was about to plunge again into the water, in order to

reach that point of light, when a heavy body was thrown against him.

Instinctively he grasped it, the surge of the water and the weight of

the inanimate form making him almost lose his hold. A few moments more

and his burden would have been sucked into the Rift, where his fate

would have been sealed indeed. It did not take Jack long to discover it

was Julien he held in his arms: Julien senseless, cold, drowning!

Then who was the second figure in that faint circle of light? One must

be Estelle. But the other? Jack's heart filled with painful anxiety.

Could it be Thomas? If so, what was he doing there? It was exasperating

that Julien should require his services just when it was vitally urgent

that he should save Estelle. His duty was clear, however. The boy must

be placed in a position of safety before he could feel free to attend to

the needs of the little girl, whose sole protector he was.

Happily, Estelle had not yet seen the sailor. The rapid rising of the

tide, the urgent appeals of Thomas, and the agony of her distress about

her playmate, had made her nearly frantic. It was with much difficulty

that the ex-gardener managed to pull her up a little higher, out of the

immediate wash of the waves. It was all he could do, for the ledge was

too far above their heads for him to place her upon it, though he could

save himself. He was making up his mind that the child must be

sacrificed, that there was no way of saving her, when he became aware of

a voice shouting above the thunder of the sea. Estelle's quick ear

caught the sound, too, and with a start that nearly threw her off her

perilous perch, she cried out in reply----

'Jack! Jack!'

(_Continued on page 322._)

PLOUGHING IN SYRIA.

[Illustration]

The life of a farmer in Syria and Palestine is very different from the

life of a farmer in England. He does not live in an isolated farmhouse,

in the midst of a number of enclosed fields, which he owns or rents, and

which he cultivates at his own cost and for his own profit alone. The

country is much too unsettled to permit families to dwell alone, and so

they cluster in little villages for their common safety and defence. The

cultivated lands of the villagers lie outside the village, and the most

fertile ground is sometimes a mile or two away from the houses. The

villagers are too poor to enclose each a farm for himself, and the farms

are simply cultivated plots lying unenclosed in a great waste, which

belongs, perhaps, to the Government, or to some great feudal lord.

Because each man is poor and defenceless, the villagers combine to

cultivate these plots together, and they divide among themselves the

produce which is raised by their labours. The Government, or the lord of

the land, is paid with a certain share of all that is grown upon the

land, and this share is collected from the villagers by an officer who

is appointed for the purpose, or has bought the right to collect these

corn-rents for himself. He is often guilty of great extortion, and even

cruelty, in taking his share, or his master's share, of the produce.

How these Syrian villagers perform their farm labours in common we shall

see best if we watch them ploughing the land, and sowing corn. They go

forth in a band from the village, and make their way to the plot which

is to be tilled. Every man is armed, for beyond the cultivated land

there is a great waste, or desert, over which bands of robbers roam at

will, or there are rocky mountains in which they may hide, and set all

good government at defiance.

The ploughs used by these Syrian cultivators are little more than a bent

wooden stock, having a long bar, by which it may be drawn. The lend of

the stock is in shape somewhat like that which is formed by a human foot

and leg, the foot being the 'share,' which scratches up the soil. That

part which corresponds to the leg is prolonged upwards into a long

handle, with the help of which the ploughman guides the plough. The bar

by which the plough is drawn is attached to the inner or fore side of

the bend, at the ankle, as it were. Two oxen of a small kind are, as a

rule, attached to each plough.

With such a light kind of plough as this it is impossible to cut and

turn over the soil as an English plough, drawn by two or three powerful

horses, would do it. The ground is, in fact merely scratched, and, in

order that the scratching may be a little more complete, a number of

ploughs follow each other in single file over the ground. As many as

from six to twelve, or more, ploughs will thus work together upon one

plot, the ploughmen chatting with each other all the time. A sower

sprinkles the seed before them, and the ploughs loosen and scatter the

soil about it.

[Illustration: Ploughing in Syria.]

Where the soil is too rocky for the ploughs to work, men with mattocks

break it up. The Syrian plough does not turn over the soil always upon

one side, as the English plough does, and so the Eastern ploughman can

return along the same line, or close to it, without spoiling the

regularity of his furrows.

In exceptionally dry seasons, when the ground is very hard, the English

plough cannot be used to good effect. The Syrian plough, however, is

worse; for it is so small and ill-planned that it will only do its work

when the ground is thoroughly wet and soft. The ploughing has,

therefore, to be done in the winter season: not, of course, in that

clime a winter of frost and snow, but a time of cold winds and heavy

rains, most trying to the poor labourers in the fields. If they had

better ploughs they might break up the ground before the winter set in,

and leave the ploughed land ready for the sower at the proper season.

The Syrian plough, too, only does its work slowly, and the whole set of

men working together will plough scarcely more than one-third as much as

an English ploughman, with a pair of good horses, would do in the same

time.

MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

X--THE BIRMINGHAM WATERWORKS

[Illustration]

Hard working Birmingham was getting short of water, and it certainly

looked as though the time would soon come when there would be none to

quench its thirst with. The wells and streams in the countryside had

served their purpose splendidly while the city did not demand too much,

but as the number of people increased, the number of taps increased too,

and water was getting short.

In this unpleasant state of affairs, Mr. Mansergh, a well-known civil

engineer, said that he knew where to get the water from. Forty years

before, when travelling in South Wales, he had been struck by the

suitability of the country for storing water in. The rivers Elan and

Claerwen, he said, flowed through valleys which would make splendid

natural reservoirs if only they were crossed by the necessary dams. The

distance, it was true, would be seventy-three miles from Birmingham, but

then it would be all down-hill, and so the water would flow of its own

accord. The rivers Elan and Claerwen, in Brecon and Radnor, collect

their waters from mountain streams over an area of seventy-one square

miles. If preserved in reservoirs, this would supply one hundred and

two millions of gallons a day. A certain proportion of this would, of

course, be allowed to escape, as it would never do to stop the river

Elan altogether. It is an important tributary to the Wye, and the city

of Hereford would have had cause for complaint if its water supply had

been interfered with.

[Illustrations: Valley before Building the Dam. A Sluice in the Dam.

Building the Pen-y-Gareg Dam.]

The work was begun in 1894. Just below the point where the two rivers

join, preparations were made for building the first dam. A stank, or

wall of timber, was first constructed to turn the water of the river

aside, and in the channel over which it had flowed, thus rendered dry,

excavations were made for the foundations. When the wall had been raised

to a height of thirty feet, with two large culverts or openings left in

its lower part for the great water-pipes to pass through, the stream was

again turned into its old course, through these openings, and the next

part of the dam was begun. Thus in three sections the water-wall rose

till a height of one hundred and twenty-two feet was reached, stretching

six hundred feet at the top, to the sloping walls of the valley. As this

dam will have to hold back five hundred acres of water, containing 7800

million gallons of water, its base has been made as wide as its height.

The wall tapers to the top and is perpendicular towards the reservoir.

It is formed of large blocks of granite called 'plums,' set in strong

cement, and weighing many tons each. Over the top, when the reservoir is

full, the flood water pours like a small Niagara. If we could launch a

boat on the glittering surface of the reservoir, from the top of this

dam, we should have to row for four and a half delightful miles, between

the overshadowing sides of the valley, before we reached the next

principal dam, at a place called Pen-y-gareg--so huge are these cups of

water in Birmingham's service. On the way we should pass under the

arches of a stone bridge, thirteen feet wide, stretching from side to

side of the artificial lake. The archways spring from the top of a

submerged dam, forty feet below the surface. And this was built because

Birmingham, seventy-three miles away, is six hundred feet above the

level of the sea. In constructing the long water-hill from the Welsh

mountains down to the famous Warwickshire city, it was deemed necessary

that the upper end should be one hundred and seventy feet higher than

the lower end. Now at the point where the first dam was erected, the

river-bed is only one hundred feet higher than the land on which

Birmingham stands. Therefore, the starting point for the water was made

farther up the valley at a spot seven hundred and seventy feet above

sea-level (thus giving the necessary fall of one hundred and seventy

feet), and just below that spot the sunken dam of which we have spoken

was built across to hold back enough water when the main bulk had been

used.

As our boat glides onward from under the shadow of the arch, we see near

the eastern shore a strongly built stone tower. This stands over the

mouth of the aqueduct (as the huge pipes are called which convey the

water to Birmingham). The water flows into the tower through several

large openings on all sides, and its entrance into the aqueduct is

controlled by hydraulic machinery.

Bending to our oars again we follow the curves of the lake for about

three miles, with the railway running close to the water's edge. It was

laid by the engineers to assist them in this great undertaking. Then we

come in sight of the Pen-y-gareg wall. This was built in the same manner

as the first dam, though slightly different in design. At regular

intervals all along the top, we see square openings like windows in an

old castle. They are to admit light and air into a narrow passage left

in the heart of the dam and stretching from end to end. It is only six

and a half feet high and two and a half wide, so that two people,

however obliging they might be, would have a difficulty in letting each

other pass if they met half-way. But it is not a public passage, being

only constructed for the purpose of admitting workmen to the valve

tower, which regulates the flow of water into the lower reservoir.

Some mile and a half farther on we come to the third and last dam on the

Elan River. It is called the Craig Gôch, and is the tallest of them all,

rising one hundred and thirty-five feet from the river-bed. In order to

build it a tunnel was driven through the hills on one side to carry the

water past, the stream being guided into this tunnel by means of a

concrete wall built a short distance from the scene of operations. The

dam is built on a curve, the bow being towards the reservoir. It carries

on its summit a handsome stone bridge with a public roadway less than

ten feet wide between the parapets. To stand on this bridge and watch

the flood water flow between its arches, to fall with a roar like

thunder on its way to the lower reservoir, is very impressive. It is

said that at times the water passes over the crest of the dam in a

cascade eighteen to twenty inches deep. Thus the water is held back

among the mountains in three huge steps, much as the water in a canal is

banked up by the locks. On the river Claerwen three similar dams are

being built.

While this work was going forward, another army of engineers was

preparing the road to Birmingham. Hills had to be tunnelled through,

valleys and rivers crossed by bridges, while syphons were used for

passing under small streams and similar obstructions. One of the tunnels

was no less than four and a half miles long, and another two and a half.

They are, however, only six or seven feet in diameter, just large enough

for workmen to enter for the purpose of doing repairs. The pipes for

conveying the water are a little more than one yard across, and are

capable of delivering twelve and a half million gallons per day. There

is room on the road for six such pipes to be laid, so it is considered

that Birmingham will not run short of water for at least a hundred

years. It need hardly be pointed out that these pipes do not descend at

one uniform grade throughout their journey of seventy-three miles, but

any irregularity in their rise and fall is of little consequence so long

as the end of that irregularity which is nearest Birmingham is at a

lower level than the point at which it begins. Thus, for instance, if

the pipes are to take a sudden dip to pass under a stream, they should

not rise again on the other side to quite the same level. This _dip_ is

called a syphon, and in no way retards the natural flow of the water.

There are many such 'ups and downs' between Radnor and Warwickshire; so

many, indeed, that we might almost look upon the whole aqueduct as a

syphon seventy-three miles long. Birmingham is the lower end, and water

_must_ flow to the lower level.

On July 22nd, 1904, the King and Queen, at one of the great reservoirs,

turned the tap which admitted the water into the aqueduct, and in due

course it rippled to the noisy city so many miles away, and Birmingham

drank its first glass of crystal water drawn from the three stupendous

cups standing among the silent hills of Wales.

We are indebted for our illustrations to Mr. Thomas Barclay, of

Birmingham, and to Messrs. Mansergh & Co., Engineers, of London.

THE FOUNTAIN.

A little spring of water rose

Within a shady grot;

It bubbled up all bright and pure,

And freshened that sweet spot.

Clear as a crystal was its wave,

And I was very sure

The waters were so pure and sweet,

Because the fount was pure.

So when from little lips there flow

Words that are kind and good,

And thoughts that are as fresh and sweet

As violets in a wood,

The reason we can understand,

For, oh, we may be sure

The thoughts and words are pure and sweet

Because the fount is pure.

THE TRIALS OF LECKINSKI.

(_Concluded from page 306._)

For about two hours Leckinski had slept in his dungeon, when the door

was gently opened, and a woman entered very softly, with a hand shading

the lamp which she carried. Then the hand was suddenly withdrawn from

before the light; the woman touched Leckinski on the shoulder, and said,

_in French_, 'Would you like some supper?'

Leckinski, startled, sat up, with eyes scarcely open. Yet he kept his

wits about him. 'What do they want with me?' he said, _in German_.

This was the first 'proof.' Castagnos wished it to be also the last.

'Give the man something to eat,' said he to his men, 'saddle his horse,

and let him go on his way. How, if he were a Frenchman, could he be so

thoroughly master of himself?'

But his officers refused to obey. They gave food to Leckinski, but did

not saddle his horse, and kept him in the prison until morning. Then he

was taken to a place where lay the bodies of ten Frenchman, who had been

shot by some peasants. He was threatened with a similar fate. But,

although surrounded by snares, listened to by straining ears, watched by

keen eyes, the brave fellow let slip not a single suspicious word or

gesture. At last, after many hours of this mental torture, he was taken

back to his prison, and left alone for a time.

Again Castagnos pleaded for his captive, but his high-handed officers

were still dissatisfied.

Leckinski, thankful for solitude, after a spell of uncanny visions, the

result of the horrors he had actually seen, again found relief in sleep.

Again he was disturbed. 'Get up!' said--_in French_--the same gentle

voice that had spoken to him before. 'Come with me! Your horse is

saddled, and you are free.'

'What do they want with me?' said Leckinski _in German_, as he rubbed

his eyes.

Castagnos declared that this 'young Russian,' as he called him, was a

noble fellow; but the others still persisted that he was a Frenchman and

a spy. After another wretched night, the unhappy prisoner was brought

before a sort of tribunal, composed of officers of the General's staff.

The four men who conducted him thither uttered on the way horrible

threats, but, true to his resolution, Leckinski gave no sign of

understanding them. He took, apparently, no notice of anything that was

said either in French or in Spanish, and, when he came before his

judges, asked for an interpreter.

The examination began. The prisoner was asked what was the object of his

journey from Madrid to Lisbon. To this he answered by showing his

passport and the dispatches of the Russian Ambassador. These credentials

would have been sufficient had it not been for the evidence of the

peasant.

'Ask him,' ordered the President of the Court, 'if he loves the

Spaniards?'

'Yes,' replied Leckinski, when this question was put to him, 'and I

honour their devotion. I wish that our two nations were friends.'

'The prisoner,' said the interpreter, in French, 'declares that he hates

and despises us. He regrets that it is not in his power to unite our

whole nation into a single man, that he might annihilate us all with one

blow.'

As the interpreter spoke, every eye was bent on Leckinski, watching for

the effect upon him of this false interpretation, but not the slightest

change of expression was visible on his face. He had expected something

of this sort, and was firmly resolved not to betray himself.

Castagnos was present, an unwilling witness to this last trial, in which

he had refused to take an active part. He now rose, and spoke in the

voice of authority. 'The peasant must have been mistaken,' said he. 'Let

the young man be instantly set at liberty. We have treated him hardly,

but I hope that he will take into consideration the continual danger of

our position, which forces us to be suspicious and severe.'

And so at last Leckinski got back his arms and dispatches, and went

forth victorious. He reached Lisbon in safety, and fulfilled his

commission. Then he would have returned to Madrid, but Junot, full of

admiration for his pluck, would not allow him to run such another

risk.

[Illustration: "Thomas hurled the stone with all his force."]

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 315._)

Estelle's cry was one of joy and relief, and her eyes soon discerned the

form of the sailor swimming towards her. Having no desire to encounter

Jack under such circumstances, Thomas hesitated no longer in getting out

of danger by climbing to the ledge above. The few moments that Estelle

would be in peril were not worth considering, as Jack was so near.

Thomas's chief feeling was bitterness at this renewed disappointment of

his hopes. Still, as long as the child was alive, his chance might come

again. So he lay quietly and silently, watching the sailor effect the

rescue. There was even some curiosity as to how Jack meant to save her.

Rage was in his heart, and as he watched his hand crept out almost

against his will and took up a stone lying near. For one mad moment, as

the sailor dragged himself up by the rock on which Estelle was, and laid

his hand on her, Thomas, forgetting all else, gave way to a mad fit of

rage and jealousy. Raising himself slightly on his narrow shelf, he

hurled the stone with all his force at the brown head below him. It shot

past Jack, barely grazing his head as he stooped to tie the rope round

Estelle, and, striking the little girl on the shoulder, glanced off into

the water. The shock of the blow would have thrown her off the rock but

that Jack's strong arm was round her.

The sailor's heart boiled within him. There was nothing to be done,

however, but get the child away as quickly as possible. He guessed that

the stone was meant for himself, and it left no doubt in his mind as to

who had thrown it. With a wrathful glance upwards, he asked Estelle

about the hurt, and showed her how to cling on his back, thus leaving

his arms free to carry her into safety.

'Oh, it stings so, Jack,' sobbed Estelle, pressing her shoulder, as if

she could hardly bear the pain.

'We must get away as fast as we can, Missie,' said he; 'or we may have

another stone at us.'

Jack turned his back, and Estelle put her arms round his neck, with a

frightened glance at the ledge.

'Now I'm off,' said Jack; 'hold, on tight.'

Twisting the rope round them both as an additional security, he slipped

into the water. It went over their heads, but Estelle's faith in Jack

never wavered. After what appeared to her a very long time of buffeting

waves and wild waters, she felt herself being drawn upwards.

'There, Missie,' said Jack, cheerfully, though a little breathlessly, as

he released her from the rope; 'you are safe now. In another minute we

shall be on dry sand.'

Cold, bruised, tired, she felt too confused and faint to speak. A dim

idea that her only chance of rescue lay in Jack made her continue to

cling to him. He, meanwhile, was securing the end of the rope to a

staple driven into the rock during the old smuggling days. The ledge on

which he now sat was invisible from the Mermaid's Cave except to expert

eyes, owing to its being so near the roof. From this ledge he looked

down into that hidden storehouse for smuggled treasure of every

description, the 'Treasure Cave.' It gave its name to all the other

caves, but its own floor was twenty feet below any of them, and the

secret of its existence was still jealously guarded by the few who knew

of it.[4]

[Footnote 4: Such a cave exists also on the rocky Cornish coast, and was

seen recently by a lady explorer.]

It was indeed fortunate that Jack was so well acquainted with every nook

and crevice in the caves, and had made the discovery of the secret

himself. The drop into the Treasure Cave was sheer; nevertheless, after

securing the rope, he took the little girl in his arms and slid down

with the ease of a sailor. They found themselves in a high cave into

which the daylight came but dimly. There appeared to be no entrance

except the one by which they had come. There was no getting away,

therefore, until the tide went down. Casks, large cases, and other

relics of old smuggling days were scattered about; some piled against

the walls, others more in the centre, where the soft looseness of the

sand testified to the dryness of the cave. These latter looked

surprisingly fresh and neat, as if but recently stored there, and

presented a great contrast to the sea-stained memorials of ancient days.

There seemed to be small room for doubt that the Treasure Cave was not

without its uses even yet.

The boy and girl were, however, in no condition to notice anything.

Julien, whom Jack had carried to this place of refuge first, had

returned to consciousness, and now lay shivering on the sand, with pale

face and chattering teeth. Estelle, soaked to the skin, was placed by

his side. Jack could attend to both at once in that way, and he

proceeded to use vigorous measures to restore their vitality. Diving

into a recess between the cases, he produced a couple of brown blankets,

no doubt left there by smugglers. Very soon Estelle and Julien found

themselves well wrapped up, and the warmth made a glow of returning life

flow through their shivering frames.

'The sea-water will not hurt you,' said Jack, reassuringly, as they

looked up gratefully at his cheerful face. 'Lie there and keep warm.'

'How long shall we have to remain?' asked Julien, in a forlorn tone.

He was already looking less pale, and his teeth had ceased to chatter.

'A matter of two or three hours. Not more. The tide runs out as fast as

it comes in. When you are a bit warmer we'll take a sharp run round the

cave. It's a large one, you see, and you will be in a fine glow before

we have been round it many times. How is your shoulder, Missie?'

'Oh, it doesn't hurt much now.'

'A good thing for you your clothes were thick,' said Jack, smiling, as

she stretched out her arm, to show she could move it quite easily.

'What happened?' asked Julien, startled. 'One would think the brute

would have remained satisfied with pushing me into the water. But I will

make him repent,' he added, in a threatening tone. 'My father will not

let him off easily.'

'He doesn't know any better,' said Estelle, gently.

'Spoken like the kind little Missie you are,' said Jack, with a smile.

'But we must not let him do any more mischief, all the same. He did not

mean to hit you with the stone. It is a good thing for me that it did

no more than graze my head; and for you, Missie, that it was not a

larger one.'

'In fact, Jack,' laughed Estelle, with a soft glance at him, 'we have

all something to be thankful for---- '

'And that is that we are all here to tell the tale,' added Julien,

rising from the folds of his blanket, and beginning to stamp about.

'Thomas also has to be thankful that we are not for the moment able to

hand him over to M. le Préfet. I suppose he will have escaped by the

time we get out of this.'

It was just this question which was tormenting the mind of the

ex-gardener. Would he be able to get out before Jack? He could not

imagine where the sailor had taken the children. The dim light of the

candle-ends had died out as Jack swam away with Estelle, and Thomas had

not as yet discovered the existence of the Treasure Cave. Only an eye

accustomed to look for the faint ray of light thrown upon the roof by

the glimmer from the lower cave could have detected where to seek the

ledge, which it was necessary to climb in order to reach the Treasure

Cave. All he could imagine, therefore, was that Jack had known of some

other, and probably wider, place of refuge than that on which he himself

had sought an escape from the waves. If this were so, it was more than

likely that in the attempt to escape as quickly as the tide permitted,

an encounter between him and Jack would take place. The bare suggestion

excited Thomas uncomfortably. Over and over again did his mind ponder on

the best plan to avoid such a meeting. Should he remain where he was

till the sailor and the child had gone? But how would he be able to

judge of their departure? It was totally dark, and as Jack must be in as

drenched a condition as himself, no matches he might carry about him

could be ignited. The escape must be made in the dark.

No, Thomas could run no risks of that sort. He made up his mind that as

soon as his ear--trained by a life-long residence on a rocky coast--told

him the sea was leaving the Mermaid's Cave, he would descend from his

narrow perch, and follow the retreating tide. There would be light

enough in the Cave of the Silver Sand. If an encounter must take place

before he could get away from the caves, he preferred it should take

place in daylight. As soon, therefore, as the lapping of the waves grew

faint and died softly away, he felt his way down from the ledge of rock,

and round by the walls to the Rift.

Barely had he waded through it when he heard voices behind him. A cold

shiver ran down his back at the sound. Jack must be approaching with the

children. Julien had been saved, then, for it was the voice of the

French boy he heard speaking. The whole party would be upon him soon.

With some anxiety, Thomas looked at the sea. Rapidly as it was going

down, there was no chance that it would leave the cave in time for him

to make his escape without being seen. There were rocks scattered about

on all sides, however, which offered him a place of concealment, and he

was not slow to avail himself of their shelter. Barely had he thrown

himself behind one when Jack and his charges appeared.

'And when do you think it will be?' he heard Estelle saying, as she held

Jack's hand, and walked soberly at his side.

'I can't say exactly, Missie,' was the reply. 'Maybe in a week or a

fortnight.'

'I can't bear to think of your going,' said Julien, gloomily; 'it has

been so happy since you have been here. What shall I do without my

companion?'

They were going to take her away, then. Thomas was in despair as he

listened. Still, something might be done in a fortnight. He was

determined to get another chance of kidnapping Estelle. It would be easy

if only he could get rid of Jack. But how was that to be done?

(_Continued on page 334._)

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

12.--ACROSTIC.

(1) A Roman article of attire.

(2) A weapon peculiar to the animal kingdom.

(3) A left-handed man who slew a king with a dagger.

(4) One form of the element of which diamonds are made.

(5) To force by pressure.

(6) A geographical division of land.

(7) Rather hard of hearing.

(8) Bad.

(9) To have confidence.

Initials and finals give the title of a well-known fable.

W. S.

[_Answer on page 371._]

* * * * *

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 288.

11.--C al M

A lm A

T ea R

T ur K

L ut E

E di T

THE SUN AND THE TRAIN.

George Stephenson and a friend were once looking at a train. Trains in

those days were not so common as they are now, and George asked his

friend what he thought propelled or drove the train along. His friend

answered, 'Probably the arm of some stalwart north-country driver.'

'No,' said George; 'it is the heat and light of the sun which shone

millions of years ago, which has been bottled up in the coal all this

time, and which is now driving that train.'

CATCHING BIRDS UNDER WATER.

'It is impossible to catch a bird under water,' most people would say.

But they would be wrong! Now and then the Leigh fishermen take birds in

their nets below the surface of the water. The birds are of a diving

species, and they often dive into the nets after the fish. They then get

entangled in the nets, and cannot come to the surface for air, and are

drowned. Thus it is that the fishermen catch birds as well as fish in

their nets.

THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

XI.-SOME SIAMESE INSTRUMENTS.

[Illustrated]

The kingdom of Siam, though small compared with such huge countries as

Hindustan and China, takes up the chief part of the great Malay

peninsula. With the exception of Japan, no Eastern country has made such

wonderful advancement in civilised improvements as Siam. Telegraphs,

tramways, railways, and electric lighting form part of the equipment of

this go-ahead kingdom. The army was many years ago modelled on the

British system, and trained by European officers, and the King, a man of

considerable cultivation, welcomes foreigners as teachers of Western

ways.

Bangkok, the capital, is a curiously picturesque city, the architecture

being of the most original design, whilst the decoration of the many

temples, gilded minarets, roofs of gaily coloured tiles, and quaint

pagodas, make quite a feast of colour to European eyes. The native

costumes are in keeping with their surroundings, graceful in form and

bright in colour. Many of the natives live practically on the water, as

for miles above and below the capital, on both sides of the river,

floating houses are moored, supported either on rafts or on bundles of

bamboos.

Music has always played an important part in the national life, and the

present King has greatly encouraged the art. Both men and women all over

the country are more or less musical, and a great number play some form

of instrument, often joining in concerted music. The Siamese have four

kinds of bands, divided, as we divide our orchestras, into brass or

stringed bands, each with a certain combination of instruments. Some

years ago, at one of the London Exhibitions, the King of Siam sent over

players of all the national music of his country, and their concerted

performances excited great interest: the way in which they played

together showed most careful training.

[Illustration: Ta'khay, or Alligator.]

A very curious instrument is known as the Ta'khay, or Alligator: a

glance at its form will readily account for its name. There seems a sort

of satire in making one of the most silent of savage monsters a medium

for the conveyance of sweet sounds. The Ta'khay is a stringed instrument

of considerable power, and in tone is not unlike a violoncello. The

three strings pass over eleven frets or wide movable bridges, and the

shape of the body is rather like that of a guitar. It is placed on the

ground, raised on low feet, and the player squats beside it. The strings

are sounded by a plectrum, or plucker, shaped like an ivory tooth,

fastened to the fingers, and drawn backwards and forwards so rapidly

that it produces an almost continuous sweet dreamy sound.

[Illustration: Saw Tai.]

[Illustration: Saw Ou.]

The other two illustrations are both of fiddles, one bearing the name of

the Saw Tai, the other of the Saw Ou. The Saw Tai is the real Siamese

violin, and is frequently of most elaborate construction. The upper neck

of the one shown in the illustration is of gold, beautifully enamelled,

while the lower neck is of ivory, richly carved. The back of the

instrument is made of cocoa-nut shell, ornamented with jewels. The

membrane stretched on the sounding-board, which gives the effect of a

pair of bellows, is made of parchment, and has often, as in this special

instrument, a jewelled ornament inserted in one corner. The Saw Tai has

three strings of silk cord, which, passing over a bridge on the

sounding-board, run up to the neck, being bound tightly to it below the

pegs. The player sitting cross-legged on the ground holds the fiddle in

a sloping posture, and touches the strings with a curiously curved bow.

The Saw Ou, or Chinese fiddle, used in Siam, is suggestive of a modern

croquet mallet, with pegs stuck in the handle, and has only two strings,

fastened from the pegs to the head. It is played with a bow which the

performer cleverly inserts between the strings.

HELENA HEATH.

STRANGE NESTING-PLACES.

With the return of spring every year the trees take new life, and begin

to bud and put forth their leaves. At the same time the birds also feel,

as it were, a throb of new life, and begin to busy themselves with the

building of their nests, in which, when the weather is warmer, they will

lay their eggs and rear their young ones. At these times they are bolder

than usual, and timid birds, which in the winter and autumn seek the

most secluded woods and distant fields, often build in gardens quite

near to houses or to places where men are at work. The habits of birds

when they are building their nests are very interesting, and sometimes

rather puzzling.

[Illustration: "A wren built its nest in the pocket."]

As a rule they take great care to place their nests where they will be

screened from observation and safe from injury; but at times they appear

to be utterly reckless, and build in some place where there seems to us

to be every probability that the nests will be disturbed. The little

wren, for instance, usually builds its nest in some hole in an

ivy-covered tree or in a thatch. When it builds in a more open place, it

is careful to cover its nest with a dome or roof, leaving a hole in the

side for its own passage in and out. It covers its nest on the outer

side with green moss or brown leaves, selecting those materials which

are similar in colour to the surroundings of the nest. The nest is on

this account difficult to see, and the white eggs speckled with red,

which are laid in it, are hidden from view by the dome of the nest. Very

often, too, the bird has been known to build false nests, or 'dummies,'

in order to mislead visitors into thinking that it has been driven away.

But though the wren usually takes all this care to hide its nest and its

eggs from observation, it is sometimes just as careless and builds in

strange places, where it is almost sure to be noticed. It will boldly

make its nest in the hat of a scarecrow, which is intended to frighten

birds away. A little while ago, according to the newspapers, one of

these birds built its nest and hatched its eggs in the pocket of a

child's old waistcoat which had been thrown aside as useless. Other

birds often display the same boldness or carelessness. Many years ago a

swallow occupied for two years a nest which had been built upon the

handles of a pair of garden-shears which leaned against the boards in

the interior of an out-house. These were all very unlikely places for

nests, not only because they were very different from the kind of

situations usually selected, but still more because they were liable to

be disturbed at any time. If the farmer had resolved to move his

scarecrow, if a rag-man had picked up the waistcoat, or if the gardener

had come for the shears, the nest would in each case have been removed

or destroyed. And yet there is good reason to believe that the parent

birds and their young ones fared just as well in their strange quarters

as they would have done in a tree-trunk or a cranny of the walls. The

truth is, perhaps, that all thoughtful and kindly people admire the

courage, industry, and devotion of birds when they are building their

nests and rearing their young, and take every care not to disturb them

unnecessarily.

TWO LITTLE DROPS OF RAIN.

They fell together from the sky,

Two little drops of rain;

One cheered a blossom like to die,

One fell upon the plain.

One made the thirsty wilderness

A lovely blooming place;

One came a drooping flower to bless,

And give it light and grace.

The flower gave out a fragrance sweet,

That lingered by the way;

The wilderness amid the heat

Seemed sweet and cool that day.

They did the work they had to do,

And, when the day was done,

Two raindrops went back to the blue,

Drawn upwards by the sun.

FAMOUS ROSES.

A few flowers stand at the head of all others as being general

favourites; the rose, the lily, the violet have been popular for ages,

and to these we may now add, probably, the chrysanthemum. The rose has

been called the 'queen of flowers.' It was probably one of the earliest

garden plants grown in Eastern lands. Splendid festoons of roses are

said to have been one of the sights of the celebrated hanging gardens of

Babylon. At the present time roses are largely grown in India to produce

the expensive attar of roses, the Damascus kind being chiefly planted;

and very often the perfume of large rose gardens may be smelt a long way

off.

The old Romans were very fond of roses, and quantities of them were

grown in the times of the Emperors, especially near Capua and Præneste.

The Emperor Nero is said to have spent ten thousand pounds on roses for

one night's supper. The rich nobles carpeted rooms with roses, and piled

their petals round the dishes at table. In more modern times, Blanche of

Castile instituted the custom of presenting a basket of roses to the

French Parliament on May-day, but this has long ceased.

Both in France and Italy, and also in Britain, many new roses have been

raised, some nearly black, others of curious shapes. The first yellow

rose was brought to England from Turkey by Nicholas Lets, a London

merchant; other varieties have come from farther East. Scotch roses have

been famous for centuries; they are usually very fragrant, and well

guarded by sharp spines.

Roses are still grown for the market in some parts of the South of

England, even as near London as Mitcham, in Surrey, a place famous for

its fragrant plants, such as lavender and peppermint. Many roses are

brought to our island from the flower farms of South France; some come

from Holland, a country which supplies us with most of our bulbs.

When we walk about in London City as it is now, we can hardly fancy that

it had an abundance of beautiful roses in the olden time. Yet they used

to be particularly plentiful on the west side, where the Old Bourne and

River of Wells flowed down to the Thames. The gardens of Ely House, of

which we have a memory in Hatton Garden, now a street, were so full of

roses during Tudor times that the flowers were measured by bushels.

During the long and unfortunate Wars of the Roses, the white rose was

taken for an emblem by the Yorkists, and the red kind was displayed by

the Lancastrians. The Yorkists said that they chose the white because it

represented the purity of their cause, and the Lancastrians gloried in

their red flower since it told that they were ready to give their

heart's blood to obtain the victory. In Shakespeare's _Henry VI._ there

is a scene in the Temple Garden, in which the two parties pick these

roses, to show their opposition.

Not only is the rose our national emblem, but it also appears on the

collar of St. Patrick's Order, which shows roses and harps joined by

knots; and it is one of the adornments of the Order of the Bath. We may

discover this flower, too, figured on the crests of several noble

families. The oldest rose-tree in the world is said to be one growing on

the walls of Hildesheim Cathedral, which is believed to date from the

reign of the great Charlemagne.

MURIEL'S FIRST PATIENT.

Muriel clapped her hands and gave a little jump for joy when she saw

Aunt Margaret coming up the garden path. Aunt Margaret was a hospital

nurse, and Muriel had quite made up her mind to be one as well, when she

was old enough. She liked nothing better than to listen to her aunt's

stories about her patients, for it was Aunt Margaret's duty to visit the

poor people who could not afford to pay for a doctor, and Muriel never

tired of hearing about the different families her aunt went to see every

day.

She could hardly wait for her aunt to come up to the schoolroom, and

wondered impatiently whatever Mother and Aunt Margaret could be talking

about downstairs for so long. At last she came, however, and Muriel

rushed to meet her.

'Oh, Auntie! may I come with you this morning?' she begged at once. 'I

have got a whole holiday, and you did promise you would take me with you

some day to see all your poor people.'

But although Aunt Margaret kissed her little niece as warmly as ever,

her face did not wear its usual bright smile.

'Why have you got a holiday, Muriel?' she asked. 'It isn't a birthday,

is it?'

'Oh, Miss Fane has got a headache,' said Muriel, rather hastily.

'I wonder what brought it on?' said Aunt Margaret looking at Muriel

earnestly. Muriel grew very red, and looked down at her shoes, but did

not answer.

'Mother has been telling me something very sad,' went on Aunt Margaret,

'_She_ is afraid that Miss Fane's headache was caused by the great

trouble she had with a certain little pupil of hers yesterday. What do

you think, Muriel?'

'They were such stupid exercises--no one could do such horrid things,'

muttered Muriel without looking up.

'Perhaps, if some one tried,' suggested Aunt Margaret, gently, drawing

Muriel to sit beside her. 'Now, Muriel, you want to be a nurse some day,

don't you?'

Muriel nodded.

'Well, it is not a very good beginning to make people ill, is it? You

know if you are going to study the things I had to learn, you will have

to do a great many uninteresting things, so that perhaps you had better

give up the idea, if you never want to do anything that is not very

nice.'

Muriel shook her head. 'But I _do_ want to be a nurse,' she said.

'Suppose I give you a lesson to-day?'

Muriel looked up suddenly, and her eyes sparkled at the thought.

'Please do, Auntie. I will try to do what you want.'

'Mother has asked me to do something for poor Miss Fane, to make her

headache better. I want you to do it instead.'

Muriel's smile disappeared suddenly. 'She's--she's so cross, Auntie.'

'Perhaps she has a reason for feeling so,' said Aunt Margaret. 'Still,

if you would rather not--'

'Oh, but I will do it,' answered Muriel quickly. 'Only the things I do

never please her, and perhaps _she_ would rather not.'

'Suppose you have another try to please her?' said Aunt Margaret. 'I

will be the doctor, and I shall leave you in charge, and expect you to

obey my orders exactly. What do you do when Mother has a headache?'

'She lets me bathe her forehead with _eau-de-Cologne_, and I try to keep

everything very quiet.'

'That is a good beginning,' said Aunt Margaret. 'Now, Nurse, come and

take charge of your patient. I shall look in this evening to see how the

invalid is getting on.'

When Muriel stole quietly into her governess's room, the latter frowned

a little at the sight of the child who was usually so noisy and

tomboyish, but she said nothing when Muriel rather timidly explained her

errand. The little nurse carried out the doctor's orders very carefully

and thoroughly, and after a time she was delighted to see her patient

fast asleep. All day she did her very best to do just what she thought

Aunt Margaret would have done, and in the evening Miss Fane felt so much

better that she came downstairs for a little while.

It was Muriel who fetched the cosiest armchair for Miss Fane, and who so

carefully arranged a pile of soft cushions to make her more comfortable.

The governess watched her in surprise, as she remembered the restless,

mischief-loving Muriel of lesson hours, and noticed how quietly and

gently she arranged everything now. Then the little girl stood timidly

by her side, twisting her fingers nervously together behind her back.

'I am sorry I was so tiresome yesterday, Miss Fane,' she said, very

quickly, and not looking up. 'I didn't mean to make your head ache,

really.'

Miss Fane put her arm round the child, and made room for her among the

cushions.

'Of course you didn't, dear,' she said. 'It was a hard exercise, I know,

and I was not very patient, but we will have another try to-morrow, and

perhaps it will be easier then.'

Muriel nestled closer to her.

'I did it this afternoon,' she confessed shyly. 'I--I didn't try

properly yesterday.'

'But you tried to-day? Why, what a lot you have been doing all day!

Suppose you tell me how you learnt to be such a splendid little nurse?'

Muriel was only too ready to answer this, and she told Miss Fane all

about her longing to be a proper nurse, and of Aunt Margaret's lesson,

trying all the time to talk softly and not too much.

But Miss Fane was quite as interested in listening as Muriel was in

talking.

'I think the next time Aunt Margaret comes we must have a whole

holiday,' she said. 'I think you have earned one to-day. I am sure you

are going to be a capital nurse some day, for you have looked after me

so splendidly to-day.'

And Aunt Margaret was quite satisfied, too, with the result of Muriel's

first lesson.

[Illustration: Muriel's First Patient.]

[Illustration: "He swung himself off the ground."]

STORIES FROM AFRICA.

XI.--A MIGHTY HUNTER.

[Illustration]

Our African picture-gallery would be quite incomplete without a thought

of the Dark Continent as the land of great beasts, the home of those

kings among the wild creatures who can never be made the servants or the

friends of man; the land where the roar of the lion wakes the dark

hours, and the elephant and buffalo steal down to drink at the muddy

pools. And so our next story must be of one of those mighty hunters of

half a century ago who went to Africa for pastime, long before any one

dreamt of a Cape to Cairo railway. William Cotton Oswell was a sportsman

of the best type, six feet in height, wiry and muscular, a magnificent

rider and a dead shot. He spent five years in Africa without a day's

illness, was absolutely fearless, and, withal, so gentle and kindly of

heart that he won the love of every one, English or African, with whom

he came in contact; and he was so modest that his adventures were known

only to intimate friends.

'I am sorry for the fine old beasts I shot,' he said, looking back, a

grandfather and a quiet English gentleman, to the old wild hunting days;

and if, as the chroniclers tell us, William the Conqueror 'loved the

high deer as if he were their father,' so his nineteenth-century

namesake had a warm corner in his heart for the lion and the buffalo,

and the great, clumsy, fierce rhinoceros, against which he matched

himself so successfully.

In 1844, Mr. Oswell, who had been sent to South Africa to recruit, after

fever contracted in India, started on a hunting expedition with Major

Murray as his companion, visiting on the way Dr. Livingstone's

settlement at Mabotse, and getting information from him as to the

country and the game to be found there. The doctor was a better

naturalist than he was a sportsman; he had the keen observation

indispensable to the hunter, but never became a good shot. He gave his

visitors, however, all the help and information he could, and they

passed on into what was, in those days, an almost untrodden land for

sportsmen, alive with game of every kind. Mr. Oswell says that a man who

was anything of a shot could easily feed a party of six hundred by his

own gun. Still, there might be some risk connected with the securing of

the dinner, and the hunter might have to ask, like the primitive savage,

not only, 'Can I kill it?' but 'Will it kill me?'

On one occasion Mr. Oswell walked unexpectedly into the middle of a herd

of buffaloes, who scattered in all directions. Only one patriarch of the

herd, who had been lying apart from the rest, stood his ground, and the

young Englishman found himself facing the great beast, at a distance of

ten yards, with but one barrel of his gun loaded. He gave the contents

of this to the buffalo, but did not reach a vital part, and the animal

charged him. Mr. Oswell was standing under one of the mimosa-trees which

grow plentifully in this part of the country. He seized a branch and

swung himself off the ground, drawing, he says, his knees up to his

chin, so that the buffalo actually passed beneath him. The feat sounds

almost impossible, but Mr. Oswell tells it in the most matter-of-fact

fashion, simply adding that he thought it safer than the usually advised

method of springing to one side, as the buffalo can swerve sideways in

his charge, and gore his enemy in passing.

Another adventure during this expedition certainly tested the hunter's

nerve to the uttermost. Mr. Oswell's men informed him one morning that

there was no meat in the camp for the dogs who guarded the party at

night; so, taking his gun, with but one barrel loaded, he strolled out

in search of a supper for his watchmen, feeling sure of securing

something without going to any distance, or needing more ammunition. Nor

was he disappointed, for, two hundred yards from the camp, he came upon

some quagga, and killed one of them. The animal ran a little distance

before it dropped, and Mr. Oswell, after marking it down, went back for

men to carry the game home. But in this monotonous country, with its

stretches of thorny bush and mimosa-trees, nothing is easier than to

miss a track, and Mr. Oswell, though nicknamed by the Kaffirs, 'Jlaga,'

the watchful or wide-awake, found himself on this occasion at fault. No

waggons or encampment came in sight. He tried to retrace his steps and

start again, or, by making a circle, to strike his original track, but

all in vain. It had been ten in the morning when he left the camp, and

at sunset he was still seeking it, without food, unarmed save for his

useless, unloaded gun.

The situation would have been ludicrous had it been less serious; but

Mr. Oswell, feeling sure that his friends would seek him at nightfall,

followed the track of beasts to a pool of water, and determined to wait

there until he should hear some sound of them. The fuel about was

scanty, but he collected what he could until the short twilight of the

tropics darkened into night, and then, with the idea of saving firewood,

climbed a tree. But now the cold became intense. The heat of the day had

been followed by sharp frost, and the unfortunate sportsman, with no

extra covering, became so numb that he decided to descend from his perch

and light his fire. He had clambered down to the lowest bough, and was

about to drop to the ground, when something stirred below him. A moving

body parted the bushes, and he heard at his feet an unmistakable sound,

the pant of a questing lion. Had he dropped a moment sooner, he would

have fallen right on to the top of the beast. We need hardly say that he

returned very swiftly to his upper story, and, crouching there, could

hear distinctly two lions, hunting in a circle round about the water,

passing and saluting each other, like sentinels on their beat.

It was a trying situation, certainly, to have to sit, clinging with

frozen fingers to the branches, only a few feet above the heads of the

other 'mighty hunters,' who seemed to have resumed, in the night hours,

their rule of the land he had dared to dispute with them.

But the horror of darkness came to an end at last. The moon rose,

silvering the pool and showing the wide stretch of bush, and, at the

same moment, sounded, still far away, the report of guns, a volley of

firing which could only come from his own party. The sound must have

been like new life to the chilled, lonely man, nerving him to a

desperate effort to join those who were seeking for him. Those guns were

as the voices of his friends, and he would sooner risk everything in an

attempt to reach them than die of cold within hearing of their summons.

He waited until the two lions were, as he judged, at the furthest point

of their round, then he dropped noiselessly to the ground. The firing

continued at intervals, and he made for it through the bush, running,

pausing, listening, with breath held, for the rustle or movement among

the grass and undergrowth that might mean sudden death. He says himself

that his uncertain course and frequent stoppages probably saved him,

since the wild beast distrusts any prey that does not go straight

forward, as if expecting counter-manoeuvres. It was an hour's

journey--a trial, certainly, to the stoutest nerves. But the haven of

safety was reached at last. The anxious searchers heard their guns

answered by the shout of their lost companion, and the exhausted

sportsman found welcome and food and fire awaiting him. As he sat,

thawing his numbed fingers by the cheerful blaze, a distant roar sounded

among the bushes, the voice of a lion who scents his prey. The Kaffir

servants looked at each other and at their master.

'He has found your track, Jlaga,' said one of them.

The race had been a close one indeed; a few minutes' difference, and the

story of that night under the African sky would never have come home to

England.

MARY H. DEBENHAM.

THEMISTOCLES AND THE GREEK GENERALS.

The Athenian general and statesman, Themistocles, was one of the few

Greeks who, when Xerxes, the King of Persia, invaded Greece with a great

army and a huge fleet, thought it possible to resist the Great King

(that was the title which the king of the Persian Empire bore). He had

much difficulty in persuading the generals of the other Greek states to

fight at all, or even to await the coming of the enemy; some he bribed,

others he bullied, till at length the Persian fleet was totally defeated

off the island of Salamis.

After this victory, there were great rejoicings, and it was resolved to

give splendid honours to the general who was considered the worthiest,

and also to him who came next in glory. The generals therefore voted to

see who should be considered first and who second.

For the first place, no one got more than one vote; each general had

voted for himself for the first prize! But Themistocles was unanimously

declared to have won the second prize, for though no one of them liked

to admit that Themistocles was better than himself, they were each

certain that he was superior to all the rest. So no one got the first

prize, but special honours were paid to Themistocles.

A SILENT REPROOF.

Many years ago a number of persons were travelling by coach northwards

towards Paisley. Some of them were Scottish farmers; others, tradesmen

or persons of good position in Paisley; and one was a Scotsman of

superior appearance, who, judging by his conversation, had travelled a

good deal and seen much of his fellow-men. He recounted many interesting

experiences as they journeyed along, and they all chatted freely and

pleasantly with each other.

The road was a hilly and rough one, and at a lonely spot where it was

especially bad, the coach was so severely jolted that one of the axles

broke. Fortunately, no one was injured, and when all had alighted from

the coach, they began to inspect the damaged axle. The passenger whose

conversation had proved so interesting came to their assistance, and

examined the axle critically. Presently, he asked the coachman if there

were any blacksmith near at hand. There was not a house in sight, and

the coachman told him that the forge of the nearest blacksmith was a

mile or two away.

'Help me to carry the broken parts to the smith,' said the other, 'and I

will see that they are properly mended.'

So they carried the broken axle across the moors to the blacksmith's

shop, but they found that the blacksmith was not at home. Nothing

daunted, the passenger who had undertaken to see the axle repaired

lighted the blacksmith's fire, set the bellows to work, and, with the

help of one of his fellow-passengers, mended the axle himself. They

carried it back to the coach, fixed it in its place, put on the wheels,

and the coach started off again upon its journey.

But now the passengers, instead of being grateful for the fortunate help

which had been given them, began to hold aloof from the man who had

mended the axle, and they had little to say to him. From his

conversation they had taken him to be a gentleman, but he had shown them

now that he was nothing but a common blacksmith. So for the rest of the

journey they neglected him, and he sat lost in his own thoughts.

[Illustration: "They began to examine the damaged axle."]

When the travellers reached the end of the stage they separated, and

each went his own way. On the following morning one of them had business

with the Earl of Eglinton at Eglinton Castle. He reached the castle in

good time, and after being announced, was shown into a room where the

Earl was seated at breakfast. But judge of his surprise when he found

that his fellow-traveller of the previous day, the very man who had

mended the broken axle of the coach, was sitting at breakfast with the

Earl. He was not, then, a blacksmith, after all! No; he was John

Rennie, the constructor of the Waterloo, Southward, and London Bridges,

the Plymouth Breakwater, and the London Docks; in fact, the greatest

engineer of his time, and a man honoured by all who knew him. He had

learnt his trade thoroughly, from the very bottom, and was not above

making use of it in the humblest way--even as a blacksmith.

[Illustration: "The kitten at once began lapping."]

EVA'S KITTEN.

Breakfast was over, Father had started for the City, and now was the

time for Pussy's breakfast.

Eva brought the saucer to her mother, and when it was filled with milk,

Eva put it carefully on the floor. The kitten rushed up to it, and at

once began lapping.

'Isn't she clever, Mother?' asked Eva, as she seated herself on her own

footstool, and watched the dainty way in which the kitten licked up

every drop of milk that fell on her fur. 'She knows how to keep herself

so clean and tidy.'

Mrs. Poison was reading a letter which had just come by the post, but

she looked up as Eva spoke, and said half-absently, for she was thinking

more of her letter than the kitten, 'Yes, very clever! Listen, Eva, my

letter is from Mrs. James: she wants us both to drive over to her this

afternoon and have tea.'

'Oh, I shall like that,' said Eva, shaking out her long auburn hair like

a cloud, as she joyfully nodded her head. 'I shall like to see Jessie

again. Is she quite well now?'

'No, dear, she is not; her mother says she seems as if she could not

shake off the effects of the whooping-cough.'

'Oh! and I had it at the same time, and I am quite well,' said Eva, in

astonishment.

'Poor Jessie! she is a delicate little thing,' said Mrs. Polson. 'You

must see what you can do to cheer her up, Eva.'

'Yes, Mother,' said Eva, thoughtfully.

When Eva and her mother arrived at Mrs. James's house, no Jessie was in

the drawing-room to welcome them, and Mrs. James had to explain the

reason.

'Poor Jessie, she is terribly upset,' she said, 'for only an hour ago

her little cat was found dead in the garden. We are afraid it was

poisoned. Jessie is fretting about it, and she is shy of showing herself

with her red eyes, so she ran away to the nursery.'

'May I go to her?' asked Eva.

'Yes, dear, do,' answered Mrs. James; 'she will perhaps forget the poor

cat in a game of play.'

Eva ran upstairs to the nursery, and did her best to comfort Jessie, but

the poor child was languid and fretful, and could hardly put away the

thought of her lost pet.

'It was such a dear little cat, and quite black all over,' she told Eva.

'There was not a white hair in it. I shall never see a quite black

kitten again. Nurse says they are very rare; oh! I wish I had it back!'

Again Jessie burst out crying, for she was worn out with grief, and

hardly knew how to stop.

Eva was really sorry for Jessie, who, though two or three years older

than herself, looked so small and frail, and throwing her arms around

her, she whispered, 'Don't cry any more, Jessie! You shall have my

kitten for your very own; it is quite black, too, and you will soon love

it very much. I will ask Mother to let the groom bring it you to-night.'

'Oh, Eva! will you really? But it is a shame to take your kitten,' said

Jessie, stopping her sobs, and looking up at Eva. 'You love it too; I

know you do, Eva.'

'Yes, I do,' said Eva, slowly, 'but I want to give it you because you

are ill, and cannot run about out of doors as I can, and this kitten

will be your friend; and now you must stop crying.'

The black kitten was taken to its new home that same evening, and Jessie

was so pleased to have a kitten once more that she went off cheerfully

to bed, much to her mother's relief.

Eva felt the parting from her pet, but there is a feeling in giving up

for others that is a happiness in itself, and that happiness was Eva's.

THE STRING OF PEARLS.

My mother has a string of pearls,

So pure and fine and white:

She lets me take it in my hands,

And hold it to the light.

My mother says that like that chain

My life should ever be,

Each day a pearl to stand apart

In flawless purity.

THE NEW ZEALAND GLOW-WORM.

Everybody has not seen one, but we all have read about the Glow-worm,

the remarkable insect which has the power of exhibiting a bright light

in the dusk of evening. In England we have two species of insects that

are called by this name, which properly belongs only to a kind of

wingless beetle, found along the hedgerows and moist banks during the

summer. The other insect which shares the name is also known as the

electric centipede; it is seen about gardens or fields, and has the

peculiarity of leaving upon the path it has trodden a shining track.

In New Zealand there is a very curious glow-worm. The first idea about

this insect was that it turned into a kind of beetle; afterwards it

proved to be the larva or grub of a fly. Its light is seemingly given it

to attract small insects which are its food, and these are secured by

means of a web. This web is placed in a niche amongst rocks or trees,

and has a central thread, from which run smaller threads to the sides of

the opening. Upon several of the lower threads there are usually a

number of globules that resemble tiny silver beads, but what is the use

of these is uncertain. Upon the middle thread the grub sits; if

startled, it glides away into a hole it has for a hiding-place. The

light comes from the hinder part of the body, and the grub can display

or darken this as it chooses. On damp, warm nights it is brightest, and

it is not visible when the weather is cold, nor, of course, during the

day. Having reached its full size, the grub becomes a chrysalis, being

fastened firmly to its web. A faint light comes from the chrysalis now

and then. When the fly comes out, that also has a faint light, only half

as bright as that of the grub; what it feeds upon is unknown.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 323._)