True to his appointment, Jack met Lord Lynwood on the lawn next morning,
and together they walked to the Bridge House in silence. Though Jack was
anxious to see Dick once more, he had to brace himself for what he knew
would be a trial to both. In one sense, the worst was over. In the
knowledge that Dick was alive, and had forgiven him, he had gained what
nothing could take away--peace of mind. But, on the other hand, he could
not but feel sorrow and self-reproach for the grief and loss he had
brought upon Dick's parents. He realised that they also had much to
forgive. It seemed, indeed, almost worse to face them than to look at
patient, suffering Dick. He had been so ready to pardon; would they be
as willing? Jack knew instinctively how his question would be answered
when he saw Peet coming towards them across the drawbridge.
'We wish to speak to you, Peet,' said Lord Lynwood, quietly.
'I know what ye want to say, my Lord,' returned Peet, gloomily, and
taking care not to glance towards Jack. 'My Lady had me up this morning
and told me.'
'In injuring your son I have injured you, Mr. Peet,' said Jack, coming
forward, and speaking in an earnest voice. 'I do not know how to ask
your forgiveness; but, if your son could express himself, he would tell
you how deeply my sin has been repented, and what years of misery it has
brought on my mother and me. Unhappily, I cannot undo the deed; neither
can I give you back the lost years---- '
'You can do nothing, and I want nothing, thank you,' replied Peet,
without looking up.
'Your son has forgiven all he has suffered,' began the Earl.
'Beg pardon, my Lord,' returned Peet, drawing himself up; 'but I'm
making no complaint. I have not said a word for or against him. If my
son likes to forgive him, he can do as he chooses--his acts are no rule
for my wife nor me.'
'So you have spoken to your wife?' said the Earl, in a tone of regret,
as Jack moved away.
'I know my Lady was against it, but my wife has been a good wife to me,
and I never keep things from her.'
'And what did you wife say?'
'Well, my Lord,' replied Peet, with a little less confidence in his
tone, yet with the stubborn look still in his face, 'she was upset, of
course, and cried a bit, as women mostly do. But when Dick, who has not
spoke for this many a year, looks up, and says he, "Mother, don't bear
malice--for my sake forgive him;" why, she gave in at once. I am sure
that it was from sheer astonishment at Dick's speaking so clear. She
didn't think of forgiving no more than myself. Mothers are like
that--mighty queer sometimes just when you least expect it.'
'Peet,' said Lord Lynwood, signing to Jack to leave them, 'I think your
wife is quite right. She is acting the nobler part. You have suffered
terribly; we are fully aware of that, and we have felt for you and done
all we could for you. Surely you would not wish to give Lady Coke pain
by refusing the very first request she asks you? Think how nearly we
lost her last summer, and remember it is owing to the great care and
kindness of Jack Wright and his mother that she is spared the grief of
having lost the child entrusted to her keeping. You know this
responsibility is what weighed most on her mind, and Jack has brought
her great comfort by restoring the child. He is broken-hearted for the
injury he has done you and your family, and he begs your forgiveness.
Why is it impossible for you to give it? If not for your own sake, or
because it is the right thing to do, then because there is one who has
asked you who has been the best of friends to you through all your
troubles.'
Peet looked down, red and surly. It was a hard fight for one of his
stubborn character to acknowledge he was in the wrong, or to listen to
arguments to which his better nature responded. Seeing that he did not
reply, Lord Lynwood left him without further efforts to convince him.
Peet gazed after him with lowering brow; then turned and went to his
work.
Estelle was up early that morning, and after a delighted survey of all
her surroundings and treasures, rushed to her aunt just as the gong
sounded. Would Auntie beg a whole holiday for her cousins--just for
once? How could Aunt Betty refuse this first request? It did not require
much coaxing to make her promise to go directly after breakfast to
Begbie Hall with Estelle and her father. She even declared she would
fearlessly invade the premises sacred to Miss Leigh and learning.
Little suspecting the delight in store for him, Georgie had come down in
a bad temper that morning, and he was venting it on his lesson books,
and on Miss Leigh.
'What is the matter with you, Georgie?' asked the long-suffering
governess at last. 'Did you get out of bed the wrong side? Nothing seems
to be right this morning.'
'I always get out of bed the same side every day,' replied Georgie,
firmly, placing his books in a heap as near the edge of the table as he
could. 'It's not the bed; it's Alan.'
'What has Alan done?'
But Georgie's answer was drowned in the crash of his books which
scattered in every direction, some of them without their covers.
'Now, Georgie!' cried Miss Leigh, exasperated.
'I believe you did it on purpose!' exclaimed Alan, who was anxious to
finish his work, and found the noise disturbing.
Marjorie was about to pour oil upon the troubled waters by picking the
books up when the door of the schoolroom was burst open and Estelle was
among them! Miss Leigh and the three children could scarcely believe it
was the 'real live' Estelle they saw, and a great gasp of amazement
sounded through the room. But when they perceived Aunt Betty herself
standing at the door, and behind her their father, mother, and uncle,
all smiling at them, there was a general cry of delight.
Everybody spoke, but nobody listened. They all danced and raced round
Estelle till the uproar became so great that their elders, including
Miss Leigh, fled. Then Estelle, as soon as she could persuade them to
listen, told them how Jack had saved her and brought her home; how Mrs.
Wright, her dear Goody, had nursed her through her bad illness; in what
a comfortable, pretty cave-house she had lived, and how even the biggest
storm that ever blew, and they had had many such storms, could not shake
its walls. Then there were the Treasure Caves, and Estelle made their
faces quite pale as she related her adventures in them, and how Jack had
saved her from drowning. She told them of the dream also, and how she
could not remember their names, and how suddenly it all came back to
her. This led to a stampede in search of the hero, Jack, who, after much
racing about in all directions, was found at the door of the ruined
summer-house. Lord Lynwood and Colonel De Bohun were with him, and it
was evident that they were talking of how the accident happened. The
children insisted on shaking hands with the Giant of the Treasure Caves,
as Marjorie called him, and on thanking him for bringing back their dear
Estelle.
'Why, you are a _real_ giant!' cried Georgie, much impressed by Jack's
height. 'I never saw a giant before.'
They all laughed, but Georgie was right, for Jack was a good deal taller
than Lord Lynwood, who was six feet three inches, and yet looked dwarfed
by the sailor. They all admired him so much that they would not leave
him.
(_Concluded on page 382._)
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
13.--LITTLE CHARADES--TRIADS.
A.--1. Bereft of father and mother.
2. The period of time during which a person or
thing exists, or has existed.
A home for those who have no other.
B.--1. A collection of printed sheets.
2. A small creeping animal without feet.
A devourer of that which is written,
C.--1. The edge, or brink, of a fountain or river.
2. A hardened mass of earthy matter.
A mineral substance.
D.--1. A rodent of the genus lepus.
2. A hollow sounding body of metal.
A flower of the campanula kind.
E.--1. An emblem of innocence.
2. An extremity.
A peculiar joint.
F.--1. An uncertain quantity.
2. The organized material of an animal.
A person unknown, or uncertain.
[_Answers on page 395._]
C. J. B.
* * * * *
ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 322.
12.--T og A
H or N
E hu D
S oo T
P us H
I sl E
D ea F
E vi L
R el Y
A HORSE'S REVENGE.
Founded on Fact.
A certain King of Syria had a horse of which he was very fond, and which
in turn was devoted to its master. The King used to ride this horse out
to battle, but at last was defeated and killed in the fight. His enemy,
rejoicing in his victory, seized the King's horse and mounted it. The
horse seemed to know what had happened, and who was on his back, for he
began to show the greatest fury. After trying for some time to throw his
new rider off, he suddenly dashed off up a steep cliff; and when he
reached the top, he leapt wildly down the sheer precipice, with the man
still on his back. The rider had no time to save himself, and both he
and the horse were dashed to pieces. Thus the King was avenged by the
faithful steed to which he had been so kind.
ANSWER TO 'AN EASTERN PUZZLE' ON PAGE 355.
The old dervish divided the seventeen camels into the desired
proportions by adding one of his own to the number, thus making it
eighteen. The eldest brother then took his half--nine; the second his
third--six; the third his ninth--two, making seventeen in all, and
giving back the one camel over to its owner, the wise dervish.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
XII.--ONE OF NATURE'S FAILURES.
We have now come to the last chapter of our series, and herein I propose
to bring to your notice some curious facts which 'point a moral and
adorn a tale' that should not be lost sight of.
Strange though it be, there are many creatures, among what we sometimes
call the 'lower order of creation,' which give promise of great things
during the earlier period of their lives, but later degenerate out of
all recognition.
Let us take one or two of the more remarkable instances. Many of you,
when at the seaside, must have found, clinging to rocks and shells,
peculiar, tough, leathery and somewhat bottle-shaped bodies, popularly
known as 'sea-squirts,' from their habit of squirting out water when
touched. But how many of you have any idea that these same 'squirts'
really belong to the great division of vertebrates or backboned animals?
Yet such is the case, though not even scientific men were aware of this
until the facts which I am about to relate were discovered.
But before I proceed, I might add that while some of these sea-squirts
lead solitary lives, fast anchored to the rock or sea-weed, others form
colonies, while yet others, and more distantly related forms, are
transparent and swim, sometimes in countless millions, at the surface of
the sea, covering an area of several miles. Some of the stationary forms
make coats for themselves of sand, others build them houses to live in.
While most are dull-coloured, some are, on the contrary, very
brilliant. Their range in size is no less varied, some being almost
microscopic, while others attain a length of as much as four feet.
But though so different in their adult stages, they all begin life as
vertebrated or backboned animals, though in some this stage is more
perfect than in others.
[Illustration: FIG 2 FROG--TADPOLE]
[Illustration: FIG 1 SEA SQUIRT--TADPOLE]
As you will see in the illustration (figs. 1 and 2) of one of these
youngsters, the resemblance to the tadpole of the frog is most striking,
and in some of the points wherein the sea-squirt differs from the
tadpole, it represents a yet earlier structural stage which frogs have
long since passed through, and no longer repeat in the course of their
growth. Take the case of the eye, for example; this in the young
sea-squirt lies embedded in the brain, and is only dimly able to
perceive light received through the transparent head; but the eye of all
the backboned animals is really an outgrowth of the brain which has
forced its way to the surface; here we see it in its primitive or
original condition. The mouth in the young sea-squirt, again, opens on
the top of the head instead of in the front, which is here modified to
form a sucker. But the gills, by which this little creature breathes,
expel the water by which they are bathed through a single hole at the
side of the head, as in the frog tadpole; while in the possession of a
brain, a spinal cord, and a soft backbone, both sea-squirt and tadpole
agree.
[Illustration: FIG 3 A YOUNG SEA SQUIRT CUT IN HALF AFTER THE
TRANSFORMATION HAS GOT WELL ADVANCED]
Thus, then, the captor of one of these baby sea-squirts though he knew
nothing of the peculiar after-history of the creature, would yet be sure
that he had here a very young or 'larval' stage of one of the backboned
animals. But he would be surprised indeed, as he watched the career of
this little creature, to find it grow daily more sluggish, and at last
fix itself by the sucker at the front of its head, and there remain as
if in 'the sulks.' From this time onwards the change for the worse
grows rapidly. This creature, as if indifferent to the great
possibilities before it, or caring nothing for the good name of its
race, speedily degenerates. As it will use none of the good gifts of
Nature, one by one she takes them away--eye and brain are the first to
go; then the tail begins to grow less and less (you can see the last
remnants of a tail in fig. 3), and finally there is neither head nor
tail, power of sight, nor power of motion; all that remains is an
irregular-looking leathery lump, which scarcely seems to be alive (fig.
4). It feeds by drawing water through a hole at its upper end into a
great throat pierced by gill-slits (shown in fig. 5, which represents a
sea-squirt with the outside wall cut away); the water passes out through
the slits into a big chamber. From this chamber the water escapes by
another hole (marked 'discharge' in fig. 5) to the outer world again;
meanwhile, the food, consisting of microscopic animals, has been caught
by a moving rope of slime running along the back of the throat, and so
into the stomach. But what a fall! Think of it--a career full of
promise, the equal of that of vertebrate animals, ending in an
ignominious surrender of its birthright, and a drop to the level of the
humble oyster!
[Illustration: FIG 4 LIVING SEA SQUIRT]
[Illustration: FIG 5 SQUIRT SECTION OF A SEA SQUIRT. THE OUTSIDE WALL OF
THE BODY HAS BEEN CUT AWAY TO SHOW THE GILL OPENINGS, THROUGH ONE OF
WHICH AN ARROW ESCAPES, WHILE ANOTHER ENTERS THE MOUTH]
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
[Illustration: "'Some one is lost in the snow, and Lassie knows it.'"]
THE LITTLE OLD WOMAN.
It was a bitter evening in mid-winter, the fire burned cheerily on the
hearth, the great logs crackling and flaring up the wide chimney of a
comfortable cottage home in one of the wildest parts of the
Inverness-shire highlands. It was a shepherd's hut, and, as the storm
continued the owner of the cottage rose and looked out of the window
over the desolate expanse of moorland.
'Is it snowing still?' asked his wife, from her snug corner by the
fire.
'Thick and fast,' replied he. 'Heaven help any poor creature on the moor
to-night. Many a one has been frozen to death hereabouts before now.'
Presently, however, it ceased snowing, and, through a rift in the
clouds, a star appeared, while at the same moment a whining and
scratching noise was heard at the door. The shepherd opened it and
whistled to his dog, but, inviting as the ruddy glow must have been to
her doggish heart, 'Lassie' would not enter. Standing just on the
threshold she whined once more, looking up in her master's face with
dumb entreaty, then running off a few steps and looking back as though
inviting him to follow.
The shepherd watched her curiously. 'All the sheep are in their folds,'
he said, 'and Lassie knows that as well as I do, but something is amiss
with the creature to-night. What is it, Lassie?'
But the intelligent creature only whined again and moved still further
away from the door.
'Give me my plaid, good wife,' said the shepherd, now fully persuaded
that serious work lay before him. 'Give me my plaid, and warm your
blankets, and you may as well brew a kettle of tea. Some one is lost in
the snow, and Lassie knows it.'
As soon as the dog saw that her master was really following, she sprang
forward with a joyous bark, then, settling down into a swinging trot,
she led the way straight across the loneliest part of the bleak moor. It
was a walk both difficult and dangerous, but the experienced shepherd
followed steadily after his guide until, having come to a certain spot
by no means differing in appearance from the rest of the dismal
landscape, she suddenly stopped and began to dig wildly in the snow with
her paws. The shepherd stooped down and pushed aside the dog, who was
now quite contented to stand aside and watch, while her master took the
case in hand. Very soon he extricated from the snow what seemed to be a
mere bundle of clothing, but which, on closer inspection, proved to be
the rigid form of a little old woman, poorly clad and quite insensible.
It was only the work of a few minutes for the stalwart shepherd to lift
her into his arms as gently and tenderly as though she had been an
infant, and to carry her away to his warm and sheltered cottage, where
his kindly wife had everything in readiness for the succour of the
half-frozen old woman.
But long hours passed ere complete consciousness returned, and the poor
wayfarer was able to tell her simple story. She was an Englishwoman from
Liverpool--a widow with one only son, the dearest and best of sons. He
was a soldier stationed at Fort George, but he had been ordered out to
India, and she had felt that she could not let him go without once more
looking on the dear face. Accordingly she had gathered together all her
available means and had reached Glasgow by train. But in that city her
difficulties began, her money was all spent, but the mother's love still
burned brightly in her heart. She resolved to proceed on foot, and had
actually accomplished her design so far, when, being overtaken by the
sudden snowstorm, and having wandered from the road, she would certainly
have perished but for the sagacity of the shepherd's dog.
How great was the delight of the poor old woman we may easily imagine,
when she was told that she was actually within three miles of Fort
George, and when the shepherd promised to go there in the morning and
beg leave for her son to visit her at the cottage. But, alas! when
morning dawned it became very evident that her strength had been too
severely taxed; she was quite prostrate, and only half conscious of her
surroundings. In these circumstances her kind host lost no time in
starting on his humane errand, and, in the afternoon, mother and son met
once more, but for the last time. The old woman had barely strength to
whisper his name, but the look in her eyes was enough to show that she
had her heart's desire, and that she could die in peace. A few days
afterwards the little old woman was quietly laid to rest in the
churchyard of the Highland village, and the good son was on his way to
the Far East, carrying with him the memory of a mother's love.
THE SENSIBLE HARE.
A Fable.
Once upon a time, the beasts in a certain wood built a theatre in which
plays were to be performed by the cleverest of the animals, for the
amusement and instruction of the rest. Nearly all the animals took an
interest in the scheme, and promised to support it, except the hare.
When asked by Reynard the Fox, who had been appointed manager, why he
did not favour the idea, the hare replied: 'There is quite enough
amusement in my own family, and is it likely that I am going to leave
them all in the evening to find what is already provided for me at
home?' The fox for once in his life was taken at a disadvantage, and did
not know what to say.
There are plenty of pleasures at home if we know how to look for them.
CLOUD PICTURES.
Among the grass I love to lie,
And watch the fleecy clouds pass by:
For many pictures there I see,
So clear although so far from me.
Sometimes across the blue there floats
A stately fleet of white-sailed boats;
On shining mountains' rugged crests
The grey-winged cloud-birds seek their nests.
And o'er the sunset's radiant bar,
Lone fairy lands most surely are,
With ruby isles in lakes of gold,
Where towers in crimson light unfold.
The black clouds gather from afar,
As mighty armies march to war,
And when they meet in thunder-crash,
I see their spears of lightning flash.
For ever changing, to and fro,
Blown by the careless wind they go;
No wonder the cloud pictures there
Are always fresh, and always fair.
A HASTY JUDGMENT.
'What is the new step-mother like?' asked Walter Howard. He was cycling
from the station with his friend, Jack Trehane, having just arrived to
spend a few days of the summer holidays.
'No good,' was the short but expressive answer.
'I remember you thought her rather a good sort before your father
married her,' Walter remarked.
'You never know what people are really like until you live in the same
house with them,' said Jack, gloomily.
'Hard lines, when you had such decent holidays with your father alone.
How is it she is not nice to you now, when she used to be so jolly?'
'Oh, she isn't exactly nasty,' Jack explained, 'only I do so hate her
mean, saving little ways.'
Walter's face fell. It would be a nuisance if he had to waste some of
his precious holidays in a place where there was not even enough 'grub!'
However, the food proved to be excellent, so Walter felt that it must be
in some other way that the stinginess would be evident.
'It is such a lovely day,' said Mrs. Trehane the next morning at
breakfast. 'What do you say to an expedition to Pengwithen Cove?'
The boys were delighted with the idea and ran off to get ready, so that
they did not see Mrs. Trehane set to work busily to cut sandwiches.
'What is that hamper thing you are carrying?' asked Jack of his father
as they were starting.
'Our lunch, Jack; and, knowing who packed it, I can promise we shall not
do badly.'
'But you always used to give us lunch at the hotel, Father,' Jack said.
'Ah, but we have learnt a trick worth two of that, have we not, my
dear?' and Mr. Trehane smiled at his wife.
'It is so much jollier to have our lunch close to the sea,' she said,
'instead of in a stuffy room.'
'And who is going to carry that horrid, great basket, I should like to
know?' muttered Jack, as he rode on ahead with Walter. 'That is one of
the mean dodges I told you about. She thinks it will save the expense of
a lunch at the hotel.'
The white-crested waves were rolling in over the blue waters of the bay
as the Trehanes and Walter followed the cliff path towards the Cove for
which they were bound. Jack loitered behind the others, for it was his
turn to carry the lunch. Presently a cry from him made them look round,
and what should they see but the precious picnic-basket rolling down the
sloping turf which edged the cliff! As they watched, it went over with a
loud report of bursting lemonade bottles, and the contents were dashed
into fragments on the rocks beneath.
'How could you be so careless, Jack?' his father said in tones of
vexation; but as he never dreamed it was anything but an accident, he
did not say much.
They were obliged to return to the hotel for a meal, and Walter shrewdly
suspected this was the result Jack had worked for.
However, the lunch was not a success. A crowd of excursionists had swept
nearly everything in the shape of food before them, and left very
little for any one who came after.
'Oh, dear,' sighed Mrs. Trehane, 'when I think of the nice ham
sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, the lovely meat patties and raspberry
puffs, which are now floating away to sea, I do feel sad!'
'What an idiot you have been!' whispered Walter to Jack, and the latter
was inclined to believe his friend spoke truly.
When Mr. Trehane pulled out some money in order to pay the bill, his
wife gave another sigh.
'This is worse than the cold mutton, is it not?' he asked, laughing.
Then she laughed too and held up a warning finger.
'Hush!' she whispered, 'you must not let out my secret.'
'I think we must share it with Jack,' said Mr. Trehane. 'It will make
him more careful in future when we trust him with our luncheon-basket.'
He had noticed his son's scornful look when the settlement of the bill
was mentioned, and had partly guessed what was in his mind.
'I wanted it to be a surprise,' Mrs. Trehane said; 'but now you have
revealed half the secret, perhaps it is as well to confess the whole.'
'Well, Jack,' his father said, 'you know you have been bothering me for
a new watch, but I told you I could not manage such a piece of
extravagance now, and you would have to wait another year.'
'My old one is no more use than a turnip,' Jack broke in.
'All the more pity that part of the new one went over the cliff with the
lunch,' remarked his father.
'What do you mean?' asked Jack in bewilderment.
Mr. Trehane looked at his wife.
'It was your plan; you had better explain it,' he said.
'You see, Jack,' she began, 'it seemed rather hard you should not have a
new watch when you wanted one so badly, so I told Father I was quite
sure I could save money in many little ways without robbing us of any
real comforts. One of my plans was to take a luncheon-basket when we had
picnics or expeditions, and to have a first-rate meal of delicious
home-made dainties instead of a second-rate lunch for which we should
have to pay more. Now, Jack, do you approve of my little scheme?'
Jack was almost speechless with shame and confusion, and the twinkle in
Walter's eye made him even hotter.
'I think you are awfully good,' he stammered, 'but I don't deserve that
watch, and I shan't have it now I was such a silly donkey as to throw
the basket over the cliff.'
'Oh, yes, you will, Jack,' said his step-mother, though she did look a
little astonished at the confession that it was a deliberate act instead
of an accident. 'There will be plenty of money saved by the end of the
holidays, if you will be careful not to lose any more baskets.'
Jack never forgot this lesson, and the beautiful new watch he carried
back to school with him was a constant reminder that hasty judgments too
often prove unjust.
[Illustration: "The precious picnic-basket rolling down the turf!"]
[Illustration: "'Father, is that my present?'"]
A GENTLE DONKEY.
I.
[Illustration]
'Do sit down, Master Harry, and allow me to put your shoes on!'
'Well, try like this, Mary. I will pretend to be a stork, and stand on
one leg.'
'Really, you are a tiresome boy to-night,' said poor Mary with a sigh of
despair, 'and you know that Nannie is waiting for me to get Baby's bath
ready. Poor Master Harry,' she continued after a pause, during which
that young gentleman had been trying, unsuccessfully, to balance himself
on one leg, 'I don't believe I shall have time now to tell you that
interesting secret.'
'Interesting secret, Mary?' asked the boy in an eager voice. 'Oh, Mary,
I will be quite good if you will tell it to me.'
Harry loved a secret. So many of the nice things in his life had been
sprung upon him in this form that the very word 'secret' was to his
youthful mind a promise of coming happiness.
'Let me guess,' he pleaded in answer to her nod, and for at least two
minutes, during which time Mary put on and buttoned the shoes, there was
silence.
'Is it about my birthday?'
'Yes,' said Mary, taking advantage of the unusual peace to give a few
additional touches to her young master's smart sailor suit. This over,
she drew his curly head down and whispered in a deep, slow voice, that
sent a shiver through Harry's little body, 'As to-morrow is your
birthday, your father and mother are going to give you a present that
has four legs! Now run away downstairs; for I heard the motor going
round to the stables, and your father must be home again!'
At this moment Harry's quick ears heard a footstep upon the stairs--a
footstep that he loved with all his heart--and with a cry of delight he
disappeared through the nursery doorway, and down the broad staircase.
'Well, old man! What do you mean by not coming to meet me?' and the
father picked up his little son and kissed him affectionately.
'I never heard you come, Father. Did you remember to "toot, toot" on the
motor?'
'No, I didn't. That little imp, Paddy, rushed out at the hall door,
barking at the motor, and I was so busy wondering what he would look
like squashed quite flat that I forgot all about toot, toot. But run and
ask Nannie to put on your coat, for I am going to take you out to the
stables. Remember to ask very politely,' he called after the receding
figure in a warning voice.
'Please put on my coat, Nannie,' gasped Harry, bursting into the nursery
like a whirlwind; and as she buttoned it across his wriggling little
body, he put his arms round her neck and whispered, 'I expect I am going
to see the present with the four legs! Oh, I wonder if it will be a
wheelbarrow!'
A few minutes later Major Raeburn, with his son on his back, was
standing outside the stables, calling, 'Simmons, Simmons!'
'Yes, sir,' answered a smart young groom, who hurried out of the stables
at the sound of his master's voice.
'Here we are, Simmons. I have brought Master Harry to see his new
present. What do you think of it?'
But at this moment a pair of restless feet kicked vigorously against the
Major's sides to remind him that the future owner of the mysterious
present was impatient; so bending his head he stepped into the stable.
For a second there was silence, while the child peered into corners.
'Well, old man,' said his father, 'see nothing?'
'No,' he murmured in a disappointed voice; but just at that moment, a
pair of long ears appeared. 'Father,' he gasped, 'I see a donkey! Is
that my present?'
'Yes, that is your present from Father and Mother, and as to-morrow is
your birthday you must take Mary a drive on the Common. There is a jolly
little governess car, also, that will just hold Nannie and Mary and you
and Baby, but it is too late to go to the coach-house to-night. Looks a
nice little animal, doesn't he, Simmons? I should think that Mary could
drive him all right. She says that she always drove a donkey in her last
situation!'
'Oh, yes, sir, she will be all right. He is a pretty donkey, and not a
scrap of vice about him, I should say.'
'And what are you going to say to Father for giving you such a nice
present?' said Major Raeburn as he retraced his steps.
'Oh, thank you very much, Father,' murmured the boy, laying his golden
head against his father's, and clasping him tightly round the neck with
his strong little arms; 'and now be a kicking horse back to the house.'
Later on Mother had a full description of the donkey's appearance,
followed by an exhibition of how Harry would ride him. This he
demonstrated by means of a drawing-room chair and the hearth-brush: and
if there were moments when Mother had fears for the fate of her chair,
neither by word nor look did she show it, though when Mary's voice from
the door was heard saying, 'It's your bed-time, Master Harry,' the
expression on her face was distinctly one of relief.
(_Continued on page 390._)
FINDING FAULT WITH NATURE.
A certain lady was in the habit of spending her leisure time in making
flowers and fruits of wax and other material. In time she became very
clever at the work, but her friends always found fault with everything
that she made. One day she passed round a large apple, and said that
she thought she had been very successful this time. Her friends, as
usual, were not pleased with it. One found fault with the shape, another
with the colour, and every one had something to say against it. After
the apple had been passed round, and had come into her hands again, she
ate it without saying anything. Her friends had been finding fault with
a real apple.
MADE BEAUTIFUL.
I saw a little beam of light
Strike on a coloured glass;
And lo! it showed more fair and bright
As it away did pass.
It caught the radiance and the glow
Of that illumined scene,
And did more fair and lovely show
Than it before had been.
I saw a little thought of love
Enter a childish heart,
That heart to kindness it did move,
And filled up every part;
And when I saw that thought again,
Oh, it was sweet indeed,
For it was changed to glory then,
And showed in kindly deed.
THE BRAVE COUNTESS.
A German lady, belonging to a house which had formerly been renowned for
its heroism, and which had even given an emperor to the German empire,
once got the better of the terrible Duke of Alva. When Charles V. of
Spain, in the year 1547, came through Thuringia upon a march to
Franconia and Suabia, this lady, the Dowager Countess Katharina of
Schwarzburg, got a letter of protection from him, to the effect that
none of her subjects should suffer any harm from the Spanish troops. On
the other hand, she bound herself to provide bread and other provisions
for fair payment, and to send them to the Saal bridge for the Spanish
troops, which were to pass over it.
Although there was a great need for haste, the Germans adopted the
precaution of taking down the bridge and erecting it at a greater
distance from the town, which, being so near, might have led their rough
guests into temptation. At the same time, the inhabitants of the
villages which lay on the soldiers' march were allowed to shelter their
most valued possessions in the castle.
In the meantime the Spanish general approached, accompanied by Duke
Henry of Brunswick and his two sons, and, sending a messenger in
advance, they invited themselves to breakfast with the Countess of
Schwarzburg. Such a request, under such circumstances, could not very
well be refused. They would be given what the house contained, they
might come and be as considerate as possible, was the reply. At the
same time it was not forgotten to mention the letter of protection, and
the Spanish general was asked to bear it strictly in mind.
A friendly reception and a well-spread table awaited the Duke of Alva at
the castle. He was obliged to confess that the Thuringian ladies knew
how to keep a good kitchen and to maintain the honour of the house. Yet
scarcely had they sat down, when a servant called the Countess out of
the hall. She was informed that the Spanish soldiers not far off had
used force and had driven away the peasants' cows.
Katharina was a mother to her people, and what befell the poorest of her
subjects concerned herself. Irritated to the uttermost by this breach of
faith, yet keeping her presence of mind, she commanded all her servants
to arm themselves in swiftness and silence, and to bar the castle gates.
She herself went back to the table at which the visitors were still
sitting. Here she complained in the most touching way of what had been
reported to her and of the manner in which the Emperor's word had been
kept. They replied to her with laughter that it was only a custom of
war, and that on a marching through of soldiers such little accidents
were not to be prevented.
'We will see about it,' she answered in anger; 'my poor subjects must
have their own returned to them, or'--raising her voice--'_Princes for
oxen!_'
With this clear declaration she left the room, which in a few moments
was filled with armed men, who, sword in hand, planted themselves behind
the chairs of the princes, and with much respectfulness served the
breakfast.
At the entrance of this warlike troop the Duke of Alva changed colour;
cut off from the army by a superior number of sturdy men, it only
remained for him to be patient and to make the best terms he could with
the offended lady. Henry of Brunswick recovered himself the first, and
broke out into ringing laughter. He took the wise course of turning the
whole occurrence into a jest, and highly praised the Countess for the
care and the resolute courage she had shown. He asked the Germans to
keep calm, and took upon himself to persuade the Duke of Alva to do
everything that was reasonable. He did persuade the Duke of Alva so
effectively, that upon the spot he sent an order to the army to deliver
up without delay the stolen cattle to their owners. As soon as the
Countess was certain that restitution had been made, she thanked her
guests, who then very courteously took their leave.
The Duke of Alva had met his match in the brave Countess, and had been
forced by her to keep to the letter of protection given her by the King;
but he ought to have had sufficient chivalry to have not required such a
lesson about keeping his King's promise.
Many _Chatterbox_ readers, as they grow older, will probably read in
their histories of the terrible Duke of Alva, and will perceive more
fully what a brave woman this Countess must have been. Without doubt it
was through such incidents as these that Countess Katharina von
Schwarzburg came by her name of 'The Heroic.'
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
XII.--MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS OF NATIVE AMERICAN TRIBES.
The Indians of America, especially those of North America, show a much
higher mental development than is common in savage nations.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Indian Conjuror's Drum.]
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Indian Conjuror's Rattle.]
This is shown in many tribes by a communal system of government, loyalty
to their Sachems, or chiefs, their skill in embroidering leather
articles with dyed quills and grasses, and not least in their production
of stringed musical instruments. Instruments of concussion and
percussion, like drums and cymbals, and also wind instruments of shell
or horn, and rude forms of bagpipes, are inventions of most savage
races; but the production of even the most elementary form of stringed
instrument is a distinct advance, showing an understanding, however
faint, of the use of vibration in developing and strengthening an
original note.
The Apache Indians have a small fiddle with one string, and the Yakutata
of Alaska have also a form of violin. The Nachee Indians of the
Mississippi regions have a sacred instrument of great antiquity. It is
of wood, about five feet high by one foot wide, and is held between the
feet, resting alongside the chin of the performer. The strings are made
of the sinews of a large buffalo, and it is played by a bow, held by two
men, one at each end. Probably we might be inclined to think it more
noisy than musical, but happily in music, as in most other things,
tastes differ.
In Central Africa an instrument is made of the shell of the armadillo,
or of the turtle, having strings stretched across it. It is suggestive
of the primitive lyres of antiquity, in which a tortoise-shell was used
as a sounding-board.
Among nearly all Indian tribes, conjurors or 'medicine-men' are held in
high repute, and some weird instruments of theirs are met with. The drum
in the illustration (fig. 1), with the queer animal on its head, is a
conjuror's drum in use among the Sioux and the Dakotas on religious
occasions. It has two heads, gaily coloured with vermilion, and is
adorned with one of more figures of animals or birds, probably the
family 'totem,' or crest. These drums are quite small, only measuring
ten inches across by three deep, they are carried by a handle and are
supposed to act as talismans.
The peculiar rattle (fig. 2), showing a face made of raw hide, and
profusely ornamented with feathers, is also used by medicine-men, who
prepare the instrument secretly with mysterious rites. In length it is
about twenty inches.
[Illustration: Fig. 3. Indian Grain Rattle.]
The long narrow box attached to a pole (fig. 3) is also used by the
Sioux and the Dakotas. It is usually decorated with feathers, sometimes
very long. The construction is primitive, consisting merely of grain put
into a box and shaken with more or less violence.
HELENA HEATH.
THE LEOPARD'S LOOKING-GLASS.
An old leopard came out of his den, and wandered for miles through the
forest. As his lithe, spotted body glided amongst the tropical
undergrowth, other creatures slunk out of his path, and he found nothing
on which to prey. Hunger and restlessness drove the animal on, however,
till a new and strange object made him pause to see what it was that
stood in his way. The queer thing, made of wood, like the trees, had
something bright within it; something that was never seen on the trunk
of any tree.
The leopard drew nearer, and found himself, for the first time in his
life, face to face with a looking-glass. He looked in, and saw what
seemed to him the eyes of another leopard gazing into his own.
Curiosity, alarm, and anger, by turns, possessed him. What did the
strange beast mean by gazing at him so? He raised his heavy paw, and
gave a crushing blow upon the glass.
[Illustration: "What did the strange beast mean by gazing at him?"]
Down fell the trap--for trap it was--and the sharp spikes, heavily
weighted, did their work. But though the trap was a terrible one, the
leopard had in his life done greater harm than he suffered, and the
forest was well rid of such a dangerous and cruel animal.
SPIDER RUNNERS.
If I had to undergo one of those transformations we read about in fairy
tales, and were to be turned into a spider, I should very much wish to
be one of the wandering spiders, and not a web-maker. Both in houses and
out of doors, things go badly with spiders' webs and their occupiers;
they are constantly disturbed, and if they get away alive, their work
has to be done over again. But a spider that does not make a web is
usually suffered to go on his way undisturbed; sometimes, indeed, the
hunting spiders are scarcely recognised as spiders, and pass for some
other kind of insect.
The hunting spiders, however, do resemble the spinners. They are mostly,
perhaps, rather more slim in the body, and are furnished with eight
legs, sharp jaws and a poison fang, being able also to spin threads,
should they need to do so. Our British hunters are nearly all small.
Some of them do not run after their prey; they lurk beside a little
pebble, or in the folds of a leaf or flower.
The running spider, called the tarantula, is not very common in Europe,
though it is found in some parts of Italy; it is sometimes known to bite
people, and an old but false belief held that the poison forced them to
keep on dancing till quite worn out. Not long ago, some persons allowed
themselves to be bitten by it, but the only effect was painful swelling.
In tropical countries, however, this spider grows to a great size, and
can cause great pain by its bite. The tarantula is of the wolf-spider
family, whose habit is to chase their prey, not lie in ambush.
We have many British wolf-spiders: one for instance--he has no English
name--is _Lycosa amentata_. This is a species that is found in numbers
about heaps of stones by the wayside, or upon chalky banks. When
alarmed, these spiders seem to vanish like magic. They also do a good
deal of hunting upon low-growing, large-leaved plants. It is amusing to
watch one standing on the edge of a leaf, whence it makes a dash at some
flying insect that alights. Frequently it misses, but, when successful,
it carries off the prey, bigger perhaps than itself, to a safe retreat.
During autumn, the female spider bears about with her the egg-bag of
yellow or whitish silk, in which the little spiders are hatched. They
are much paler than the old spiders, and remain with their mother till
they have attained to some size. They manage to live through the winter,
and are fully grown in May. Amongst the wolf-spiders generally, we find
a difference between the movements of the males and females. If hard
pressed, the females escape by a succession of short runs, but the males
can manage to jump from leaf to leaf with much agility.
Several of the hunting spiders are equal to flying, or at least manage
to be wafted along by the breeze, when they want to take a trip. The
silk these throw out is occasionally called 'gossamer;' it is slight,
and not unlike the true gossamer, made by web-spinners of various sorts,
which we usually notice in autumn, covering bushes and grassy spaces.
The family to which the airy spiders belong is notable, because it
contains those species which have a likeness to crabs in form, having
short broad bodies, feeble front legs, and long, powerful hind legs.
They run easily forwards, backwards, or sideways, and are mostly pale,
with dark markings. Generally, such spiders follow their prey, since
they are good runners, but a few have the habit of living in ambush,
ready to spring upon insects that come near.
Very common in gardens are the _Saltici_. Most people have seen one
species in particular, which is grey, the back and legs being barred
with white. This spider leaps upon its prey, and you may notice that it
always has a thread attached to some object. Probably it is a precaution
against slipping, in case the jump is a failure.
Some small, black, very agile spiders, which are found about our rooms,
and also out-of-doors, are evidently hunters; people call them
money-spiders, for it is supposed to be lucky should one of them crawl
over you, or come towards you. There is a spider popularly known as
daddy-long-legs, though this name is shared by other insects; it has a
narrow body, and long pale legs, with dark knee-joints. It is often
noticed roving about, for some reason or other; yet the species is a
web-maker; its web is usually in a dark corner.
A GIFT TO SIR THOMAS MORE.
Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor, and one of England's worthiest sons,
was one of the most upright of judges, at a time when so much could not
be said of every one. It is recorded of him, that on one occasion a
person who wished to move him to take a favourable view of her cause,
sent him a present of a pair of gloves, in which forty pieces of gold
were wrapped up. Sir Thomas accepted the gloves, but returned the gold,
saying that he did not like his gloves to have any lining.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Concluded from page 371._)
The children did not notice that Estelle had slipped away. She had
caught a glimpse of Peet at his work, looking gloomier and more surly
than ever.
'Peet,' she said, running up to him with a sunny smile and a hand held
out, 'how are you? Dick is looking better, I think, and Mrs. Peet was as
nice and as well as ever. She gave me such a welcome yesterday, and said
she was so glad to see me. It is lovely to see you all again.'
'Welcome back, Miss,' returned Peet, taking the little hand shyly. 'I am
not one to talk, but I am right glad to set eyes on you.'
'Thank you, Peet. But there is one thing that I do not feel happy about,
and that is dear Aunt Betty. How different she seems--not half so strong
as she used to be!'
'No, Miss, she is not. She has been ill with losing you. We did miss you
sore, Miss.'
'It's nice of you to say so. But is it not wonderful that Jack should
have picked me up when I fell into the sea? It was high tide, you know,
and I was swept out so far I should have been drowned but for him. He
took me home, and both he and his mother were so good to me.'
She told him the story which she had already related once that morning,
dwelling especially on Jack's gallant rescue.
'Oh, Peet, he is such a good fellow,' she went on, 'so kind to every
one, and so good to his mother! As to _her_, she is just the best mother
possible. Peet, do you know Jack--have you spoken to him?'
She was anxious to know if Jack had had his interview; from Peet's
manner she feared he had not, or that something was wrong.
'Why should I speak to him?' asked the gardener, in his most forbidding
tones.
'Because Dick has,' she ventured, scarcely knowing how to say more in
Peet's surly mood.
'Dick and I are two different persons, Miss.'
'Yes,' said Estelle, softly, 'Dick is a--is very near Heaven, Aunt Betty
says. Peet, I think it is worse for the man who has done the wrong.'
'Do you, Miss? Well, _I_ can't see it. It's not my way of thinking,
anyhow.'
'It would be,' said Estelle, taking her courage in both hands, 'if you
believed in forgiveness at all. Auntie told us what a hard time you had
with Dick's illness,' continued Estelle, as Peet's face had not
relented, 'but you are all right now. Jack has had a hard time too,
because he was so dreadfully sorry for the wrong he had done. But it is
not all right with him, and he says it never will be, because he cannot
undo the harm.'
'No, he can't,' replied Peet, grimly.
'Well,' said Estelle, with a sigh, 'I am glad he has Dick's forgiveness,
and that Dick called him his friend. Jack felt that more than anything.
He said it was like coals of fire on his head.'
Seeing Peet made no attempt to reply, but continued his work as if the
subject were ended, Estelle sighed again, and went slowly back to join
the others, who were crossing the lawn with Jack, on their way to the
Bridge House, where he was to say good-bye to Dick.
'Oh, Jack,' cried Georgie, 'Estelle says you sing so beautifully! Will
you sing to Dick? He loves music, and some day I shall buy him a
barrel-organ to play to him always.'
Jack shook his head. 'He won't care to hear me, Master George.'
But Georgie was so sure Dick would care, that he ran on ahead of the
party to ask him. As the rest came up, Mrs. Peet was at the door to
receive them. She looked into Jack's face and held out her hand.
'For his sake!' she said, motioning with her head towards her son. 'I
can't go against his wishes.'
Grasping her hand in his big palms, Jack could only murmur gratefully,
'Thank you.' The next moment he had been seized upon by Georgie, and
dragged to Dick's chair to sing. Turning very red, he said he did not
know if he could trust his voice. Mrs. Peet, however, urging her son's
fondness for music, begged him to give them something. Against such an
appeal Jack could make no resistance. He sang as he had never sung
before. Dick's eyes never left his face, and when Jack rose to go, Dick
shook his hands with a world of feeling and pardon in eyes and clasp.
There had been one listener unseen by all, who stood with bowed head,
leaning heavily on the gate of the porch. Perhaps it was Aunt Betty's
gentle pleadings which had fallen like the 'gentle rain from heaven'
upon his hard temper, preparing the ground for Estelle's soft words on
behalf of Jack. Perhaps it was that his own better nature had asserted
itself when all outside arguments had failed, and made him see how 'to
err is human, to forgive divine.' Peet waited there in front of his
house; and when Jack's voice came to him through the half-closed door in
the concluding words of the last song, he understood dimly, in his own
fashion, that no one could have sung in that way who had not known what
real suffering was.
As Jack came out of the little garden, Peet stood in front of him, grim
and determined, though there were wrinkles about his eyes. They showed
how severe the pain and struggle were. Holding out his hand, he muttered
gruffly, 'He is pretty near a saint, he is,' nodding towards the house,
'and I would not like to be shut out from where he goes. So we will just
let bygones be bygones. There's my hand on it, if you will take it in
the same spirit.'
Jack grasped the proffered hand with a mighty grip. His heart was full.
'Let it be how you please,' he said, in eager gratitude, 'so long as you
do forgive me. I am more thankful than I am able to say for the kindness
and forgiveness which have been shown me. But do not think that I shall
ever forget the past, or cease to feel the most bitter sorrow for what I
have done.'
Peet returned the pressure of his hand with a little more warmth, and
Estelle thought his face was softer.
There was no time for more words. The children rushed out to pursue
Jack. Mrs. Peet, even with Estelle's assistance, could no longer
restrain them.
Jack must say good-bye to Aunt Betty, and have a word with the Earl. As
they all walked up the Park together, the sailor told them that Lord
Lynwood had asked him to persuade Mrs. Wright to come to
Tyre-cum-Widcombe. He would give her a little cottage, a pretty garden,
and would see that she wanted for nothing all her life. Jack himself was
offered a permanent berth on Lord Lynwood's own yacht. A shout of
delight greeted this announcement. Estelle was full of joy.
'We shall see you and dear Goody very often,' she cried, with sparkling
eyes. 'Oh, won't we make you both happy!'
The other children echoed her delight.
'I have a great plan,' went on Estelle, dancing along gleefully, 'and I
know it will simply send everybody wild with joy.'
'What is it?' asked Alan, eagerly. 'As long as it does not take you
away, I don't mind.'
'I think I can persuade Father to take us all in his yacht, and we will
bring Goody here ourselves.'
This proposal did indeed send the children wild. Not a word could Jack
get in edgewise for several minutes.
'You are sure she will come?' asked Estelle.
'I think she will,' said Jack, smiling. 'She will never be happy away
from our little Missie.'
THE END.
[Illustration: "'Have you spoken to Jack?'"]
[Illustration: "I struck furiously at the brute."]
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By HAROLD ERICSON.
IX.--A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE.
[Illustration]
'Oh, yes,' said Bobbie Oakfield, a night or two after Vandeleur's story
of the plucky Japanese sailor; 'that young Hayashi was a smart fellow,
and as brave as they make them; but as you have blown the Japanese
trumpet, I think it is only fair I should blow a Russian one, if only to
show that the Russians can be, in an emergency, as brave as the Japs
themselves, which is the same as saying as brave as any man on this
earth, not excepting an Englishman of the true kind!'
* * * * *
Well, I was in Russia--I have been many times, as you know, getting a
little big or other game-shooting from my relations there. On this
occasion there were reports up from my cousin's 'shoot' of wolves having
been seen about; it was a cold season, and that is the kind of season in
which the sportsman gets a good chance of adding a wolf-skin or two to
his collection, for they become more accessible--tamer perhaps,
certainly bolder--when it is cold. It is not a matter of choice with the
poor creatures, but of stern necessity; they _must_ come nearer to the
villages, because food is difficult to obtain elsewhere. My cousin could
not respond to Michael the keeper's invitation to come down and make a
battue for the wolves. 'You can go by yourself if you like,' he said to
me; 'Michael will make you comfortable, and if there are any wolves he
will show them to you. Don't miss them, if he brings you within range,
for that is an unpardonable crime in Michael's eyes, and he would never
forgive you!'
Well, I went down to Dubrofda, prepared to stay for a week. I found that
Michael was away, trying to secure a family of elk, which he had
followed for several days. The under-keeper, Gavril, was there, however,
and under his auspices I hoped to find sport, though he informed me
sadly, on my arrival, that he had not seen wolves for several days.
'They came into the village after straying dogs one night,' he said,
'and pulled down a sheep of old Ivan Trusof's. Ivan fired his old
blunderbuss at them, and the noise seems to have scared them away.
To-morrow I will try after them, and if that fails we must see whether a
squeal-pig will attract them.'
'A squeal-pig?' I repeated, laughingly; 'what in the world is that?'
Gavril glanced at me in some displeasure. 'It is a common way of hunting
the wolves,' he said. 'Perhaps the method is not known in England.'
I explained that the last English wolf was killed many years ago. Then
Gavril described the process which he had called the squeal-pig method
of wolf-hunting.
'You get a very young pig,' he said, 'and put it into a sack. Now, no
pig likes being put into a sack, and when a pig does not like a thing he
squeals as though he were being killed. The sportsmen drive slowly
through the wood by night, and all the while the pig is making a
terrible din--a din that can be heard a mile or two away. If there is
one thing in the world that a wolf prefers above another, as a delicacy,
it is pork. Every wolf in the forest hears the yelling of the pig, and
comes to see what is the matter, and whether there is a chance of any
pork for supper. Sometimes the beasts become so excited that they will
come quite close to the sledge in which the pig is squealing in its bag.
Then comes the chance of the man with the gun.'
'Good,' said I, 'that sounds all right; we will try it to-morrow night.
Is there a pig to be had?'
'Anton's sow has a litter a month or two old. I will buy one--a rouble
will purchase it.'
Gavril procured the pig, and brought it safely housed in a small sack.
It was squealing when he brought it, and I may say, without
exaggeration, that so long as that pig and I were together, it never
ceased for more than a second to give vent to its feeling of disgust and
anger at the treatment to which it was subjected.
'I chose it for its voice,' said Gavril, grinning; 'the wolves prefer
loud music; they come miles to hear it!'
Then we settled ourselves in the extremely comfortable village sledge
which Gavril had brought with him, and started for our midnight drive.
That drive was delicious. The moonlight, the ghostly pines, the cold
crisp air, the gleaming snow everywhere, the delightful motion, all
added to the delight of it; the horrible noise made by our little friend
in the sack was the only thing that broke the peace.
I dozed at intervals, and perhaps Gavril dozed also. At any rate, he
gave me no warning of what was coming, and the sudden shock of it, I
have reason to believe, surprised him as much as myself. I was fast
asleep at the moment, and the entire situation burst upon me with
absolute suddenness. I was conscious of a sudden violent jolt, the
sledge overturned--or half upset, and righted itself, and I found myself
rolling in the snow, together with the sack and the little squealing
pig, which yelled lustily--more lustily than ever--in protest at being
pitched out.
What had happened was this. First one wolf, then another had appeared on
either side, among the trees, and Gavril was just putting out his hand
to awake me, when a third wolf darted suddenly at the pony's hind leg;
the frightened little animal swerved, the sledge brought up violently
against a pine-tree, and out rolled the pig and I; Gavril and the gun
remained in the sledge, which righted itself and went on swiftly as the
pony bounded forward in fear. I sprang to my feet and looked after the
sledge--it was out of sight in an instant.
At the same moment I became aware that half a dozen or more great grey
creatures sat and stood within a few yards of me, looking, with the
moon behind them, like dark spectres in a dream. _Was_ I dreaming, I
wondered, or was I really standing in mid-forest, the centre of interest
to a company of hungry and therefore dangerous wolves? The pig answered
the question conclusively enough. He suddenly yelled his loudest, using
his very highest note. Then a remarkable thing happened. A wolf,
maddened I suppose, by hunger, and unable to resist the temptation of
sampling the owner of so vigorous a voice, suddenly sprang upon the
sack. In an instant the wretched little creature imprisoned within it
was torn into a hundred pieces and swallowed, sack and all. The savoury
morsel whetted their appetites I suppose, for several of the brutes
began to steal around, watching for an opportunity to spring upon me. I
yelled and waved my arms and kicked my feet; the wolves withdrew a
little way; I danced wildly, and yelled again, but they withdrew no
further. The situation was obviously very serious.
Then I backed towards a tree, for I did not relish the idea of being
surrounded. The moment that I moved a step further from them, each wolf
advanced three, growling, showing his teeth, snarling. I caught sight of
a piece of wood lying near the road; I picked it up, a wolf sprang
forward to dispute possession, and I banged at him and missed; every
wolf within sight--I should think there were two dozen by now, two or
three of them quite close to me--showed his teeth and snarled again.
I backed for the tree, and had almost reached it when a gaunt beast
sprang at me, and actually tore a piece out of the sleeve of my coat. I
struck furiously at the brute, and I think broke its leg; he went
limping and yelping amongst his companions, and they instantly tore him
to pieces. The smell of his blood excited them, and several came leaping
and snarling at me; I shouted and struck at them, but they would not
retreat; they stood and growled, and licked their lips. How was it going
to end, I began to wonder.
Several times a wolf or two wolves attacked me, and I beat them off, but
I grew weary, and, what was more disastrous, my nerves began to fail. I
realised that I could not keep up this nerve-destroying fight for ever,
and Gavril had evidently not dared to return to my assistance....
Suddenly, when on the verge of collapse, I heard a shout in the
distance. I replied with all my strength.
'All right,' called Gavril, 'I am coming; but it is difficult.'
It did not matter now, though Gavril seemed to spend an hour in covering
the few hundred yards which lay between us, and I fought desperately on
with renewed spirit. Then at length I caught sight of him in the
moonlight, coming towards me; he seemed to limp; he stopped, and a shot
rang out. Instantly the wolves disappeared as if by magic.
Gavril drew near. 'Here, take the gun, Excellency,' he said. 'I am hurt,
I must sit.'
I just had time to take the gun out of his hands when Gavril stumbled
and fell with a groan. 'Oh, my leg!' he muttered, and with the words he
fainted.
The poor fellow's ankle was broken. It had been broken at the first
jolt, when I fell out, but he had been unable to free himself from the
sledge until, a quarter of a mile away, he had succeeded in pulling up
the frightened horse and getting out.
Then he had deliberately walked back the whole way, with his broken
ankle causing him agonies at each moment, straight into the midst of a
dangerous wolf-pack, in order to bring me the gun and save my life.
* * * * *
'Without, for a moment, wishing to disparage the Japanese,' Bobby ended,
'I think you will agree with me that it would be unfair not to accord
the Russians equal honour for pluck and devotion to duty--this
particular Russian, at any rate, and I know of many others equally
brave.'
'Carried _nem. con._,' said Vandeleur.
As for Dennison, his contribution to the discussion was a loud and
prolonged snore.
WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY.
A True Story.
Not long ago there lived a nobleman who was noted for his extreme
obstinacy and his determination to have his own way. He had arranged one
morning to meet a friend of his at a country station. When he got to the
station, his friend had not come.
After he had waited some time the train came in; and just then he caught
sight of his friend's carriage driving along at a gallop in the
distance. He knew that it would take some five minutes for it to get to
the station, and the train was due to start in one minute. So he went to
the station-master, and explained to him that his friend was very
anxious to catch the train: he asked him if he would be so kind as to
stop it till the carriage arrived. The station-master, however, refused
to do so, saying that the train was already late.
'We will see about that,' retorted the other; and he actually went and
sat down between the rails right in front of the engine.
The station-master dared not let the train start, and though he begged
the nobleman to get up, the latter refused to move until his friend
arrived. While they were arguing the carriage drove up, and his friend
got his ticket; and then at last the obstinate old gentleman left his
dangerous position, and they went off in the train together. The trick
had been successful, though it was a very dangerous and foolish one.
HEART'S-EASE.
There is a little simple flower,
Heart's-ease by name--I know not why;
And yet, perchance, it has the power
To cause a tear or calm a sigh.
And if a dear one sends to me
The tiny flower, I'll prize it well;
For in the token I should see
The wish the flower was meant to tell.
And still its faded leaves I'd keep,
Although they had no scent to please;
Ah, better still! they seem to speak
A message, praying my heart's-ease.
By waters still in sweet spring-time
It lifts its sweet, mild gaze to me,
While on my ears faint falls the chime
Of evening bells across the lea.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Mr. Merry, with Tabby in his arms, was just leaving the
house."]
TABBY'S GHOST.
All at once the matter was settled. Dr. Whitehead had given his
orders--Mother must have change of air at once, and they were all going
to Clifton for two months. The house was to be shut up, and in Edith's
heart the question arose, 'What shall we do with Tabby?' Tabby was a
pleasant, gentle cat, her especial property. 'Mother,' she said, 'might
we not take Tabby with us? I could pay her railway fare with the
half-crown Aunt Dora gave me. I should like it so much!'
'No, dear, it is quite impossible to do so,' replied her mother; 'but
perhaps Mr. Merry, the milkman, would keep her for you; she would get
plenty of milk, and you know she is a good mouser. Mr. Merry would be
pleased with that; I have heard him say that his barn is over-run with
mice.'
'Oh, there he is!' cried Edith; 'I will run and ask him at once.'
Very soon she returned, smiling and happy. 'Mother,' she said, 'I have
given Mr. Merry my half-crown, and he says he will call to-morrow and
take Tabby home with him, and keep her as long as we please.'
'And so you have no money now,' cried Evelyn; 'why, you will not be able
to buy anything at Clifton.'
'Never mind, Edie,' said little Ina, kindly, 'I will give you a shilling
out of my money; but I do think it was very unkind of Mr. Merry to take
all that you had; don't you think so, Mother?'
But Mother would not tell her thoughts; she only smiled to herself and
said, 'Run away, darlings, and pack up your dolls' clothes, and remember
you must take nothing except what can be put into the dolls' trunk.' And
away the children ran to look after this important matter.
Next day the cab was at the door. Mother had taken her seat, Jane had
locked the hall door, and Mr. Merry, with Tabby in his arms, was just
leaving the house, when, with an angry 'fuff,' and a desperate spring,
she leaped to the ground and disappeared in a moment among the trees at
the side of the house. What was to be done?
Edith was ready to cry, but Mr. Merry comforted her by promising to
return in the afternoon, when, no doubt, Tabby would be at the door,
hungry enough. He would give her a saucer of milk, and, while she was
lapping it, he would secure her and take her away. Edith was greatly
relieved; she thanked him warmly, and, in the excitement of railway
travel, Tabby was almost forgotten.
What a delightful place Clifton was! Such toy-shops, such Zoological
Gardens with real lions and tigers! Could children ever weary of such a
place? Certainly neither Edith nor her two sisters; and so it was with a
feeling of disappointment that they saw the travelling boxes once more
pulled out, and faithful Jane begin to pack again. Mother was much
better, however--that was one great comfort, and, as she was longing to
be home again at the Grove, the children were fain to be content. As
they drew near Ventnor, the three girls began talking of home and Tabby.
'Do you think that Mr. Merry will be willing to give her back to me,
Mother?' said Edith, anxiously. 'She is such a darling, perhaps he may
want to keep her!'
'Don't be afraid, dear,' said her mother, smiling; 'I dare say he has a
cat of his own, and will be quite glad to send Tabby back.'
'Oh, Edie!' cried Evelyn, 'here we are; there are the chimneys of the
Grove. Mother, may we not run home and not wait for the cab?'
'Very well, dears, run away; Jane will go with you.'
And away the little girls ran. They had just opened the gate and entered
the avenue, when they saw some object approaching them. It seemed to be
the ghost of Tabby! Staggering weakly down the avenue to meet them, her
ribs sticking out, her fur torn off her in patches, her eyes dim, her
voice quite gone, and her tail almost bare of fur, came poor dear
Tabby, feebly trying to welcome her little mistress home.
Edith burst into tears as she lifted the poor cat into her lap, while
kind-hearted Jane ran to the nearest cottage and returned with some warm
milk. Oh, how greedily it was lapped up, and with what hungry eyes she
looked for more! Jane had to warn the children lest in their compassion
they should give her too much food at once, which would have been very
hurtful to an animal so starved as the poor cat had been. Mr. Merry had
only fulfilled one half of the agreement; he had taken the half-crown,
but he had not taken the cat; and great was the anger of the children at
his treachery and cruelty.
The next day, when he brought the milk as usual, they all ran down to
scold him. But he was a man of composed manner and few words; he
listened in silence, then he grinned at the sight of poor pussy's tail
which Edith showed him, and, taking up his milk-cans, he departed,
saying, 'Her should just have coom when I were willing to take her. Her
deserves all she have got!'
'And, Mother,' said Ina, as she told the story, 'just think! he has kept
poor Edie's half-crown. What a wicked man he must be!'
THE FORCE OF LABOUR.
The mere drudgery undergone by some men in carrying on their
undertakings has been something extraordinary; but it has been drudgery
which they regarded as the price of success. Addison amassed as much as
three folios of manuscript materials before he began writing. Newton
wrote his _Chronology_ fifteen times over before he was satisfied with
it; and Gibbon wrote out his _Memoir_ nine times. Hale studied for many
years at the rate of sixteen hours a day, and when wearied with the
study of the law, he would recreate himself with philosophy and the
study of mathematics. Hume wrote thirteen hours a day while preparing
his _History of England_. Montesquieu, speaking of one part of his
writings, said to a friend, 'You will read it in a few hours; but I
assure you that it has cost me so much labour that it has whitened my
hair.'
_From SMILES'S 'Self-Help'._
A GENTLE DONKEY.
(_Continued from page 378._)
II.
The next day, just before the donkey-cart was expected round, Major
Raeburn ran up to the nursery.
'I should drive down that quiet road towards the Mill, Mary; and don't
allow Master Harry to irritate Tim with a whip, or any nonsense of that
sort. Do you hear?' he continued, turning round to that young gentleman,
who, seated in baby's chair, was pretending to be a motor. 'Promise that
you will be a good boy.'
'All right, Father, but you had better get out of the way now, or you
will be run over by my motor. People that get in front of motors always
get killed.'
Here he uttered a piercing yell, at which six-months-old Baby crowed and
kicked to show how much she enjoyed the game.
'That's just the engine exploded,' he explained, 'and Mary, you must
come and see if the driver is killed.'
At this point in his game the sound of wheels was heard upon the gravel
outside; with a bound Harry was on the seat of Nannie's chair at the
window.
'It's Tim, it's Tim!' he cried, and picking up his little sailor cap, he
tore downstairs to inspect his new present.
'Good morning, Master Harry,' said Simmons, as Harry danced out upon the
drive; 'are you going to give Tim a piece of sugar?'
'May I?' he called out to his mother, who was looking through the rugs
in an old oak chest for one that would be suitable for the size of the
donkey-cart.
'Yes, dear, certainly. Ah, there you are, Mollie,' she continued to her
sister-in-law, who had been roused from her book in the drawing-room by
the sound of the voices. 'Are you sure that you care to go? I am afraid
that you will be dreadfully cramped in that small cart. If I were in
your place, I should keep the door open and hang my legs out.'
'Keep your mind quite easy about me,' answered Aunt Mollie, laughing.
'If the worst comes to the worst, I can always get out and run behind!
Where is our driver? In the cart? I never saw you come out, Mary. Now
then, Harry, tumble in, opposite to Mary. Aunt Mollie is going to be the
footman and sit at the door.'
Mary chirruped to the donkey, Harry waved his cap, and as Simmons shut
the door of the cart with a sharp bang, Tim tossed his head in the air
with a 'don't I look nice?' expression in his large soft eyes, and
trotted away down the broad tree-lined avenue.
All went well at first, and Mary was delighted.
'Donkeys can be so nasty,' she said, 'but this one is a perfect little
dear, Miss.'
At this moment Tim saw something very interesting in the hedge, and
turned across the road to examine it.
'Oh, you naughty donkey,' exclaimed the girl, 'I can't allow you to do
that,' and she gave the rein a sharp pull to bring him into the road
again.