'Good-bye, dear!' said Mrs. Wright, with tears in her eyes, as Estelle
clung to her in a last embrace. 'Perhaps you will come back some day,
and see us again.'
'Indeed, dear Goody, I will. You have been good to me! I shall love to
think of you and Jack, and everything here, often and often--and of all
the kind people I have met. I cannot thank you enough for all you have
done. I have been so happy. I shall never forget it.'
'I hope your friends will think you looking bonnie, dear,' went on Mrs.
Wright. 'If they had seen you when Jack brought you here, they would not
believe it was the same little missie at all. Now, don't be ill on the
voyage, and spoil all the credit due to me.'
Mrs. Wright tried to speak in a lively tone, but the effort ended in
tears. The child had been hers so long that the parting was almost as
painful as if she were really losing one of her own dear ones. Estelle
clung to her, wishing she could persuade her dear Goody to come home
with her, that Aunt Betty might see her and thank her properly. But this
was too much to expect. Goody was sure she would sever survive the
voyage. Jack also was averse to the idea. He did not want to have two
helpless people on his hands, he said, laughingly.
Mrs. Wright accompanied them down to the harbour, and, as they rowed out
to the ship, Estelle watched her standing there till distance and tears
blotted out the sight.
The wind was fair abaft, and they made good way. Estelle began gradually
to like the smooth motion. Her spirits came back as she felt that every
knot brought her nearer home and Aunt Betty. Jack had done his best to
make her comfortable, but the smack was not a large vessel, and its
accommodation was necessarily limited. Nevertheless, all that could be
done to make her voyage a pleasant one was done by Jack, Fargis, and the
crew. She had the cabin all to herself, and a chair was always ready for
her on deck when she chose to occupy it. Usually, however, she preferred
to sit near where-ever Jack was, and to talk to him. She would build
castles in the air of what would happen when her father returned, and
she could tell him all her wishes. He would be quite sure to do all she
desired; he never refused any reasonable request, and all her requests
were reasonable. Jack smiled. He let her ramble on in her dreams of how
they were to meet again, and how he must have a boat of his own, and a
comfortable home in England for dear Goody to live in.
Then the talk would revert to other and sadder matters. These were never
mentioned except when they were quite alone, which could not be often.
Once or twice, however, they did get such a quiet hour when the
night-watches had been set, and it was Jack's turn on duty. Estelle
would not go to bed; she preferred to come on deck to talk to him. How
often afterwards did she look back upon those nights! Fine, clear
moonlight; the sky full of stars, stretched like a dark curtain over
them; all around the equally dark water, through which they cut with
almost uncanny smoothness; the silence about them broken only by the
soft lapping of the waves, and the occasional creak of the spars, or the
flap of the sails.
Fargis, who had some knowledge of the coast, made for Tyre-cum-Widcombe,
where, he declared, all the information required could be obtained. And
so it proved. Jack, leaving Estelle on board, went to the biggest inn in
the place. There he had his questions answered, with the additional
assurance that he could have any carriage he liked to take the little
lady home. The Earl himself was now staying at the Moat House.
As soon as it became generally known that little Lady Estelle de Bohun
had been found, and was at that moment aboard the French smack in the
harbour, a crowd began rapidly to get together on the little quay. The
cheering, the pressing forward to get a glimpse of her, astonished the
French crew quite as much as it did Estelle. Neither she nor they had
any idea of her importance. They listened with keen interest as Jack
translated to them what he had been told of the lost child, and how Lord
Lynwood had routed the whole country upside down in his determination
not to leave a stone unturned to find her. Jack became a hero to all who
knew how he had saved the child; and there were a few who, pressing up
to Fargis, made out the story of the rescue from his broken English.
Time, however, was of importance. Jack wanted, if possible, to get back
to the boat before nightfall. Fargis would wait for him, in any case,
but the matter had best be got over at once. His approaching interview
with Dick Peet weighed upon his mind; other details connected with it
must be settled--some decision arrived at. He was glad, therefore, when
the carriage came round, and he and Estelle drove away from the amiable,
but inquisitive, crowd.
As they passed through the deep lanes, and over the wide common, where
the gorse was in full bloom, then under the trees of the wood, Estelle's
thoughts were with Aunt Betty, whom she was to see so soon; or with
Dick, and the wonderful surprise she was bringing him. Now and then she
took a furtive glance at Jack, and wished the happiness of the one did
not mean the unhappiness of the other.
On reaching the Bridge House, she begged that they might get out there,
instead of driving up to the house. Without a word Jack sprang down,
and, lifting her out, paid and dismissed the carriage. Estelle had run
forward as he was doing this, but now returned to his side, saying--
'Shall it be first or last, Jack?'
Standing quite still a moment, his eyes on the blue sky and the fleecy
clouds, he braced himself for an interview which must be full of pain.
He looked very pale, but there was a set expression about his mouth and
jaw which spoke volumes.
'As you please, Missie. Though there is no last that I know of.'
Gazing at him earnestly, she wondered of what he was thinking, and how
she could soften this first meeting. Her first impulse was to run
straight to dear Aunt Betty and her father. But she felt it her duty to
see Dick while the interview had the chance of being quite a private
one; it would be more difficult to secure secrecy if the fact of her
return were known. She was sure Aunt Betty would say that whatever the
sacrifice was to her, she ought to make it.
'Dick is quite alone,' she said, at last. 'I don't know when we shall
find him so again. Isn't it better not to put it off?'
Without a moment's hesitation, Jack turned and followed her, though he
could not have spoken to save his life. Fortunately, they reached the
gate and went up to the Bridge House porch unperceived. Sitting in his
armchair, as usual, was Dick, resting after his morning's outing in a
wheel-chair. Comfortably happy and half asleep he looked, as Estelle put
her hand upon his, saying--
'Dick!' in her soft voice.
Startled and bewildered, he gazed at her for some moments before
recognition came into his eyes; then a bright smile spread over his
face, and he grasped the little hand near his.
(_Continued on page 358._)
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
XI. THE GREEN MAN.
There are always people in every age who delight in notoriety, and will
do anything to get themselves talked about; and there was a man of this
sort, at Brighton, in the year 1806.
His craze was to be always dressed in green, and large crowds would
assemble every day, outside his house, to see him drive off in his green
gig, with a green whip, and a servant in green livery beside him.
The gentleman himself was invariably dressed in green pantaloons, and a
green waistcoat, frock, and cravat. A green silk handkerchief stuck out
of his pocket, and a large watch, with green seals, was fastened by a
green chain to the green buttons of his waistcoat.
His food too was only green fruit and vegetables, and his house was
entirely furnished in green.
Such fads and fancies are not unknown in our own day. At one time
'Browning' teas were held in a peculiar way. The guests would assemble
and find the table laid with a brown, unbleached table-cloth; brown
bread and butter and chocolate cakes were the chief diet, and every
guest was expected to wear a brown costume. During the meal selections
from Browning's poems were read by one of the company, and in this way
they thought they honoured their favourite poet!
PLANTS WITH SIGNS.
In the olden time people did not study botany very deeply, being too
busy with other matters, and they had neither books nor pictures about
plants. But they talked of plants more than we perhaps think they did,
and had a good many ideas concerning them, showing that they kept their
eyes open to observe Nature. One of the facts noticed many centuries
ago was that some plants have curious marks on flower, leaf, stem or
root. Indeed, some persons supposed that all plants had signs by which
you could tell their use for physic, food, or whatever else it might be.
Several plants were thought to be like the human body, such as the
mandrake and the ginseng; and these, it was said, must also be good for
man. Again, amongst the orchis tribes, foreign specimens of which are
often so valuable, we find very singular marks and shapes. England has a
man orchis and a lady orchis, but neither of them really suits the name,
for their flowers have rather the appearance of a winged insect.
It is worth noting that not only the common people believed in the signs
or marks to be discovered upon plants, but learned men also supposed
that there was something told by many of these marks at least, if not by
all of them. Certainly the general look of several poisonous kinds tells
us to beware of them, such as the wild bryony, for instance, and the
nightshades.
We have, too, a few instances where it does seem, even if it is only an
accident, that a plant has a value which agrees with a mark or sign.
Several of the old poets praise the eyebright, or euphrasia, which has a
black pupil-like spot on the corolla; therefore, it was thought by our
ancestors to make a good eye-lotion. At the present time, it has been
proved that a medicine made from this plant will strengthen weak eyes.
The flower of an English plant called the self-heal has rather the shape
of a bill-hook; it is of a pretty colour, and was believed to cure
wounds; and it really does act in this way to some extent. Some of our
gardens have specimens of the Solomon's seal, a kind of lily. When the
root is cut across, curious marks show, a little like a seal, and so it
is called after the wisest of kings. People used the root as a remedy
for wounds and hurts. Nowadays, again, looking at a walnut, we might not
see a likeness to the human head; yet in the olden time men did, the
inside having a resemblance to the skull, and the kernel representing
the brain. Hence, walnuts were thought good for complaints of the head.
Similarly, as the cones of a species of pine-tree had the shape of
teeth, it followed that they would ease the toothache.
Shaking being one of the notable effects of that troublesome complaint,
the ague, as a safeguard the quaking grass was dried and kept in the
house; the aspen, too, by its constant trembling, was thought to be
another remedy of value. The broad, showy flowers of the moon-daisy,
suggesting pictures of the full moon, had an imaginary value, for it was
used to cure the complaints which the moon was said to cause. A
horseshoe being held a token of good fortune, a vetch with pods of that
shape was believed to have many curious properties. Bleeding could be
stopped by the herb Robert, a wild geranium of our hedges, its power
being shown by the beautiful red of its young and fading leaves. One of
the strangest ideas people had was about fern-seed; it is very tiny,
almost invisible, and so they believed those who got a particular sort
of it, could make themselves invisible when they wished!
CLOTHED IN 'CHATTERBOX.'
A reader of _Chatterbox_ has devised an original suit of clothing, shown
in the illustration. It is made entirely of sheets of _Chatterbox_,
gummed together and fitted to the body like an ordinary cloth suit. The
sheets on the front of the coat are all coloured plates, so that the
suit looked much brighter than our every-day wear.
[Illustration: A "Chatterbox" Costume.]
This strange apparel was made by Mr. H. H. Neal, of Leatherhead, and it
has caused much amusement and interest. At a 'costume race' held at some
athletic sports, the suit took the special prize for the best costume.
THE TIMID MOUSE.
A mouse was kept in such distress by its fear of a cat, that a magician,
taking pity on it, turned it into a cat. Immediately it began to suffer
from fear of a dog; so the magician turned it into a dog. Then it began
to suffer from fear of a tiger, and the magician, in disgust, said, 'Be
a mouse again. As you have only the heart of a mouse, it is impossible
to help you by giving you the body of a noble animal.'
It is hopeless to try to accomplish anything without pluck.
THE UNION JACK.
What is the very first thing we talk of doing when we hear that the King
is coming to pay a visit in our neighbourhood? I fancy I can hear every
boy and girl answer at once, 'Why, hang out all our flags, of course!'
But how many of us know anything about the most famous of all these
flags--the Union Jack?
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--First Union Jack.]
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--English Flag of St. George.]
In the first place, it is called 'Union' because it is really three
flags united in one; and 'Jack' after King James (Jacques) who ordered
the first Union Jack (fig. 1) to be made, to stop the quarrels between
the English and Scotch over their flags of St. George (fig. 2) and St.
Andrew (fig. 3), each country naturally wanting its own flag to occupy
the first place. In this flag, the red St. George, with a narrow border
of white, to show the colour of its field, is placed over the white St.
Andrew, which keeps its own blue field.
[Illustration: Fig. 4.--Irish Flag of St. Patrick.]
[Illustration: Fig. 5.--Our Union Jack of To-day.]
[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Scotch Flag of St. Andrew.]
But when Ireland was united to England in 1801, we had to ask our
Heralds' Office to design a fresh flag, to include the Irish national
flag of St. Patrick (fig. 4).
This they managed very neatly by taking away from each quarter of the
'Jack' one half of the white St. Andrew's Cross, and in its place
putting the red St. Patrick with a narrow white border, to show the
colour of the field (fig. 5).
You will notice that St. Andrew's cross is arranged so as to come above
St. Patrick's in the two quarters of the flag next to the flag-staff. If
the flag be hung in any other way it becomes a signal of danger and
distress; so let us always be careful to have our 'Jack' hung properly.
'MR. HAROLD.'
No one who had seen John Green sitting on a mile-stone opposite to the
huge iron gates which opened into the Manor-house drive would have
thought that it was a bitterly cold evening in December. His hands were
in his pockets, and he was wrapped in thought, and he did not notice the
cold.
He had been to town to try and collect a few small sums which were owing
to his mother, but with little success. Things had not gone well with
Mrs. Green and her son since Mr. Green's death, six months before. Mr.
Green had had a long and expensive illness, and all his savings and most
of his furniture had had to go in medicine and doctor's bills. He had
been a carpenter, earning good wages, and Mrs. Green was very anxious to
live in the same cottage, as there was a big garden, which she thought
she and her son ought to be able to cultivate profitably. But,
unfortunately, the apple crop failed that autumn, their rent was in
arrears, and Mr. Tucker, the land agent, whom John had just met in the
town, had told him that they must either pay in a week or go. There
were plenty of people who would willingly have lent them the necessary
money, but Mrs. Green declined to borrow under any circumstances
whatever.
'If the Squire really knew what was happening on his estate,' said the
boy, bitterly, to himself, 'I don't believe he would let old Tucker go
on as he does. It's a shame to live up in a great house like that, and
never take the trouble to find out how his agent is treating people. I'd
go to him myself, but they say he always speaks to Tucker if any tenants
do that, and Tucker turns them out at once. At any rate, there's one
more week in which to raise three pounds--and a lot of chance there is
of finding it,' and the boy laughed aloud bitterly.
'Well, there does not appear to be much to laugh at to-night,' said a
voice at his elbow, and turning round Jack saw that a man, apparently a
tramp, in even shabbier clothes than his own, had come up noiselessly
over the snow. 'Also,' continued the new-comer, 'it would be possible to
find a warmer and more comfortable seat than that mile-stone.'
'I was waiting opposite the gates, trying to make up my mind whether I
would go in or not,' answered the boy, 'and I was laughing because I did
not think it would make any real difference whether I went in or stayed
outside.'
'That depends, I suppose, on what you want there! If I might ask, what
is it?'
'I want the Squire to give my mother a little time to get together her
rent; but since Mr. Harold ran away, ten years ago to-day, the Squire
has never been the same man. That nearly broke his heart, and now he
takes no interest in anything; he has turned us all over to an agent,
who does just what he likes with us.'
'Then Mr. Harold was---- '
'His son. My father said he would have run away too if he had been Mr.
Harold, though the Squire wasn't as bad in those days.'
'And who was your father?'
'Peter Green, the carpenter.'
'Well, Peter Green's son,' said the stranger, with a queer laugh, 'if
you will go in and see the Squire, and come out and tell me in what sort
of temper he is, I will give you my last shilling,' and he spun a coin
in the air. 'You must go in by the front door, and I will wait for you
in the drive.'
'Right you are,' said the boy, jumping off the mile-stone. 'I'll risk it
for a shilling.'
Side by side they tramped up the snowy drive till they saw the light
shining through the glass in the front door. Then the tramp drew aside,
and John went boldly up the steps. The clang of the bell had scarcely
died away before the door was opened by an elderly butler.
'Can I see the Squire?' asked John, in as brave a voice as he could
muster.
'Show him in at once, Williams; show him in at once,' called out an
impatient voice at the back of the hall.
The butler stepped back. 'I don't think, sir,' he said, 'that this is
the gentleman you are expecting.'
'How do you know what gentleman I am expecting? 'Show him in at once, I
tell you.'
'You'd better come straight in,' said the butler, shrugging his
shoulders. He led the way across the hall, and ushered John into a
comfortably furnished library. An old gentleman was sitting by the fire,
enveloped in rugs. He leant forward and peered into John's face. Then he
fell back wearily into his cushions. 'Dear, dear! another
disappointment,' he groaned. 'Take him away, Williams.'
But John, having penetrated into the lion's den, did not mean to be
dismissed so easily.
'Please, sir,' he began, hurriedly, 'I want to know whether you will
give my mother a little longer to pay her rent. We have had a very hard
time. Mr. Tucker is going to turn us out.'
'You must go and see Mr. Tucker about that,' answered the old man,
indifferently. 'I leave all such matters to him; or, stay,' he added, 'I
am expecting Mr. Harold to-night. You can come in and see him about it
next week if you like.'
Then John remembered that he had heard that on the anniversary of his
son's departure the old man always expected him to return, and he
understood why he had been shown in so hurriedly.
'But, please, sir,' he pleaded, 'won't you write me a line for Mr.
Tucker, in case Mr. Harold missed the train or anything?'
The old man put up his hands feebly. 'Take him away, Williams,' he said,
querulously.' I can't be worried, or I shall be too tired to speak to
Mr. Harold when he comes. Do whatever you think Mr. Harold would like.'
John followed the butler out of the room, and half an hour later he went
down the steps triumphantly. In his pocket was a paper which the butler
had written out and persuaded the Squire to sign, stating that Mrs.
Green was on no account to be turned out of her cottage without Mr.
Harold's express orders. He found the tramp waiting for him, and told
his story joyfully, declining to accept the proffered shilling in
return.
The tramp listened attentively, and drew himself together at the end. 'I
think I will risk it,' he said, huskily. Then he turned to John: 'Look
here, young man, you will find it to your advantage to say nothing about
to-night, whatever news you may hear in the village to-morrow. See?'
'You aren't going to hurt the Squire?' asked John, anxiously.
'I hope not, but you will probably understand to-morrow,' and the shabby
figure strode away up the drive.
* * * * *
The next day the villagers were electrified by the news that Mr. Harold
had returned at last.
That is many years ago now, and John Green, the head-gardener at the
Manor-house, sometimes wonders, as he watches the care with which the
present Squire selects an orchid for his button-hole, whether the tramp
who spoke to him on that snowy December night was not the figure of a
dream.
IN HARVARD MUSEUM.
The American University of Harvard contains in its Museum one of the
greatest artistic marvels of the world. This curiosity consists of
hundreds of specimens of flowers and plants, all made in glass, and so
true to nature, both in form and colouring, that the flowers seem as if
they had just been gathered. Even the tiny hairs which appear on the
stems of certain plants are faithfully reproduced on these glass
imitations.
These glass plants are made by two Germans, a father and his son, and so
jealously do they guard the secret of the manufacture that it is
possible the knowledge may die with them.
A THOUGHTLESS DAISY.
'Tis very cold,' a Daisy said
Upon a meadow green,
'Dark, gloomy clouds are overhead,
Without a ray between.
These angry gusts of bitter wind
(So unexpected too)
Are really more than I can bear--
They chill me through and through.'
Just then his discontented eye
Looked sorrowfully up,
And chanced across the path to spy
A golden Buttercup.
Its petals flinched before the wind,
The stalk was roughly bent,
And yet the Daisy could not hear
One word of discontent.
And then this foolish Daisy cried:
'It's plain enough to spy,
Most blossoms in this meadow wide
Are better off than I!
They do not mind the shadows dark,
Nor feel the bitter wind;
If I could be a buttercup,
I really shouldn't mind.'
Now, like this Daisy in the grass
Some people I have known,
Who, while their daily troubles pass
Do nothing else but moan,
And think that those who bravely bear
The chilling wind and rain
Can feel no sorrow in their hearts
Because they don't complain.
JOCK'S COLLIE.
A True Story.
Travellers over the great trans-continental railways of the United
States and Canada gaze with awe and wonder at the grandeur of Nature in
the wild canyons and rugged peaks of the Rocky Mountains. In many places
the railway tunnels through overhanging rocks, or winds round narrow
shelves above gloomy precipices.
The railway companies take the greatest precautions for the safety of
their trains in the mountain sections. Besides the usual working gangs,
there are special track-walkers, and 'safety switch-openers,' who lead
solitary lives in the great hills.
Spring thaws and showers loosen the frost-bound soil, trickling
snow-rills grow into gullying torrents, and the jar of a passing train
sets in motion a loose boulder, which, with ever-increasing speed, at
last hurls itself upon the track. Even the echoes of the locomotive
whistle will in some states of the atmosphere bring disaster. Tiny snow
crystals are jarred by the sound-waves; these start on a downward
career, gathering volume and speed until a mighty avalanche has been
developed.
In one of these mountain canyons lives a Scotch track-walker and his
only companion, a beautiful and intelligent collie dog, who always
accompanies his master on the inspection rounds.
It was in the late afternoon of a strenuous day in May, when Jock and
Collie arrived weary and hungry at the 'shack' (hut) door. Everything
was satisfactory in the canyon, the section gang had gone down the
track, and with a sigh of content Jock set about preparing his evening
meal. Collie, with his head between his paws, watched the proceedings.
Suddenly he assumed an alert, listening attitude, then he set off at a
great rate up the track.
When supper was ready Jock whistled for his companion, and on looking
out was surprised to find him gone; but from the narrowing walls of the
gorge came the sound of his furious barking. Jock whistled again and
again, but the dog did not come. Perfectly convinced that something was
wrong, he seized his rifle and hurried off, expecting to find that
Collie had cornered some wild animal, or that some animal had cornered
him! Round the curve he hurried, and what he saw almost paralysed him.
A great boulder, weighing many hundredweight, lay across the track, and
on top of it, wild with excitement, was Collie.
On the little flat near the 'shack' was the switch at which the Pacific
and Atlantic Expresses--the trains going East and West--crossed. They
were due almost at once. He was alone, time was short, and upon his
action depended the safety of many lives. He could not go both ways at
once with his warning; but down the western track beyond the switch he
sped with explosive 'torpedoes,' or detonating signals. Then he hurried
back again past the dog (still on his signal station), and far to the
east, round the long curve, with his red flags of danger.
The express from the Pacific, warned by the torpedoes, steamed slowly,
very slowly, to the switch, then came to a standstill.
The train crew ran down to the hut, which was thick with smoke from
burnt 'flap-jacks' and frizzled bacon, but found no sign of Jock or
Collie. Round the curve they ran, and there, still on the boulder, was
Collie, barking, as the brakeman expressed it, 'to beat the band.'
The others continued the pursuit of Jock, while the brakeman tried to
coax the dog down. But Collie was there for a purpose, and not until
Jock returned would he leave his post. His master's smiling face and
hearty voice gave assurance that all was well, and then Collie fairly
hurled himself upon Jock, licked his face and gave frantic yelps of
delight.
An extempore breakdown gang cleared the track, and the great trains
thundered away to Atlantic and Pacific--saved by a dog!
[Illustration: "There, still on the boulder, was Collie, barking."]
[Illustration: "The third time he collapsed, and was pulled back."]
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By HAROLD ERICSON.
VIII.--THE MAN AT THE WHEEL.
'Have either of you fellows ever been in the middle of a fire at sea?'
asked Vandeleur one evening, when informed that it was his turn to spin
a yarn for the benefit of the rest. 'If not, I advise you to keep as far
away from such a thing as you can. My own experience is only, so to
speak, on a small scale; that is, I was only, at the time, upon a short
journey across a lake in a small Japanese steamer--a voyage of about
sixty miles--but I can assure you I was never more frightened in my
life. One feels so utterly helpless when apparently at the mercy of the
most pitiless of the elements, far from shore, and--for all one can
see--confronted by the necessity to choose one of two kinds of death, if
one is more terrible than the other--drowning or burning.
'Am I right in believing that you succeeded in cheating both the fire
and the water, perhaps out of deference to the hangman?' asked Bobby,
'or am I speaking to a somewhat solid ghost?'
'Escaped, I believe.' replied Vandeleur, 'in order that I might try to
teach manners to a certain ruffian of the name of Robert Oakfield.'
With the words, Vandeleur fell suddenly upon Bobby, and quickly
upsetting him, rubbed his nose in the soft moss. There was a short,
sharp struggle, and Vandeleur returned to his seat.
'I have not yet succeeded in my object,' continued Vandeleur, 'but I
hope for the best.'
* * * * *
We had gone about half-way to our destination--town called Shukisama, on
the other side of the lake--when it was suddenly discovered that our
little steamer, the _Toki Maru_, was on fire. With very little warning,
flames sprang up from the hold--no one ever discovered how the fire
began--and almost in an instant the half of the steamer which lay aft of
the hold became unapproachable on account of the dense volumes of black
smoke which flew in clouds over it, driven by the head-wind against
which the little steamer was making its way.
The captain quickly ordered every passenger forward into the bows of the
vessel, out of the reach of the heat and suffocating smoke. The crew
then attempted, with hose and pump, to keep the fire in hand; but
already, it appeared, the flames had obtained the mastery, and their
attempts came too late. The cargo, I believe, was tow, or some other
oily substance difficult to extinguish once the fire had secured a firm
hold upon it. Moreover, the smoke and heat were such that it was
impossible for the workers to approach near enough to concentrate their
efforts where they would be most likely to succeed.
The passengers huddled together in the bows of the little steamer and
watched the efforts of the crew. It was obvious that these efforts had
failed.
'Have we time to reach Shukisama?' men and women asked one another; 'it
is twenty miles, or more--nearly two hours--shall we do it?' The
captain, when anxiously asked as to this, replied: 'We hope so; who can
tell? Much depends on the man at the wheel.'
The man at the wheel! Not one of us selfish people in safety and
comfort--speaking comparatively--in the bows, had thought of the poor
fellow back there in the stern, sticking bravely to his post in spite of
the dense, hot smoke which must be enveloping him in its suffocating
fumes.
'He cannot last long, captain,' said some one, 'in that atmosphere; he
will be suffocated, or he will give up and jump into the sea. What will
happen if there is no one to steer the ship?'
'She will go round and round,' replied the captain, laughing grimly,
'while we are roasted or drowned. At present he is sticking to his post,
and we are travelling in our course. You may be thankful, all of you,
that we have a brave man, young Hayashi, at the wheel. He was only
married last week, and his wife is at Shukisama; you may be sure he will
do his best to get home.'
'A man may be ever so much in love,' said a passenger, 'but he cannot
breathe fire and smoke for air: it must be pretty hot where he is, and
it will soon be hotter!'
A cry went up for volunteers to relieve the man at the wheel. Several
came forward--they are brave as lions, these Japanese. One was selected
as the first to make an effort to pass through the smoke and flame to
the stern of the vessel. A line was made fast to the good fellow's
waist, for, he had said, in case he should collapse in the dense smoke,
he would rather be hauled back in any position, than left there!
Three times the brave man rushed into the mass of hot, poisonous vapour,
and twice he returned staggering and choking. The third time he entirely
collapsed, and was pulled back. His jacket was on fire and he was
unconscious. A second man instantly volunteered; he had a new suggestion
to make.
'I will slip over the side of the ship, and you can pay out line
gradually until I have reached a spot where I think I can climb up. When
I pull, you must slack out the line.'
'Mind the screw. Don't get sucked back too far astern,' said the
captain; 'be careful.'
The man jumped into the water, and was carried instantly astern; he
tugged, and line was paid out. Soon it became evident, by the tension of
the line, that he had clung on to the vessel's side; probably he was
climbing laboriously upward--his plan was going to succeed.
But the line suddenly sprang outwards; he had jumped into the sea again;
a few minutes, and he was hauled back, out of breath and exhausted.
'I couldn't climb it,' he said, 'it's too steep and slippery. I nearly
got sucked into the screw. The flames are not near the wheel yet, but
the smoke is flying right over it in dense, black volumes. How young
Hayashi is standing it, I don't know.'
But the steamer was standing straight as a line upon her course; it was
obvious that the good fellow's nerve still held out, his eyes were not
yet dimmed with the smoke and heat--good, brave Hayashi!
Some one proposed that the passengers should approach in a body as far
aft as the fire permitted, and then shout together words of praise and
encouragement. This was done. Some thirty men and women stood together
nearly amidships and shouted in time to the beat of a conductor:
'Hayashi--Banzai--brave Hayashi--you shall have glory and
reward--Banzai!' Some said they heard a voice reply 'Banzai,' some heard
nothing. Other attempts were made to relieve the plucky fellow at the
wheel. His lungs and breathing apparatus, a doctor present declared,
must be made of cast iron; since he had stood the poisonous fumes so
long, he might perhaps last out; people would see the burning vessel
from Shukisama before long, and help would come.
But the flames began to gather strength; the after portion of the
steamer seemed now to be a kind of seething cauldron of fire. The heat
grew intense, even up at our end; what must it be for poor Hayashi, with
the wind carrying it at close quarters into his face? Would he actually
stand at the wheel, devoted fellow, until the flames caught him and
burned his hands as they gripped the spokes, and scorched his eyeballs
so that they could see the course no longer? There was no knowing what
these marvellous Japanese could not do in the way of pluck and
fortitude!
On went the little vessel upon her way; Hayashi could not possibly have
steered a better course, said the captain. He had not once deviated by a
hair's breadth.
But every moment the heat grew more and more; women wept and hugged
their children to them. Another half-hour, and--unless help
arrived--every passenger must swim for it. In spite of the headwind, the
fire was encroaching forward as well as aft.
Another five minutes of acute suspense was passed. Personally, after a
brief prayer, I spent the time in deciding which woman I would try to
save when it came to swimming. I had already made my selection, when
suddenly a voice called out from the rigging, 'Banzai! they have seen
us--a steamer comes!'
Then the heat and the danger were forgotten in the excitement of
watching the oncoming steamer. When two vessels, both going at full
speed, are meeting one another, the intervening distance is soon
covered. Suffice to tell, the succour arrived in time, and every
passenger was taken off in safety.
Meanwhile a boat had been sent round the stern, with orders to shout to
Hayashi to jump clear of the ship and allow himself to be picked up. The
boat returned almost immediately; no one, the crew said, replied to
their shouts. Presently the steamer separated from her burning sister
and dropped back; then it was seen that the flames now swept the entire
stern of the ill-omened _Toki Maru_. The wheel still stood, but no one
was at it, nor could any human form be discerned on deck or in rigging.
Sadly we steamed homewards. We were saved, indeed, every one of us, but
he to whom all were indebted for their lives, the young hero, Hayashi,
the best and bravest of them all, had fallen a victim. Probably he had
sprung, scorched and maddened with pain, into the sea, and had gone down
like a stone.
But you will scarcely believe it, while groups of us still stood upon
the quay at Shukisama discussing the tragedy, and wondering who would
break the sad news to the wife at Hayashi's home, a small boat hove in
sight, coming in from the lake; in it sat a man rowing, and some one
said, 'That is like the _Toki Maru's_ boat which we thought burned.'
Another said, 'What if it should be Hayashi in it?' Well, it _was_
Hayashi. He arrived, grinning and well, though black with smoke and fire
and half suffocated.
As the largest subscriber (Vandeleur ended), I was asked to present to
Madam Hayashi the testimonial which the passengers united to offer to
our brave 'man at the wheel.' He could not be made to see that he had
deserved it, however.
'It got too hot at last,' he said with a laugh, 'and I cut down the boat
and dropped overboard. 'The wheel? Oh, I lashed it so that it couldn't
turn. Yes, I choked very much, but that is nothing!'
'I should like to meet a few more of Hayashi's kind before I die,' said
Vandeleur, after a pause--'good, simple, humble chap; the very stuff
heroes should be made of.'
A HELPING HAND.
A cabman, who had for some time been in the habit of drinking too much,
signed the pledge at the request of a friend, but soon afterwards broke
it. Conscience-stricken and ashamed, he tried to keep out of the way of
his friend; but the friend was not to be put off. One day he found the
poor, miserable man, and taking hold of his hand he said:
'John, when the road is slippery and your horse falls down, what do you
do with him?'
'I help him up again,' replied John.
'Well, I have come to do the same,' said his friend. 'The road was
slippery, I know, John, and you fell; but there is my hand to help you
up again.'
The cabman's heart was touched. He said: 'God bless you, sir; you will
never have cause to regret this. By His help I will never fall again.'
And to this day he has kept his word.
AN EASTERN PUZZLE.
An old Persian died, leaving seventeen camels to be divided among his
three sons in the following proportions: the eldest to have half, the
second a third, and the youngest a ninth. Of course, camels cannot be
divided into fractions, so, in despair, the brothers submitted their
difference to a very wise old dervish.
'Nothing easier!' said the wise Ali. 'I will divide them for you.'
How did he do it?
H. B. SCORE.
[_Answer on page 371._]
WELL REPAID.
A man who often travelled with large sums of money in his care was
persuaded by his friends to carry a pistol as a safeguard.
On one of his journeys be was stopped by a tramp, and, loth to use his
weapon, for he was a Friend, he resorted to stratagem, and gave up his
money at once. Said he to the tramp: 'I must not be thought to have
given up my master's cash without a struggle.' So, taking off his coat
and hat, he said, 'Take a shot at that, friend;' and the robber
complied.
[Illustration: "Give me back my money!"]
'Fire away again,' said the Friend. The thief did so. 'Again,' said the
other.
'I can't,' said the robber; 'I have no more shot.'
'Then,' said the other, producing his own pistol, 'give me back my
money, or I will shoot you myself.'
[Illustration: An Arab Bakery.]
HOW THE ARABS BAKE THEIR BREAD.
The wandering Arabs subsist almost entirely upon bread, wild herbs, and
milk. It is rather strange that they should eat so much bread, because
they never remain sufficiently long in one place to sow wheat and reap
the harvest from it. They are compelled to buy all their corn from the
people who live in towns, and have cultivated fields. When these
townsmen and villagers have gathered in their harvests, the Arabs of the
desert draw near their habitations, and send messengers to buy up corn
for the tribe, and perhaps also to sell the 'flocks' of wool which they
have shorn from their sheep.
Having obtained their supplies of corn, the Arabs return to the deserts
or the open pasture-lands. They always carry with them little
hand-mills, and when bread is to be made, it is the women's duty to
grind the corn. The hand-mills are two stones, the shape of large, thick
cakes, one of which lies upon the top of the other. The stones are about
eighteen inches in diameter, and there is a hole through the centre of
the upper one. A wooden peg, which is stuck upright in a small hole in
the lower stone, projects into the larger hole of the stone above, and
serves to keep it in its proper place. A smaller peg, inserted near the
edge of the upper stone, forms a handle by means of which the whole
stone may be turned round upon the top of the lower stone, and in this
way the faces of the stones are made to grind against each other. The
Arab woman places the mill upon a cloth spread upon the ground, and
taking a few handfuls of corn she pours them into the hole in the centre
of the upper stone, and begins to turn the mill. The grain falls through
the hole, and passes between the two stones, where it is ground into
flour, which flows out all round the mill, and is caught in the cloth.
When sufficient flour has been ground, the woman gathers it together,
places it in a wooden bowl, adds a little water, and kneads it. No yeast
is put to it, and the dough is of that kind which we call unleavened. It
does not 'rise,' or swell, after it is kneaded, and the bread is not
full of little holes, as our yeast-made bread is.
The dough is made into round balls, each of which is then rolled out
into a thin cake. The oven is nothing but an iron plate, slightly raised
in the centre, which is placed over a fire. The cakes are laid upon this
plate, and are baked in a few minutes.
This is the manner of baking bread which is adopted by those tribes
which are always moving from place to place. There are other tribes
which change their encampment at longer intervals, and are often in one
place for several weeks. Many of these bake their bread in a different
way. They make an oven in the ground by digging a hole about three feet
deep, making it wide at the bottom and narrow at the top, and they
plaster the inside with mud. Having done this, they light a fire in the
hole, and when it is thoroughly heated, they press small but thick
cakes of dough against the sides, and hold them there for a few minutes
until they are baked. These cakes, like those baked on the iron plate,
are eaten hot.
SANTA CLAUS.
A while ago the silent house
Re-echoed with their voices sweet--
The music that their laughter made,
The patter of their little feet.
Outside, the wintry winds blew shrill,
And all around the snow lay white;
But little cared they for the storm,
For 'Santa Claus will come to-night.'
We heard them running to and fro,
So eager in their merry glee
To hang their stockings, limp and long,
Where 'he' will be most sure to see.
Such wondrous fairy-tales they weave,
Such pictures of those far-off shores
From whence each Christmas-tide there comes
Their unknown friend, and all his stores.
Now they are all in Slumberland,
And Mother comes, with noiseless tread,
For one last kiss; the shaded light
Gleams softly o'er each curly head.
A rustle, and a murmur low;
Half-opened are the dreaming eyes.
'Hush! hush! it's only Mother, dear!'
''Tis Santa Claus!' the sleeper sighs.
To-morrow, when the dawning light
Breaks through the wintry eastern skies,
What joy will greet the morning bright,
What happy hearts and sweet surprise!
And we, whose childhood long since fled,
Would fain entreat old Time to pause,
To give us back our childish faith,
And simple trust in Santa Claus.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 347._)
Shocked beyond measure at the change in the fine, handsome Dick Peet he
remembered years ago, Jack looked at him. His heart died within him. He
had not, thank Heaven, killed his friend; but, alas! how little short of
that was the mischief he had done! Could Dick ever forgive him? Even if
he should, Jack could never forgive himself. Never should he forget his
first sight of the changed, ruined Dick, nor that it was his hand which
had wrought the change and ruin.
Estelle's touch roused him. 'Jack, dear Jack, come and speak to him. He
is ready to forgive. See, he is waiting to do so. Be very gentle, and
speak low. He will understand then.'
Jack's face was ashen, and his stalwart frame trembled as he approached
the chair in which the invalid reclined. Dick's eyes shone with some of
their old intelligence when he saw his former enemy, and his hands were
held out in eager welcome. It almost seemed as if he looked upon Jack,
not as an enemy to be pardoned, but as an old comrade with whom there
had been a grievous misunderstanding.
'I wonder if he remembers there is anything to forgive?' thought
Estelle, as she watched him.
Jack took the hands held out to him. He could barely mutter the
word--'Forgive!'
'As I hope to be forgiven!' came in clear, steady tones, such as Dick
had not been known to utter since his misfortune. There was a long
silence. Estelle's eyes were full of tears. Jack, his head raised, was
looking at Dick. But Dick's face was radiant with a joy that was not of
this earth. His great desire had been granted. He was lying back, still
clasping the hand of his enemy, but with his eyes on the blue sky he
could see above the trees. Presently, as no one moved, he looked again
at Jack, murmuring in his usual half-inarticulate way, but with a smile
which meant a great deal to the sailor, 'My friend!'
'To the end of my life, if you will let me!' answered Jack, fervently.
'Thank Heaven you are alive! But that you can treat me so, receive me as
a friend, after---- '
'Have waited--hoped--thankful!'
'What can I do for you? Let me do something!'
'You have come! All--clear--now!'
He began to look so faint that Estelle said hastily: 'We will come and
see you again, Dick. You must rest now.'
'Come--again!' repeated Dick, his eyes appealing to Jack.
'I will,' replied Jack, getting up to go into the cottage.
'How do you do, Mrs. Peet?' said Estelle, as Dick's mother appeared.
'Poor Dick is quite startled and faint at the sight of us.'
'Lady Estelle!' she exclaimed, lifting her hands in amazement. 'Wherever
did you come from? No wonder Dick is startled! Why, you might knock me
down with a feather! And how bonnie you look! Not at all the worse for
all you've been so long away.'
'I am coming to tell you all about it, but I must first go and see Aunt
Betty.'
'Well, it will do her good to see you. It is a sight for old eyes to see
your sweet face again, Missie!' Then, glancing at Jack, 'Is that the man
who has taken care of you, and brought you home?'
'Yes, Mrs. Peet, it is; and you shall hear some day how good and kind he
and his mother have been to me. But I have not time now, and you had
better see how poor Dick is.'
Jack had wandered down to the gate in a stunned frame of mind, and here
Estelle joined him, to beg him to walk up to the house with her.
'No, no, Missie, I could not--not after what has happened. I couldn't
have people thanking me, and all that. I should feel a brute!'
Estelle looked distressed, but Jack went on, his hand on the gate:
'You see the business is not over yet. I must tell Dick's father. Where
do you think I can find him?'
'Must you tell him to-day--just to-day?'
'It is best got over at once.'
'Then come up with me and find him, and we can see Aunt Betty at the
same time.'
The gate at which they were standing was some dozen yards or so from the
road, and, as Estelle spoke, some one rode round the bend and came
towards them.
'Father!' cried Estelle, springing towards him, her face radiant, and
forgetting everything in the joy of seeing him.
'My little girl!' he cried, springing from his horse.
He clasped her in his arms with a force which at any other time would
have startled the child. Neither could speak, for at such an hour speech
fails. Who shall describe the meeting? After nearly a year the lost had
been found! A year which had laid its mark on all their lives, but
which, now that it had passed, seemed to Lord Lynwood as 'a dream when
one awaketh.' His child back in his arms, looking well and strong as
ever, with every evidence of having been well cared for, her sweet eyes
looking up into his!--is it wonderful that for some moments he could
think of no one else, look at nothing but the face of his only child?
Jack remained quite still lest he should disturb them, his eyes on the
distant hills; he would not, even unnoticed, intrude on their meeting.
It was enough that he had seen a light--radiant, beautiful--break over
his 'Little Missie's' face before he turned away.
There was a swift question and answer after the silence, and then Lord
Lynwood, recovering himself, spoke.
'How can I thank you, my good fellow?' he said, holding out his hand to
Jack.
'No thanks required, thank you, sir' returned the sailor, gravely; 'but
if you'd be so kind as to tell me where I can find Mr. Peet, the
gardener?'
It sounded so very commonplace that Lord Lynwood gave a laugh.
'Do you think he will be more grateful than we are?'
'I want no gratitude, sir,' replied Jack, gruffly; 'it is not for that I
want him. If you wish to thank anybody, sir, it is my mother, who has
nursed the little Missie through a terrible time.'
'Father,' said Estelle, who could scarcely speak even yet, and was
clinging to her father's hand, as his arm rested round her shoulders,
'this is the dearest fellow that ever lived, and I have been cruel to
forget him while I was so happy. But for him---- '
'Come now, Missie,' broke in Jack, turning red and pale alternately. His
changing colour reminded Estelle that this day, so full of joy to her,
must be one of acute pain to him.
'I know why he wants Peet,' she said, a shadow crossing her face. She
was puzzled as to her duty in the matter.
'Do not stop my daughter,' said Lord Lynwood; 'I want to hear all that
her kind and good friends have done for her. You must come up to the
house and let my aunt, Lady Coke, see you. You will be bringing back new
life to her with the restoration of my little girl. We should like,
also, to ask you,' he continued, in a courteous tone, 'how it is that
you have not been able to bring back the child before this?'
'I lost my memory, Father,' cried Estelle. 'I was always trying to
remember my name, and who I was, but I could not. Then I had a
dream--the night when Jack would go out to sea, that kept coming back to
me, but still I could not put a name to anybody. Suddenly I saw Thomas,
and dreadful things happened, from all of which Jack saved me; and then
it all came to me, and I told Jack who I was, and where I lived. Then he
brought me back at once.'
Lord Lynwood pressed her to him, and looked down with dim eyes at the
sweet little face.
'Wright,' he said, 'I am not going to take a refusal, I must hear all
about it. There is so much to ask! My child lost, and nobody knows how
it happened, or what followed after you found her! We made all possible
search, but no trace of her could we come across, and we had given up
all hopes of ever seeing her again. You cannot now go away and leave all
our questions unanswered. We will go to Lady Coke, who will like to add
her thanks to mine for---- '
'Sir,' returned Jack, becoming very white, but looking determined, 'if
that is your wish, then it is my duty to tell you what sort of a man I
am before I can accept thanks or go to your house.'
'Jack! Jack!' pleaded Estelle, springing to his side and clasping his
hand in both her own.
But he took no notice; perhaps her handclasp only strengthened his
resolve.
'Do you see that poor fellow there,' he continued, pointing to Dick,
over whom Mrs. Peet was leaning, administering some cordial. 'Do you see
that poor wreck of a man? I did _that_!'
He turned away.
There was silence. Lord Lynwood stood dumbfounded. With tears streaming
down her cheeks, Estelle, looking from one to the other, exclaimed,
'Father, don't look at him like that. He is so miserable; so very, very
miserable, and oh, _so_ sorry! And, Father, Dick has forgiven him, and
calls him his "friend." What can any one say when _Dick_ forgives?'
'Nothing,' answered her father. 'Wright, my poor fellow, they say the
greater the sinner, the greater the saint; so there is your chance for
you. As for myself, I owe you a debt of gratitude which I can never
repay. So don't expect me to cast stones. Ah, you ask for Peet? Do you
wish to make your confession to him?'
'It is my duty, sir.'
Lord Lynwood was silent a moment, but Estelle exclaimed, in anxious
tones, 'Dear Father, this need not be told to everybody, need it? Only
to you and Aunt Betty, and Peet? Why is poor Jack to have---- '
'Certainly not,' returned Lord Lynwood, looking up. 'Wright, come with
me to Peet. He is a gruff sort of chap, but true blue at bottom. He will
take it hard at first, so I had better prepare you.'
(_Continued on page 367._)
[Illustration: "He could barely mutter the word--'Forgive!'"]
[Illustration: "Colonel Smith emptied the glass."]
STORIES FROM AFRICA.
XII.--DARKNESS AND DAWN.
[Illustration]
No one can rightly understand the African races without knowing
something of the terror of witchcraft, magic, and ill-luck which hangs
like a cloud over their lives. Differing from each other in many ways,
the African tribes are alike in this, that their religion is one of
fear, dread of unseen powers that work against man's peace and
well-being unless propitiated by gifts, or defied by charms; and the
result of this belief is to put unlimited power into the hands of those
who profess to have intercourse with the spirit-world, and to foresee,
or even to influence, the future of their neighbours. Therefore the
European who comes to teach, to civilise, or to govern, finds his
mightiest opponent in the witch-doctor, or medicine-man, who knows a
little more than his neighbours, and makes capital out of their
ignorance.
Some seventy years ago a party of these witch-doctors, who were making
an excellent living among the Kaffirs by professing to make rain and
find witches to order, met their match for once in the English Governor
of the newly annexed province known as 'Queen Adelaide,' the genial and
energetic officer of Peninsular fame, Colonel--afterwards Sir
Harry--Smith.[5] The English 'father,' as he was styled by the Kaffirs,
had acquired an extraordinary influence, by dint of much practical
common sense and knowledge of humanity, a rigid military discipline, and
last, not least, a stick with a very large knob at the end. Not that he
ever used this stick to correct offenders, but it was always present on
state occasions, and was reverenced as a sort of magic wand by the
natives, for the words spoken by the 'father,' when he took that stick
in his hand, were as the laws of the Medes and Persians. 'I shall wait
for two hours before I touch my stick,' he said to a trembling, cringing
chief, who had tried to stir up rebellion against the English rule. 'I
must be quite cool; Englishmen are generous, but they must be just.'
[Footnote 5: Harrismith and Ladysmith, in Natal and the Orange River
Colony, are named after Sir Harry and his wife.]
It was a very anxious two hours that the chief spent, waiting for the
touch upon the magic wand, and when he was summoned to the presence of
the 'father,' and solemnly forgiven, he was cured of treasonable
practices once and for all.
Colonel Smith started a vigorous campaign against rain-making and
witch-finding, the latter being a practice not altogether unknown in
England, where, three hundred years ago, it was not difficult to get rid
of an obnoxious neighbour by a charge of witchcraft.
A poor man, robbed of his cattle and cruelly burnt by a chief who was
rich enough to pay the witch-doctor, came to the 'father' to declare his
innocence, and beg for redress. The knobbed stick, of course, came into
action, and from behind it the judgment went forth that the chief should
at once restore all the cattle taken from the injured man, with ten
extra in compensation for his sufferings, and another ten as a fine to
the English Government. East and west the news of the judgment was
carried, in native fashion, the watchman on each of the low hills taking
up and passing on the news of the 'father's' decision; so that, when the
chief took no notice of the order, his evil conduct was known far and
wide. Down came the cavalry upon the obstinate chief's territory; his
cattle were driven off, and a receipt for them handed to him, that the
whole affair might be thoroughly business-like and judicial. The
astonished Kaffir had no resource but to cast himself humbly before the
'father' and the knobbed stick; and he became thenceforward the
Governor's faithful friend and adherent.
The rain-makers were dealt with after another fashion. The Governor
gathered a party of the most famous professors, and, in the presence of
their clients and admirers, asked if they could really make rain as they
declared. The wizards evidently felt that a bad quarter of an hour was
coming. They hesitated; then, looking at the expectant faces of the
people, who had doubtless paid many an ox for a shower, or the promise
of one, they answered, as stoutly as they dared, that they possessed
such power. The Englishman went on to exhibit various articles of
English manufacture--his knife, his hat, his boots, and so on--asking,
'Can you make this?' And, as they all agreed in denying, he kindly
explained how such things were made, without magic, in his country.
Then, suddenly holding up a glass of water, he inquired--
'Is this like the water you cause to come?
'Yes,' agreed the chief doctor, cautiously.
'Very good.' Colonel Smith emptied the glass, and said amicably to the
Kaffirs, 'Now, fill it again; put your rain into this glass.'
The rain-makers sought in vain for escape.
'Put more rain into the glass,' demanded the 'father,' sternly.
'We cannot,' faltered the baffled magicians, knowing their reputation
gone for ever, while the Governor, addressing the people, announced that
since none but God, the Great Spirit, could really make rain, any one
who professed to do so henceforward would be promptly 'eaten up'--that
is to say, deprived of his property by the 'father's' orders. He had the
sagacity, however, to make his peace with the discomfited professors by
sending for them afterwards, and providing each with some cattle and a
little 'stock-in-trade,' as he calls it, to start them on a more honest
way of life.
And if the African's dread of witchcraft makes him ruthless to the
accused, he is equally pitiless in his terror of what he calls
'ill-luck.' An 'unlucky' child may, he believes, bring misfortune upon a
whole village, and if mother-love triumphs sometimes over fear, and the
little one grows out of babyhood without any neighbour knowing that it
has cut its top teeth first, or is in some other way marked for
misfortune, the secret may none the less leak out some day. And then the
poor little bringer of 'bad luck' will quietly disappear, or will sicken
and die of poison, administered by some terrified neighbour.
Two or three years ago, a frightened young mother brought her little one
to a teacher in East Africa. The poor, precocious baby had been born
with one tooth, and it showed some love and courage in the mother that
she had come for help to the white friend who taught that it was wicked
to kill babies for fear of bad luck. She could never hide it, she
declared; the neighbours knew it already. Could the English 'Bibi' save
the child?
The English 'Bibi' determined to test the faith of one of her Christian
girls, a young wife who had no children of her own. She sent for her and
asked the question, 'Rose, would you like a baby to take care of?'
Rose's beaming face was sufficient answer.
'But, Rose, it is a _kigego_ (unlucky) baby.'
Rose met the information with disdain. 'I am a Christian; I am not
afraid of a _kigego_.'
'But you must ask your husband first.'
The wife, in East Africa, is generally the more powerful influence in
the house, and Rose would probably have been prepared to carry off the
infant there and then. However, her husband proved to be quite of the
same mind; and under the watchful care of the devoted foster-parents the
poor little _kigego_ will have every chance of bringing happiness into
the house.
One more story of the triumph of light over darkness.
Under the banks of a river in West Africa there waited, some years ago,
two or three canoes, concealed by the overhanging trees. A great man of
the place was dead, and, according to the native custom, a little girl
must be thrown alive into the river to drown. The few Christians had
protested in vain against the murder, and, finding they could not
prevent the deed, waited now in the shadow of the bank to save the
child, if they could. They watched the poor little terrified creature
flung into deep water, struggling and sinking. But, mercifully for her,
one of the customs is to fasten a dozen or so of fowls about the neck of
the victim, and the frightened birds, by their fluttering and flapping,
kept her head above water until she drifted within reach of the
rescuers. The little one was saved, and taken away from the
neighbourhood, where her life would never have been secure.
And so, little by little, the sun rises upon the Dark Continent. One by
one the old evil customs pass away. The Moorish galleys no longer hold
the seas in dread; the slave caravan no longer leaves its terrible track
of bleaching bones from Central Africa to the coast. Benin and Omdurman,
and other 'cruel habitations,' have been thrown open and broken down.
Wise heads have thought and planned, brave blood has been shed, noble
lives laid down for the good of Africa, and, by slow degrees, the
shadows are fleeing before the dawn.
MARY H. DEBENHAM.
THE FAIRIES' NIGHT.
The foxgloves are the sentinels
That guard the fairies' sleep,
When twilight comes, and to their beds
The wee elves softly creep.
And each wild rose a cradle is
To lull them to repose,
While over them, so pink and white,
The petals tightly close.
They all night long serenely sleep,
Until the peep of day;
And then the roses open wide
To send the elves away.
THE COW-WAGGON.
During a recent visit at a Western ranch, we saw what was to us an
entirely novel vehicle, a 'cow-waggon'--an immense canvas-covered van
drawn by four horses. We also enjoyed the experience of a drive in one,
lurching over the plain like a yacht in a rough sea.
The cow-waggon is fitted with all the necessary camping outfit used by
the cow-boys on a 'round-up,' or cattle-herding expedition. Every bit of
space is used, and in its ample canvas cavern are packed the beds,
provisions, cooking utensils, tent canvas, and the odds-and-ends of the
'outfit.'
The back of the cow-waggon comes down and turns out on supports, making
a shelf-table; behind the movable back are a cupboard and the cook's
store-lockers, always well stocked, for the 'punchers' (men who brand
the cattle) are men of mighty appetite. Meals served on the prairie by
the cow-waggon cook are splendid. They consist of coffee and beans,
bacon and beef, dried fruit and delicious rolls. The rolls and other
'sour-dough' dainties are baked in a Dutch oven. The term 'sour-dough'
is another Western word. It was first used to denote the light bread
baked by the cow-waggon cook, though the bread is usually excellent. A
later use of 'sour-dough' is as a title for newly arrived miners in the
Arctic goldfields of the Klondyke.
When the camping-ground is reached, a wide canvas is stretched over the
cow-waggon; this spreads out on all sides, and is a shade 'in a weary
land' for the tired puncher.
Cattle are on the move at sunrise, and it behoves the cow-boy to be also
on the alert. The sun, coming up over the great stretches of plain,
gives a similar impression to that of a sunrise at sea. If the round-up
is in Alberta, the grass is fragrant with wild flowers, especially the
dwarf-rose, and the morning air is melodious with bird-songs.
The 'puncher' comes out from his blankets and scans the hundreds of
cattle dotted here and there in the shadow of the foot-hills. Presently
an animal stretches out its hind legs and comes clumsily to its feet;
others follow, and the herds are soon busily cropping the dew-laden
grass. The puncher looks at his rope and his horse, sniffs the aroma of
coffee, and promptly answers to the call of 'Grub.' There is a flourish
of tin plates and cups, and of iron-handled knives and forks, and a
rapid disappearance of the 'chuck.' Then to horse and the duties of the
day.
[Illustration: A Cow Waggon Encamped and on the March.]
The 'outfit' is packed. The cook hitches up the horses and starts for
the next camping-ground. The cow-boys pursue their business of 'cutting
out;' cattle, with tails valiantly erect, snorting defiance, rush by the
'cow-waggon,' which, unmoved amid this mimic war, goes lurching over the
plain.
Like many other institutions of the West, the cow-waggon will, in a few
years, be a thing of the past. Wire fences, and the enclosure of the
pasturelands, are getting rid of the need for it.
[Illustration: "'I will come with you at once.'"]
THE BROKEN PROMISE.
'I don't want any tea,' said Roger, as he pulled off his muddy boots,
with a very sulky expression.
'I suppose that is always the way with a fellow's mother. Fuss and
bother--I'm tied to her apron-strings. Opening his paper he looked
at him over the top of it, with a rather grave expression.
'Don't you think it is silly, Uncle?'
'What's it all about?' asked Uncle James.
'Why, I just happened to be a bit late home, after the match. Saunders
wanted me to see his rabbits, and it made me a little late; at least, it
was really a lot late. There were some other fellows there, and I came
away before most of them.'
'Well?'
'Well, now there is no end of a bother, because I sort of promised I
would be home early to tea. The girls had got some friends coming, and
wanted me to show off the magic-lantern. When I came in, Mother was
crying, and the servant out looking for me. It's too silly! I'm not a
baby!'
And Roger plunged his spoon afresh into his egg, as if he expected to
find in it a remedy for his grievance.
'Jones minor says his mother is just the same; but the two Rhodeses, who
live with an aunt, can do just as they like.'
Uncle James laid down his paper, and looked steadily at the fire.
'My mother was just the same,' he said.
'What, Granny?' exclaimed Roger. 'But she is so jolly. When I go to
stay, I do what I like.'
'Did you ever hear, Roger,' asked Uncle James, 'about my sister
Phyllis?'
'Who died when she was a little girl? Oh, yes, I have heard a little, of
course. Tell me some more, please, Uncle.'
Uncle James's kind face was a little clouded.
'Can he be vexed?' wondered thoughtless Roger. 'Or else--oh, yes--it's
because she died that he doesn't like talking about her.' He said aloud,
'Never mind, Uncle, if it makes you feel bad.'
'She was very dear to me,' Uncle James said. 'Yet I scarcely ever speak
of her; you will understand why, when I have finished what I am going to
tell you. There were three of us,' he began, 'your mother, myself, and
our little Phyllis. She was the youngest, and was nine at the time. We
lived in a small house in this town, for our parents were not rich.'
Roger nodded. 'Mother showed me that house. It's smaller than this, a
good deal.'
'Your mother, who was my mother's right hand, had been sent to a
boarding-school at a distance, and I was left, in a way, in charge of my
mother and young sister, my father being abroad with his regiment. You
may be sure I felt proud of myself when I went round at night, bolting
the doors and windows, and putting out the lights. And I generally ran
home as quick as I could from the day-school I went to. Phyllis would be
at the door, with her little pale face beaming, and brimming over with
questions about my games and successes.
'Well, one Saturday afternoon, I was to play for the school in a
football match; I was a good runner, and strong for my size, though I
was quite a little chap. I remember being very much annoyed with my
mother for saying I had better not play, as I had had a cold. I had
caught it from Phyllis, we thought; but, as I was a robust lad, it was
soon thrown off. But my sister--she was always delicate--still had a
cough, and seemed dull and had headache. Of course I laughed at my
mother's fears, took my football jersey from before the fire--she had
washed it, and was just as particular about airing as your mother
is--fussy, you would say--and off I went, in high spirits.
'"I won't be late," I called from the door.
'"No, be quick home, there's my dear boy," my mother said; and Phyllis,
who was lying on the sofa, looked up for a minute with, "Play up, Jim.
Mind you win the match."
'But mother followed me to the door.
'"Jim," she said, speaking low, "I don't feel easy about Phyllis. She is
feverish to-day. I think you had better call and ask Dr. Harris to
come."
'"Oh, Mother," I said, "she will be all right! My cold was just as bad
while it lasted. You shouldn't fret about nothing." I had got into the
way of giving her a good deal of advice.
'"I wish I could think so," she said, anxiously; "but, anyway, Jim, just
run in on your way to the ground, and tell him. Then he will come before
he starts on his round."
'"All right," I replied, with a hasty kiss, and off I went.
'In the next street I fell in with another fellow, who was in a great
hurry.
'"I say, old chap, we shall be late," he panted, as we dashed into a
short cut for the playing-field.
'I wish, Roger, that I could comfort myself by saying that I forgot my
mother's request. But as I turned that corner I saw the doctor's house,
and thought of it at once. "But, then," I said to myself, "she is only
fussing. Phyllis will be all right in the morning, and I dare say the
doctor has gone out. It will do just as well after the game."
'For the rest of the afternoon's pleasure, I never gave a second's
thought to my mother and sister.'
'There,' said Roger, triumphantly, 'you were just as bad as I, weren't
you? And how did the match go on? Did you win?'
'Roger, from that day to this, I have never tried to remember how that
game ended. At the end, two of the fellows who lived the other side of
the town asked me home to tea with the rest of the team. I felt it hard
to be the only one who was out of everything, so I went. I felt a little
uncomfortable, and called at the doctor's, just to satisfy my mother,
and he came into the hall to speak to me.
'"Anything wrong, my boy? Not Phyllis, I hope?" he said. Phyllis was a
pet of his. He attended her pretty often.
'"Just a cold, sir," I said, easily; "nothing serious. Mother's
fidgeting, and says she is feverish, and all that. You might call round
some time."
'"I will come with you at once," said Dr. Harris, and he took his hat
off the peg. I thought he was glad of my company, and gave him a vivid
account of the match on the way.
'When we reached our street the hall was dark, and there was no light in
the little front sitting-room. But the bedroom overhead was lighted, and
the blind was pushed back as we reached the door. The next thing I saw
was my mother's face. Shall I ever forget it?'
'Don't tell it, Uncle,' said Roger. 'I can guess.'
'She had been waiting for the doctor. It never occurred to her that I
would neglect her message. They let me see my sister for a few minutes,
before she died. A few hours, the doctor said, might have saved her
life. There! that's all!'
Uncle James blew his nose vigorously, and went back to his paper; but
Roger bent his head over his plate. At this point his mother came in.
The boy jumped up impetuously.
'Mother dear, I am awfully sorry I broke my promise, I will never do it
again, if I can help it--never, so long as I live!'
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 359._)
They walked up the avenue, with Estelle between them, and Lord Lynwood
received some answers to his many questions. He thought it was more of a
help to talk about things which took Jack's mind off his trouble, than
to dwell on it, and unnerve him for the interview. He wished also to
show that he had the greatest respect for a man who could go manfully
through the ordeal to which poor Jack had pledged himself. At the end of
the avenue, just before it widened into the broad sweep in front of the
Moat House, was an opening in the thick laurel and rhododendron
shrubbery, which, as they passed it, enabled Estelle to see that Aunt
Betty--the dear Aunt Betty she was so longing to see--was on the lawn,
cutting roses. Without a word, she broke away from her companions and
flew across the lawn.
'Wright,' exclaimed Lord Lynwood, hastily following; 'my aunt has been
seriously ill with anxiety about my little girl, and we are afraid of a
sudden shock for her. Come, we may be wanted.'
Estelle, unconscious of all but that Aunt Betty was there, was calling
out in glad tones which made the little old lady turn hastily.
Fortunately, joy does not often kill. Though faint and unable to stand
the first excitement, Aunt Betty recovered herself more quickly than
Lord Lynwood could have expected. Jack thought he had never seen anybody
quite like Aunt Betty--he had not known that any such existed. He had
made up his mind to tell the truth about himself to Estelle's aunt, but
now that he saw her he did not feel the shrinking he had anticipated.
'She would understand,' was the way he expressed it.
Lord Lynwood, fearful of over-excitement for her, insisted on Lady Coke
going into the house with Estelle. She consented, after making Jack
promise to come and relate to her all the wonderful things which had
happened in those long months of Estelle's absence.
'Auntie,' said Estelle, as she sat on a low stool--low enough to let her
look up into the face of her aunt, lying on her sofa--'if I have a lot
to tell you, you must have a great deal to tell me; and, chiefly, why it
is you look like that. Are you ill?'
'I have been, with grief and anxiety about you, Estelle. But I shall get
quite strong now you are at home again. I don't know how to be grateful
enough to the good God Who has guarded you from harm all this long
time, and to the kind people who have been such friends in need.'
'And have taught me such a lot of things, Auntie. You must meet Goody
some day, and then you will know what a dear she is, and how good she
is. She has been such a mother to me! And Auntie,' she continued, with
some hesitation, 'Jack is going to tell you something by-and-by,
something which has made him dreadfully miserable. And if you are
grateful to him and to his mother for all they have done for me, you can
repay some of it by helping him in his trouble. Father says it is not
necessary for everybody to know; only ourselves, and those whom Jack has
bound himself to tell.'
Thus Estelle prepared the way for the confession which took place that
evening. By dint of great persuasion, Lord Lynwood made Jack put off
speaking to Peet till the next day. He was to sleep at Moat House that
night, and in the morning the explanation with Peet would take place.
Aunt Betty was greatly touched by the story. Jack related the finding of
Estelle, her dangerous illness, and the opinion of the doctor with
regard to her memory, which had been fully justified. He made light of
the rescue in the cave, the truth and full details of which Estelle told
later on. Lady Coke listened with a heart full of thankfulness for the
mercies which had shielded her child. So it came to pass that Jack,
resolute in his idea of duty, found a very tender, sympathetic listener
to his own sad history.
'Your mother must be a good woman, Jack,' she said.
'She has been the saving of me,' he answered. 'Hers has been the purest,
the most unselfish love in the world.'
'Yes,' said Aunt Betty, with moist eyes; 'and because her love was
capable of so much, you have been led to look beyond, to that greater
Love which encircles us every day and hour. Your mother is a grand
woman, Jack!'
'Indeed, she is,' replied the sailor. 'It is amazing that such a man as
I should have been so blessed! It forces one to believe in the
forgiveness of sins, if those I have injured can so forgive and forget.'
It was getting late, and, as Lady Coke looked tired, Jack got up to go.
He was to meet Lord Lynwood next morning, and walk down with him to the
Bridge House about the time Peet returned for his breakfast.
As he left the room, Lady Coke said to her nephew, 'I like that sailor.
His has been a great repentance; as great as Dick's forgiveness has been
noble.'
Meantime Estelle, in her own room once more, was thinking how strange it
seemed to be in a house with windows and curtains, with Nurse and
Mademoiselle making much of her, and all her own pictures and treasures
about. She was very tired, however, and had scarcely time to murmur, 'I
shall see my cousins to-morrow,' before she fell asleep.
An hour or two later Lady Coke and Lord Lynwood were gazing, with
thankful hearts, at their sleeping child, while Jack was kneeling at the
window of his room, praying in deepest grief for pardon and for Dick.
(_Continued on page 370._)
[Illustration: "'We may be wanted,' exclaimed Lord Lynwood."]
[Illustration: "Estelle was among them!"]
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 367._)