examination.
'We really must get him to move,' murmured Aunt Mollie, anxiously, 'for
we are right across the road, so that nothing can pass us.'
Meanwhile poor Mary was using every effort to get him away from the
hedge.
'Don't you be nervous, Miss,' said the girl cheerfully; 'nothing ever
comes along this road, for it only leads to the Mill Farm.'
Mary's words were greeted by a loud 'Hullo!' from the driver of a
baker's van that was coming along the road behind them at a sharp pace.
'Oh, dear! oh, dear!' murmured Mary, 'it's Crawford the baker! What will
he think when he sees that I am beaten by a little donkey? Can you
drive, Miss? Perhaps you could make him go.'
Miss Raeburn shook her head ruefully. She was a Londoner, and her
knowledge of animals was extremely limited.
'What shall we do?' she said nervously, and mentally she drew an awful
picture in which the baker's weary-looking horse became a spirited
charger, dashed into the donkey-cart, and trampled the whole party to
death.
In vain did Mary, now desperate, bring the whip across Tim's fat,
well-groomed sides; he merely shook his long ears, whisked his tail
angrily against the shafts, and resumed his investigation in the hedge.
'Let me see if I can help you,' called the young baker at last. 'Donkeys
are artful little things; but perhaps if I get him round again, he will
follow my van; that is to say, if I can pass in this narrow road.' As he
spoke he took Tim firmly by the head.
For a second or two the donkey tossed his head in a vain endeavour to
free himself; then he gave the baker one of his gentlest glances and
stepped round into the road.
'Oh, thank you so much,' said Aunt Mollie, as the baker carefully drove
his van past the little cart; but poor Mary only hung her head. She had
been beaten by a little donkey!
'Perhaps he will follow if I give him a lead,' suggested the obliging
young man; 'but if I were in your place, I would take him home by
another road. Coop, coop, coop!' he called to the donkey, in a sing-song
voice as he drove away, and Tim, who seemed to understand his language,
galloped after the van as fast as he could put his four little feet to
the ground.
There was a slight difference of opinion between Mary and Tim when the
former, taking the baker's advice, turned down a narrow road to the
right.
Tim wished to follow the van, and for a few anxious moments, Mary was
afraid that he would be victorious.
'This is a very exciting drive,' said Harry in an awe-struck voice, as
the donkey turned the corner so sharply that for an instant they all
expected to find themselves lying in the ditch.
'Very!' answered his aunt.
She had her eyes on the donkey, and her hand on the door of the cart,
which was open, and ready to be used as an 'emergency exit.'
'Oh!' she gasped nervously, as Tim showed a strong desire to climb the
steep bank by the side of the road, 'I don't think I agree with you,
Mary, that this donkey is a "perfect dear!"'
'He is a deceitful little brute,' said Mary angrily, 'and he will never
be safe for the children.'
No sooner did Tim turn in at the Lodge gates than he became the same
sweet, docile little creature that had trotted out, and as Mrs. Raeburn
watched him come down the avenue she gave a sigh of relief.
'We were in luck to get such a treasure,' she thought, 'and I feel
certain that no one could guess he had come straight from a
greengrocer's cart; he looks such a little gentleman.'
(_Continued on page 398._)
[Illustration: "All went well at first."]
[Illustration: "'It's Captain Halliard!'"]
A MODERN WIZARD.
'Come along, Gussie, quick! Here! in by the garden-door.'
'Oh! what is it, Jack?'
'S--sh! Can't you make less noise? Just like a girl!'
Grumbling and muttering, he stole into the schoolroom--deserted now at
three o'clock in the afternoon--followed on tip-toe by his younger
sister, Augusta.
She eyed his movements eagerly, as he let down the Venetian shutters,
drew together the heavy serge curtains, and poked up the sleepy fire
till little tongues of red light darted mysteriously about the room.
Then he thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out something!
Gussie retreated into a corner, and clasped her hands together.
'Not a mouse, Jack? Oh! I can't bear them--please, please----!'
'Are you nine, or are you _two_, Gussie?' asked Master Twelve-year-old.
He put a dirty, yellowish mass on the table. Gussie approached it
anxiously. It might have been anything in that ghostly light--but, at
least, it did not move.
'Wax!' announced Jack, triumphantly.
'Nasty, dirty stuff!' sniffed Gussie.
'Oh, very well! If you're going to talk like that, you can go away,'
said her brother, turning his back on her.
'No, no, Jack! I want to see what you are going to do with it. _Please_
let me stay!'
'Then lock the door, and don't make a row over it.'
The boy was bending over the fire, and moulding the messy lump between
his fingers as he spoke.
'What is all that stuff for?' pleaded Gussie, anxiously.
'It isn't stuff, I tell you. It's wax. Can't you _see_ what I am doing?'
'It's so dark!' expostulated the child, peeping over his shoulder. Then
she gave a cry of delight.
'Why, Jack you are making--I know!--a little man! It's just like the
idol Uncle Joe brought Lilian from Burmah. _Is_ it an idol, really? I
thought it was naughty to make idols.'
The boy held the little figure up, and surveyed it with pride.
'Of course it's a man! What should I want to make an idol for?'
'What do you want to make a man for?' wondered Gussie.
'Half a minute, and I will tell you. I must paint the thing now, and I
can't see properly. Get a candle, and I will light up.'
He drew a small match-box from his pocket, and lit the candle with
excited fingers.
'Blue trousers,' he murmured, dabbing on streaks of paint--'bother! a
blue coat too. So dull! If only he was a soldier, now!'
'Oh, won't you tell me what it is for?' asked once more his sorely tried
sister, her patience nearly at breaking point.
'You are such a ninny. You would go and tell.'
'No, I won't! I _promise_, Jack.'
'Lots of gold buttons,' continued that exasperating boy, splodging them
about in great abundance; 'and black eyebrows, and a red nose. Like a
Pirate King, you know. Dare say he _is_ a pirate in disguise, if only
one knew. It's Captain Halliard, Gussie!'
'Is he as ugly as that?' asked the little sister; 'he doesn't look so in
his photograph.'
'You can't tell from photographs,' said Jack--adding, '_I_ expect he is
a good deal uglier! He must be, or he wouldn't want to take Lilian
away.'
'I thought he was going to marry her. I'm to be a bridesmaid, you know,
and wear a white frock, with---- '
'That's all you girls care about!' said Jack, with contempt. 'Did you
think he would bring her back here afterwards?'
'Of course. Where else should she go?'
'I dare say they would not tell a kid like you,' he answered loftily.
'They have taken a house at Southsea--miles away from here. _Now_ do you
see why I have made this figure?'
'No-o-o!' she said, half crying.
'Oh, _do_ dry up, Gussie, or I won't tell you anything! Don't you
remember in the history lesson this morning, Miss Gower told us that
when people hated one another, ages ago, they got wizards to make wax
images of their enemies, and let them melt slowly away, and as they
melted, the other fellow began to get thin and ill--and went on getting
thinner and iller, till---- '
'Till he died!' shrieked Gussie. 'Oh, Jack, you won't do that?'
The boy blew out the candle, and placed the figure opposite the fire,
just inside the fender.
'We shall see!' he said mysteriously. 'I shall do it very slowly, a
little bit each day, and watch the effect on Captain Halliard. He's
coming here this evening, you know. Of course, Lilian will never want to
marry a man who gets thinner and iller every day; but if that's not
enough, and he still wants to carry off _my_ sister, I'll just---- '
* * * * *
'Children! children! open the door, quick! The hall is full of smoke.'
The girlish tones were emphasised by most undoubtedly manly thumps. Jack
hesitated, but Gussie flew to turn the key.
Lilian Phillips rushed in, followed closely by a tall stranger. The
draught from the open door located the origin of the smoke only too
easily. The schoolroom curtains burst into flames!
Gussie ran up to her elder sister. Jack, the bold, the self-reliant, was
momentarily paralysed.
It was the stranger who jumped on the sofa, and tore those curtains
down--crushing them with his hands--- stamping on them till the flames
were extinguished, finally emerging from the smoking curtain with singed
hair and beard, and shaking his scorched fingers, but otherwise calm and
unruffled.
'Hullo, young man! Are you responsible for all this? What had you been
up to? Guy Fawkes' Day is long past. All right, Lilian, don't bother
about me. I'm not hurt--though I'm afraid as much cannot be said for the
curtains.
'Oh, George, what should we have done without you? What a mercy it was
you caught the afternoon train. What _were_ you two children doing?'
gasped Lilian, almost in one breath.
'Gussie wasn't doing anything!' asserted Jack, stoutly. 'I had lit a
candle. I don't see how that could have set the curtains on fire,
though,' he added, gazing open-eyed at the stranger called 'George,' and
trying to get between him and the fender.
'What did you do with the match?' demanded George, curtly.
'Chucked it away!' came the reply, with equal brevity.
The grown-ups exchanged significant glances.
'Why did you lock yourselves up here?' asked Lilian, laying gentle hands
on her small brother's shoulders, and turning him round on the hearthrug
to face her.
It was seldom that Jack resisted Lilian, and he did not do so now,
though he wriggled, and cast a nervous glance over his shoulder.
'I--I----,' he began hesitatingly, when a loud laugh from George
interrupted him.
'By Jove! here's a funny little image, Lilian! A sailor too, by all
that's curious! Not _me_, eh?' he roared good-temperedly, as he fished
the blue-bedaubed figure out of the fender, and, holding it at arm's
length, surveyed it by the now cheerful blaze of the fire.
Jack wriggled himself free from his elder sister's grasp, and faced
round.
'Are you Captain Halliard?'
'Certainly, young man.'
'Then I'm sorry I made _that_.'
'Why! it _is_ I, then? What should you be sorry for?' he asked,
bewildered; 'it's not at all bad, for a young 'un--bar likeness, I hope!
Never mind, though, if you don't want to tell me,' he added,
good-naturedly, sorry for the boy's evident embarrassment.
But Jack continued: 'It _is_ you--and I made it of wax, so that it
should melt, and you should get ill, and---- '
'Oh! you wicked boy!' exclaimed Lilian, aghast; 'what harm had George
done you?'
'He wanted to take you away,' explained Jack sullenly, 'and I don't want
him to. But I tell you I am sorry now about the image.'
'Why?' demanded Captain Halliard.
'You are a brave man. You pulled those curtains down. _I_ couldn't have
done that! I don't care if you _do_ marry my sister now.'
'Hooray!' shouted Gussie, capering wildly about; 'and _now_ you'll let
me be a bridesmaid, won't you, Jack? I didn't--oh, I didn't want that
nasty wax image to melt all away!'
And so Jack learnt that magic is not only silly, but wrong, and found
that Captain Halliard was after all not so terrible as to need a wizard
to drive him away.
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 371.
13.--(A.) Orphan-age.
(B.) Book-worm.
(C.) Brim-stone.
(D.) Hare-bell.
(E.) Dove-tail.
(F.) Some-body.
AVERAGE.
In old French, 'aver' meant a horse. So it did in old Scotch, which
still has not a few French words in its dialect. Burns, in his 'Dream,'
speaks of a horse as a 'noble aiver.'
In old times in Europe, a tenant was bound to do certain carting of
grain or turf for the lord of the manor. In the yearly account this was
set down as aver-age, or, as we might say, horse-age. The tenant had to
strike a balance between his rent and his horse-work done, and this just
proportion came to be known afterwards as average.
Average is a very difficult word to define. One day an Inspector asked a
class what it meant. A little girl eagerly answered, 'What a hen lays
eggs on.'
The Inspector was greatly surprised, but knowing that the child must
have some reason for her answer, he asked her what made her think so,
when she at once pointed to a sentence in her reading-book which said
that 'a hen lays four or five eggs a week on an average.' The little
girl evidently thought that an average was a mat or something of the
kind, on which the hen deposited her eggs.
GAS-LIGHT INSECT-HUNTING.
Why should insects rush eagerly to an artificial light when they do not
attempt to fly towards the moon, however brilliantly she may shine on a
summer evening? We cannot tell, nor why some moths are indifferent to
lamps which make their brethren excited, often to their peril. By
searching gas-lamps, the entomologist can obtain specimens of moths that
would otherwise be difficult to find. Lamps, of course, are most
productive when their place is along a country road, but even in towns
they have their winged visitors after dark.
Dull or cold nights will bring few insects to the lamps, and those would
usually be not worth catching. Earwigs appear--a proof that they can fly
as well as crawl, and as they are insects of rather a shy habit, it is
surprising to find that they are fascinated by a light. Gnats are
abundant, and sundry flies often lie in little heaps at the bottom of
the lamp; sometimes the number of gnats is thus greatly reduced in a
stinging season, when thousands of persons are attacked by these
insects. Beetles occasionally come, and spiders also, not drawn by the
light, but knowing that they will get prey at the lamps. Away from any
town, bats are frequently amongst the evening visitors on the look-out
to secure part of the arriving insects, especially those having plump
bodies.
Many of the moths, to the disappointment of the collector, have their
wings singed or damaged. Others enter the lamp and avoid the flame,
settling down quietly upon the glass, and others again stop outside upon
the glass or the ironwork. During the twilight the slim moths, or
Geometers, arrive, with now and then a large moth; towards ten o'clock
the Noctuas, or stout-bodied moths, begin to appear.
NIGHT AND DAY.
The Night is like a Fairy Prince,
So good, and strong, and great:
His jewels are the stars; they deck
His purple robe of state.
His dinted shield, the silver moon,
Gleams brightly on his breast;
See, how he comes so silently,
And moves towards the West!
The Day a fairy maiden is,
With flower-garlands gay,
And as the Night approaches her,
She blushing hastes away.
But he, undaunted, still pursues
Because he loves her best:
Then lo! he clasps her to his heart,
Far in the crimson West.
THE ROSEMONT GROTTO AND THE PETCHABURG CAVERNS.
[Illustration]
About three hundred miles from the coast of Madagascar, and over one
hundred from the Mauritius, lies the beautiful island to which its
French owners have given the name of Réunion. It was formerly known as
'Ile de Bourbon,' out of compliment to the family name of the French
monarchs, but at the time of the Revolution the island was renamed, and
became Réunion. It is of small size, only thirty-five miles long by
twenty-eight broad; but it contains a range of fine mountains, some as
much as ten thousand feet high. These mountains are of volcanic origin,
and one peak, 'Polon de Fournaise' by name, is one of the most active
volcanoes in the world. Below another, known as the Pic Bory, is a
remarkable cavern, though it only measures sixty yards long by twenty
high. Its chief feature is the curious method of its construction.
In its active days, the Pic Bory had a way of tossing high into the air
huge spouts of boiling lava, which rushed with great force down the
mountain-side, overwhelming everything which came in the way. Now, just
as gunpowder rammed into a cannon drives heavy balls immense distances,
so this lava is driven out of the craters by gases which are imprisoned
below the crust of the earth. When these succeed in getting free,
flames, cinders, and red-hot lava rush out, great explosions are heard
for many miles, and clouds of fiery gas escape into the air. Sometimes,
however, the lava is too densely packed for all the gas to escape, and
some of it remains imprisoned, and is carried down the mountain beneath
the boiling mass; but although it cannot get free, its energy finds
vent by driving its roof of lava upwards, and so a high mound occurs in
the channel of the lava, and when in course of years the gas does find a
way out, a hollow cavern remains inside. The Grotto of Rosemont is one
of the finest-known instances of these gas-formed caverns, and, hence
its fame. Other volcanic grottoes are also found in Réunion, two of them
very fine, and many similar great hollows are found near volcanoes in
other lands, notably beneath the peak of Mount Etna in Sicily.
* * * * *
In the kingdom of Siam, about two days' journey by boat from the capital
city of Bangkok, rises a fine group of mountains, and on the highest of
these has been built a royal palace. The mountains are of volcanic
origin, and the palace actually stands on an extinct crater, which would
be very inconvenient if the slumbering fires below suddenly awakened.
In the neighbourhood of the range are the fine caverns of Petchaburg,
some of the largest existing instances of volcanic grottoes. Two are
especially grand, as the lava in cooling has twisted and twirled about
in marvellous fashion, making most wonderful effects.
The moisture coming from the roof has decorated the caverns with
splendid stalactites and stalagmites, whilst, like many other volcanic
rocks, the walls are of brilliant and harmonious colours.
The king and his people are justly proud of their caverns, and have
taken great pains that they shall be made accessible to visitors, the
ground having been levelled and staircases placed in many directions.
The largest and most beautiful cave has been turned into a temple, and
all along the sides are rows of figures. One of these is of colossal
size, and richly gilded, representing a sleeping Buddha.
THE KING OF PERSIA.
[Illustration]
Once upon a time a certain King of Persia went out hunting with all his
court. The chase that day happened to be long, and the king became very
thirsty. But no fountain or river could be found near the spot on the
plain where they rested for a short interval. At last one of the
courtiers spied a large garden not far off. It was filled with trees
bearing lemons, oranges, and grapes. His followers begged the monarch to
partake of the good things in the garden.
'Heaven forbid that I should eat anything thereof,' said the king, 'for
if I permitted myself to gather but an orange from it, my officers and
courtiers would not leave a single fruit in the entire garden.'
The higher in life a person is, the more careful he should be, for all
his faults are copied by those beneath him.
[Illustration: "'This is a present which your uncle has sent you.'"]
JESS.
A Dog Story.
'Now, Lottie and Carrie,' said Mrs. Sefton, coming out into the garden
just as the daylight was beginning to fade, 'it is time to be indoors;
bring your things and come in.'
'Oh, Mother!' cried both the little girls, 'we are just in the middle of
our game; do please let us stay a little longer.'
But their mother shook her head. 'I can't possibly do that,' she
answered. 'You will never be at school in time to-morrow unless you are
in bed by eight o'clock. Don't stop to talk about it, but come, like
good children.'
Then Carrie took up the dolls which were lying on the grass, while
Lottie loaded herself with the little basket-chair and the three-legged
stool, and in a very short time the two sisters were in the snug white
beds.
'Good-night,' said Mother, as she kissed them both. 'You have been good
girls to-day, and in the morning I shall have something nice to tell
you.'
'Tell us to-night, please--tell us to-night,' they pleaded. But Mother
was not to be moved, and the thought of what that something nice might
be kept Lottie and Carrie awake till the darkness had really come on.
But though they were late in going to sleep, you may be sure they were
awake early in the morning. They helped each other to dress, and were
downstairs reminding Mother of her promise long before they were
expected.
'I shall know now how to make you get up in good time,' Mrs. Sefton
said, laughing; 'but come along, it is not only something to tell, but
something to show you.'
She led them to the tool-house at the bottom of the garden, and there,
tied to a nail in the wall, was a pretty little black-and-tan dog--a
terrier.
'This is a present which your uncle has sent you,' Mrs. Sefton said.
'You are to have it for your very own--its name is Jess. Stand up, Jess,
and show your mistresses how you can beg.'
Jess stood up on her hind legs, and crossed her paws in such a funny way
that Lottie danced about with delight. Carrie was timid and hung back;
she did not like to say so, but she was really rather afraid of the new
pet. This was silly, but Carrie was only a little girl; in a short time,
when she saw how good and gentle Jess really was, she too forgot her
fears.
Lottie and Carrie went to school together. Now that they had Jess they
were always glad when school hours were over, and they could run home to
play. Jess was as pleased to see them back as the children were to come,
and all through the summer they learned to be better and better friends
with the little terrier.
But after the summer holidays Lottie went away for a while, to visit
some friends, and Carrie was left to go to school by herself. She was
very lonely and dull without her sister. When one is only six years old,
a fortnight seems such a long time, and at last Carrie settled that she
could _not_ go to school another day without Lottie.
Then she did a very foolish thing. After she was sent to school, she
turned back and hid herself in the tool-house at the bottom of the
garden. She had heard her mother say at breakfast that she was going out
for the forenoon, and Carrie thought that she would just wait till there
was no one at home, and then come out from her hiding-place and play.
Mrs. Sefton had a long walk to take, and as soon as possible she put on
her bonnet, and then, thinking that her little girl was safe at school,
she locked up the house, and started on her errand, leaving Jess to run
about the garden and take care of things.
Carrie heard her mother close the front door, and then she came out from
the tool-house. She had thought that it would be very nice to stay at
home and play, but she soon began to feel lonely and frightened, and to
wish that she had not deceived her mother.
'Oh, Jess!' she said to the little dog, 'I wish I had been good and gone
to school!'
Jess looked up at Carrie, and wagged her tail, but she could do nothing
more to comfort her little mistress.
Carrie walked up and down, feeling ready to cry.
'I never shall be able to stay here all by myself till Mother comes
back,' she thought. 'I will try and get over the wall.'
Now, the garden wall was high, and just as Carrie, by a great effort,
had managed to reach the top, her foot slipped, and she fell heavily
down on to the mould.
She was so much hurt that she fainted away, and then it was the dog's
turn to be distressed. Jess walked round and round the little fallen
girl, and, finding that she could do nothing to help, she set up a
piteous bark, and barked so long and so loudly that she drew the
attention of the neighbours.
'Whatever is that dog of the Seftons' barking at?' one woman inquired of
her husband; and Mr. Curtis, who was a shoemaker, and worked at home,
stopped a moment to listen.
'I don't like the sound,' he said, presently. 'It's as though there was
something the matter, and Mrs. Sefton is out, for I saw her go past the
window.'
'Perhaps it would be best for you to go and see,' his wife said, and
though he could ill spare the time, kind-hearted Mr. Curtis put down the
boot which he was mending, and ran down the lane till he reached the
garden wall.
Then he soon saw what was the matter. There was Jess with her paws on
Carrie's frock, while Carrie was lying quite white and still.
The shoemaker carried the poor child to his own cottage, while his wife
went to look for Mrs. Sefton.
Carrie proved to be badly hurt; she had to lie in bed a good while, and
you may be sure that her mother and Lottie, and all her friends, were
very grieved and anxious about her.
But every one praised good, faithful Jess, who had brought help to her
little mistress; and when Lottie came back, and Carrie got quite well,
as I am glad to say she did at last, Jess was a greater pet than ever.
A GENTLE DONKEY.
(_Continued from page 391._)
III.
'You know, Mollie,' said Mrs. Raeburn to her sister-in-law next morning
as she looked through the letters, which had just come in, 'I cannot
believe that Tim is so wicked as you and Mary both say. I ran out to the
stables before breakfast, and the dear, sweet thing rubbed his nose
against my sleeve, and then tried to find my pocket. He evidently
expected sugar, for he looked up at me as much as to say, "Now then,
where's that sugar?" You see, dear,' (here she lowered her voice to a
whisper and looked cautiously round) 'although Mary is a splendid maid
for the nursery, she may be no good as a "whip," and so I have made up
my mind to go in the cart myself this morning. Luckily, Cook has made
some soup for poor old Mrs. Woods, and I shall get Mary to drive me
there when she takes Harry out.'
'What does Simmons think of this new treasure?' asked Aunt Mollie.
'Oh! Simmons is ridiculous. He agrees with Mary, and says that yesterday
it took three men to hold him while he was being harnessed. I never
heard anything so absurd! I thought that we might go round to the
stables about eleven and see for ourselves. Why!'--looking at her
watch--'it is almost eleven now. Come along, Mollie, or we shall miss
the fun,' and picking up the tail of her long skirt, young Mrs. Raeburn
disappeared through the French window.
As the two girls neared the yard, loud voices were heard and the
clattering noise of the donkey's feet upon the cobble stones made it
evident that the harnessing had began.
'Well! how is Tim behaving himself to-day?' called out Mrs. Raeburn.
Instantly three flushed, angry faces looked up, and three fingers
touched three perspiring foreheads respectfully.
'Well, ma'am!' answered Simmons, sulkily, 'I never came across such a
little brute. Just look at that,' he continued, as Tim made a sudden
plunge for the duck-pond, and in spite of the frantic efforts of the two
strong boys who were holding his head on either side, he nearly
succeeded in joining the ducks which were swimming here and there on its
smooth surface.
'Now then, now then,' murmured Mrs. Raeburn, in a soft, cooing voice, as
she walked in front of the donkey, and began to rub his nose; but he
tossed his head angrily to one side, and showed her a set of large,
strong teeth in such a suggestive manner that she discreetly stepped
back.
'Take care of his heels, M'm,' said one of the boys, in an anxious
voice, as she laid her hand on Tim's back, and she had just time to move
away when back went his ears, and up went his hind feet.
Clatter, clatter, clatter went those evil little heels against the cart,
till Mrs. Raeburn thought that by the time he had finished, the pretty
little cart would be fit for little else than match-wood. Suddenly he
stopped, turned gently round with a surprised look in his soft eyes, as
much as to say, 'I wonder what you are all here for?' and from that
moment he gave no more trouble.
Apparently this tantrum was at an end, and as he stood placidly whisking
his long tail over his pretty back, Mrs. Raeburn mentally began to make
apologies for him. Doubtless the men had teased him, and naturally the
poor dear little thing had tried to take his revenge.
'No,' she said, in answer to a murmured question from Simmons, 'you need
not take him round. We can just start right away from here. You have the
soup, Mary, and the whip?'
'Oh! do let me hold the whip, Mother,' pleaded the shrill voice of her
son, and Mother weakly consented.
'Tim is a darling, isn't he, Mother?' said the small voice, as they
drove past some cottages; 'but I expect he could be naughty. I wonder
what he would do if I gave him just a teeny, weeny touch with the whip!
Would you like to see?' The voice had a pleading note in it, and the
blue eyes looked very wistful.
'Oh, no, old man! That would be very unkind. Mother does not punish you
when you are quite a good boy, does she?'
'No--o,' doubtfully. 'Mother, if the whip was to touch him quite by
accident, don't you wonder what he would do? Just put your head down
till I whisper something. Perhaps,' in a low voice, 'he would buck-jump.
Wouldn't that be lovely?'
But Mother, who had already witnessed Tim's acrobatic performance in the
stable yard, did not take advantage of the offer.
'Lovely day,' she called out brightly, to an old woman who was sitting
outside her cottage door. 'How are you feeling? I must come---- ' but
the sentence remained unfinished, for at this point the donkey gave a
violent lurch forward, then, putting his head down, commenced to kick
just as hard as ever he could.
In vain did Mrs. Raeburn try to put a stop to it; neither voice nor whip
made the slightest impression upon him. He seemed to consider it in the
light of an exercise, which, to be of any permanent good, must be
continued for a certain length of time. He finished by backing hard into
the small wooden gate which led into the old woman's trim, old-fashioned
garden. There was a splintering, crackling noise, and Mary jumped out of
the little cart to examine the amount of damage done to the gate. Tim
turned slowly round with quite a vexed look in his eyes, scrutinised the
gate also, then looked at Mary with a reproachful look, as if trying to
lay the blame on her innocent shoulders.
'I _am_ sorry,' murmured Mrs. Raeburn to the old woman, who had hobbled
down to the gate. 'Yes! he is a naughty donkey! I can't think what made
him kick just now. Now, don't you worry about your pretty little gate;
Major Raeburn will have it repaired at once.'
'What can have made him kick just now, Mary?' she said, as they drove
away; but Mary, instead of answering, turned and stared fixedly at
Harry.
As the stare, apparently, had not the desired result, she took hold of
the whip, still firmly clasped between Harry's fat little hands. 'Now
then, Master Harry, what did you do to Tim just now?'
'Well, Mary,' in his most innocent tone of voice, 'I just touched Tim's
back very, very gently with it; just like this, Mother,' and the young
rascal raised the whip to give a demonstration.
Now, unfortunately for the occupants of the cart, Tim saw the whip; he
took advantage of the opportunity, and shied right into the shallow
ditch.
Away rolled the bowl of beef-tea from between Mary's hands, and the soup
which had been so carefully prepared for Mrs. Wood trickled down her
white skirt in brown streams, and formed small pools upon the vacant
seat facing her.
'Give me the whip at once, Harry,' said Mrs. Raeburn angrily. 'You are a
very disobedient little boy. Now poor old Mrs. Wood won't have any
dinner. Well, Mary,' with a sigh of resignation, 'as we have no soup, we
might drive on to the Common for a blow.'
(_Continued on page 402._)
[Illustration: "He finished by backing hard into the small wooden
gate."]
[Illustration: "The motor came to a standstill."]
A GENTLE DONKEY.
(_Continued from page 399._)
Peace was soon restored, and by the time that the Common was reached,
Mrs. Raeburn had again quite explained away the donkey's behaviour.
'He is evidently very nervous,' she said. 'Poor little beast! Perhaps he
has been ill-treated at some time, and dreads the sight of the whip from
sad experience; we must take care not to frighten him again.'
'Yes, Ma'am,' acquiesced Mary meekly. 'The mistress drives horses
beautifully,' she confided to Nannie later, 'but she knows nothing about
donkeys and their artful ways. You take my word for it, that donkey is a
wicked one.'
'Now then, pretty one!' chirruped Mrs. Raeburn to Tim as they rambled
along the broad road on the Common, 'you must be good, and not show us
those naughty little heels again.' Tim whisked his tail in response and
trotted amiably along.
'Why, the road is quite gay to-day, Mary! Oh! of course, it is
market-day. Now, good little Tim, keep to the side of the road, so as
not to frighten these tired sheep. Warm day!' she called out genially to
a man who trudged wearily along behind his flock.
But in spite of her kindly precautions, the nervous sheep scuttled
across the road on to the heather-clad common, bleating plaintively:
then their scuttle became a run. At sight of this flying column, Tim
stopped, put his head on one side, and prepared to follow.
'No, thank you, Tim,' laughed Mrs. Raeburn as she tried to pull him up.
'I have no ambition to herd sheep. You little wretch!' she continued in
quite a different tone of voice; for Tim was in "full cry" after them.
Bump, bump, bump went the springless governess cart over the lumpy
Common, rocking from side to side like a boat in a storm.
'What are you doing?' yelled the herdsman. 'I'll report you, that I
will, trying to steal my sheep.'
'This is very exciting,' whispered Harry. 'I like driving with you,
Mother.'
But Mother was not enjoying herself. Here was she, the wife of a Justice
of the Peace, apparently stealing a flock of sheep in broad daylight. At
this moment she could have killed Tim.
'This is dreadful, Mary,' she murmured. 'What can we do? Oh, these
idiots of sheep, why won't they stop?'
But the terrified sheep, instead of stopping, only increased their
speed. Away they flew over the Common, and behind them, in hot pursuit,
galloped Tim, while round both sheep and governess cart barked the
frantic sheep-dog.
On, on they raced, over hillocks, through gorse bushes, down into
treacherous holes, till at last the gate leading out upon a narrow road
was reached. Through this surged the sheep, and close behind them tore
Tim. The cart gave a bone-shaking dump as it took the descent from grass
to hard road, and Mary, who at the beginning of Tim's flight, had opened
the door, was thrown out.
Suddenly a motor was seen coming towards them, along the narrow road,
and Mrs. Raeburn gave a gasp of fear.
'Hold your hand up, Harry. Quick--quick!'
Harry, eager to assist, raised both his arms.
'Hullo!' called a familiar voice: the motor came to a sudden standstill,
and out of it jumped Major Raeburn.
'What in all the earth are you doing, Maud?' he said in a voice of the
greatest astonishment, as he walked towards them; but Mrs. Raeburn
motioned him back.
'Turn the motor across the road as fast as you can, and don't let one of
these sheep pass it!'
So the panting sheep were stopped, and Tim's race was at an end.
'And now, good people, please explain yourselves,' continued the Major.
'Oh, Jack,' burst forth his wife, 'we have had the most _awful_ morning
with Tim. He has smashed Mrs. Laurence's gate, run off after these
sheep, Mary is thrown out, and I expect is lying dead somewhere, and I
don't know where the drover is.'
'And, Father,' interrupted Harry in his shrill treble, 'we have had
_such_ an exciting drive! Mother can drive Tim just beautifully!'
'Well, look here!' said the Major, smiling, 'I suppose I must stay here
and speak to the drover of the sheep. You two had better go home across
the fields. I will drive Tim home,' he added, with a look in the
direction of the donkey.
Half an hour later the motor puffed into the stable yard, and close
behind it cantered Tim, looking a most angelic little donkey.
'Can't make the little beast out,' said Major Raeburn to his wife, as
they walked towards the house; 'I shall take him out myself to-morrow.'
(_Concluded on page 410._)
THE SINGING BIRD.
A singing bird within my heart
Has surely built a nest,
For every morning when I rise
So early from my rest,
I find a song for me to sing
Is waiting in my breast.
One song is of the flowers bright,
That nod in every breeze,
Of birds that in the tree-tops dwell,
Of butterflies and bees,
Of fairy-haunted woodland ways,
And tall, dark, swaying trees.
Another song it softly croons
As from a far-off land:
But this a deeper meaning has,
I don't quite understand,
Because of all the mysteries
That lie so close at hand.
These sweet songs thrill me with delight--
I carol them all day;
I hope that cheerful singing bird
Has really come to stay;
But whence it came and why it's here
I'm sure I cannot say.
HUGE BIRDS.
Travellers in all parts of the world hear strange and surprising tales
about the huge or wonderful creatures which the natives have seen, so
they say, and which, perhaps, they also declare they have hunted years
ago. People believed all these stories formerly, and put them in books
for the benefit of others; but matters have altered now. Travellers'
tales are not so plentiful, because they are not deceived as they used
to be, and when they are told, their truth is searched out. The
sea-serpent, for instance, has been 'seen' many times, and once at
least--in 1906--by properly trained scientific observers. But people are
still unwilling to believe entirely in its existence.
Some of the commonest stories brought home from far countries have been
about the existence of gigantic birds, and, when we look into these, we
find they are not all fables. In many countries, birds quite unlike any
now seen, and of huge bulk, existed before man's time; and it is evident
that a few of these bird-monsters--shall we call them?--did not vanish
till a recent date, so that human beings had the chance of making
acquaintance with them.
Australia, New Zealand, and other countries that are on the opposite
side of the world to Britain, are the home of many curious forms of
life, animal or vegetable. New Zealand has, in time past, been the
habitation of a family of immense birds, which have not died out very
long. In fact, some suppose there are retreats there where the birds
still live, which are seldom or never visited by men of any race. We
have no English name for them, so we must give them the Latin one of
Dinornis. A search during 1870, amongst the old cooking-pits, or ovens,
in the Province of Canterbury, brought to view sundry remains of the
dinornis, being a sure sign that some of the huge birds had been caught
and cooked.
Farther back, in 1842, there was an account of a strange bird the New
Zealanders knew, and called a Moa, published by a Mr. Williams. They
told him it had lived in places difficult to reach amongst the hills,
and that their grandfathers had seen the bird alive, but they themselves
had not, though they had discovered bones of the species in the mud of
some rivers. According to observations, the height of the dinornis may
have been from twelve to fourteen feet, or even more; it is supposed the
birds were numerous at one time, and lived to a great age. What their
food was is only to be guessed, probably vegetable, for the dinornis
does not seem to have been a bird of prey. The natives described them as
running or striding over the ground with tremendous speed, but nothing
was said about their being able to fly.
While searching volcanic sand, Mr. Mantell came upon an immense
egg-shell, for which he said that his hat would hardly have been large
enough to serve as cup. But the size of a bird does not always indicate
what that of the egg is, so this may not have been one laid by a
dinornis. Thus, the Apteryx, or Kiwi, of New Zealand, a curious, almost
wingless bird, lays an egg which is about a quarter of its own weight.
Madagascar, in the past centuries, had also its big bird, which has been
named Oepyornis, but only fragments of its bones have been obtained,
and a few eggs, mostly broken. It is reckoned, however, that, the
average egg of the Oepyornis must have been a foot long, and about two
feet round, six times as big as that of the ostrich. There was a fine
bird, yet not equal to these giants, named the Great Auk, which used to
be found at the North of Scotland, and elsewhere. It was a good swimmer
and diver, but has vanished.
CROWDED OUT.
A family of mice, consisting of father, mother, and three sons, living
in a large log-house, near the shore of a great American river, went to
sleep one night without a thought of what was going to happen before the
morning. Angry words and bitter spirits, I am sorry to say, were
uppermost with them. Jealousy, Covetousness, Spite: these three evil
spirits stirred up the brothers, and the grey-whiskered parents,
although they said little, remembered that they too had often, in bygone
days, entertained the same three evil spirits, and thereby set a very
poor example to their children.
So, jabbering, biting, clawing, they fell asleep this night--squeaking,
scratching, and snarling forth their wicked feelings even in their
dreams.
What an awakening was theirs! Four or five square inches of half-decayed
flooring-board was their sole home. The keen air blew about them from
all quarters: the morning sky hung dull grey above their heads, and
surrounding them everywhere was the river--cold, rushing, and troubled.
Yes, the floods had come, and the log-home of the mice, like many
another, was now a dismantled wreck--floating, a plank here, a log
there; and upon their bit of soddened plank huddled the unfortunate
family.
Where were now the three evil spirits? Not on the poor little raft:
there was no room for them. Jealousy? why, there was not a pin to choose
between the refugees, and they knew it: there was nothing to be jealous
about. They had no room even for their tails, which, almost unheeded,
were soaking in the water behind them, and getting nibbled now and then
by the little fishes. No, there was no room for jealousy.
Covetousness, too, was crowded out. There was nothing to covet; they had
divided that bit of boarding up so equally that if the father mouse had
tried to take a survey of the other side of the river he must have upset
his second son in turning about. All were cold, all were wet, all
miserable, starving, and despairing! No room for Covetousness? I should
say not. And the spirit of Spite, the ugliest, most hateful of them all,
was banished with the rest. It was the only good this trial could do to
these poor mice--to bring them face to face with their wicked feelings,
and by their common sorrow teach them their need of and dependence on
each other. There was no gleaming of little white teeth, no biting, no
clawing, any longer!
So the day wore on, till evening, cold, grey, and dark, was spreading
over the troubled waters. Fortunately, they were drifted by the flood
very near the shore, where it jutted out into the river, and at last,
very, very miserable, and weak, and hungry, one by one the five
suffering but penitent mice sought and found a shelter for the night in
a hollow tree, the bottom of which was full of dry leaves, and as warm
as an oven.
[Illustration: "No room for Jealousy."]
They found a delightful old farmhouse the next day, and, living in one
of the sweet-scented hayricks for a time, until they could find out
about the kitchen and the cook, this now happy and loving family learnt
to think gratefully of that otherwise dreadful day when, adrift on the
river floods, they had bidden good-bye for ever to Jealousy,
Covetousness, and Spite.
MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.
XI.--A COLORADO RAILWAY.
[Illustration]
They called it the 'baby road,' when the first rails were laid near
Denver City, the capital of Colorado, in the spring of 1871; and every
one agreed it was a brave baby that could start upon such a wild
journey. Over the lonely, snow-topped mountains, through the gloomiest
gorges the route would lie. Here the whistle of the engine would be
answered by the cry of the condor, or deep in the lonely pine forest
would startle some ambling grizzly bear. It was in the days when the
settler was still subject to attacks by marauding Indians, and
civilisation had only a slight foothold among the savage byways of
Colorado.
The 'baby road' was started under the guidance of a party of wealthy men
from Philadelphia, and the first steps were quite easy. Denver City lies
on flat ground at the foot of a long range of majestic mountains. Along
the side of these the line was laid, past Pike's Peak, which rises from
the plain to a height of fourteen thousand one hundred and forty-seven
feet, and on to the city of Pueblo. Here the road turns westward, along
the side of the Arkansas River, and a few minutes later disappears into
the shadows of a mighty gorge through which the river flows. And here
the troubles of the engineer began. From the sides of the stream the
granite walls of the cañon, or gorge, rise perpendicularly for three
thousand feet. Nearly the whole of the space between the base of these
cliffs is taken up by the river itself, though for several miles a
sufficiently wide ledge was found to lay the rails upon, just out of
reach of the roaring torrent of water. But, by-and-by, a point was
gained where the 'ledge' suddenly ended, and for some hundreds of yards
the River Arkansas took up the whole space.
Then the engineer had to think. First, it seemed advisable to use
gunpowder and blow away the face of the cliff until sufficient space was
made to carry the railway. But the gorge is so narrow, and the rock is
so hard that the plan did not seem a good one. Finally it was decided to
build the railway along a hanging bridge. And this bridge is surely one
of the most curious ever erected. From the cliff-face on either side,
iron girders spring at an upward slant, like an inverted V, and from the
point at which they meet, steel rods descend. These are securely
fastened to the river-side of the bridge. The other side of the bridge
is built into the cliff-face. Thus it is neither a suspension bridge nor
an arch bridge, but is sustained by the strength of the overhead
girders. To make this structure, the workmen, with their tools, had to
be swung in cages against the cliffs, and it was no easy task, in such
a confined space, to manoeuvre the girders into their proper positions.
One of the principal desires of those who were laying this railway, was
to get it done quickly. There were wealthy mining regions to be reached
by it over the high mountains, and to reach them quickly meant
prosperity. Improvements could come afterwards. Consequently it would
never do to make tunnels if they could be avoided, even if great
distances had to be travelled. In England, tunnels do not count for very
much because our mountains are not large, but in Colorado a tunnel would
be a serious thing, particularly for a 'baby road.' When the walls of
the deep and gloomy cañon at last widened out into the broad valley, the
engineers found themselves faced by the still vaster wall of snow-capped
mountains. As it was impossible to go through them they would have to be
climbed. The only way to do this was to go up them in a
zig-zag--backwards and forwards. Miles and miles are often traversed to
make only a little progress, and if after looking out of one window you
cross the carriage to look out at the other, you must not be surprised
to find yourself quite close to some place you remember passing half an
hour ago. But you are higher up the mountain, and by-and-by a point is
reached at which the trees have ceased to grow. The patient engine has
dragged its train into the snowy region, too high and cold for spruce or
fir to live in, and a little later the line begins to descend on the
other side. The laying of this zig-zag railway was far more difficult
than it looks, for great skill had to be exercised in choosing the
proper places for the curves, and managing the road so that no parts of
it were too steep. On one such railway in America the train travels more
than four miles between two places only one mile and a quarter apart in
a direct line.
Our 'baby road,' in crossing the mountain just described, climbed to a
height of nine thousand three hundred and forty feet--at that time the
highest point ever reached by a railway; and the first train passed over
it on 16th June, 1877. Among these mountains, in certain places, where,
in winter, avalanches of snow are likely to occur, long sheds like
tunnels are strongly built over the railway. So terrible are these
avalanches at times that the wind they cause in rushing down the
mountain-side has been strong enough alone to uproot the forest trees.
The sheds are so built as to form no resistance to the sliding mass,
which passes easily over their sloping roofs till they are like tunnels
cut through a mountain of snow. Their walls are formed of pine-logs laid
on one another in the form of hollow squares, the space being filled
with ballast and small stones.
But our railway has passed the top and is plunging down to the mining
district of San Juan, there to pass through more of those deep cañons.
No other railway, perhaps, can claim to traverse such a variety of
scenes; but mountain and cañon did not delay it half as much as disputes
with another pioneer company that claimed the path it wished to take.
Some ten years after it had started from Denver City, however, these
disputes came to an end, and the difficult road was pursued right and
left. It is hard to say if it will ever cease to grow in length, since
the merchants are ever finding fresh markets of fruit and minerals for
the engineers to take the iron road to. But since the spring day in
1871, when it first started from Denver City, it has grown in width as
well, for the narrow road which was laid down at first for the sake of
saving time, has been replaced with metals the same distance apart as
those on other American railways.
MR. AND MRS. BROWN'S JOURNEY IN THE FAMILY COACH.
The following is a story written for the 'Family Coach,' a game in which
the players sit round the room, whilst some one reads (or tells) a
story, in which the names of the different parts of a coach frequently
occur. The players each take a name, at the mention of which the owner
of it rises and turns round, on penalty of a forfeit. Each time the
_Family Coach_ is mentioned all the players change places. The following
are names which might be given to the several players: John
Brown--Coachman--Cushions--Rugs--Step--Horses--Whip--Dog--Windows--Seats
--Wheels--Curtains--Door--Lamp--Box.
Whilst sitting by the fire one night _John Brown_ said to his wife,
'My dear, I think we'll go and see your sister, Mrs. Fife;
We'll travel by the famous _coach_ owned by the good John Brown,
There's not a better _coach_ and man in any market town.'
The morn was bright and frosty, and there the _Family Coach_
Stood ready in the stable-yard of the fine old inn, the 'Roach.'
The _coachman_ was arranging his _cushions_ and his _rugs_,
And passengers were giving their friends their parting hugs.
'Now fare ye well,' 'good-bye to you,' and 'may you be safe to-day;'
'Oh, accidents,' the _coachman_ said, 'are never in our way.
The _step_ is very easy, not high at all,' he said,
'And you'll find the _cushions_ quite as soft as any feather bed.
The _horses_ are good, fast ones, they never need the _whip_,
But the _whip_, of course, I always take in case of any slip.
My good _dog_, Bruno, always comes, so I hope you'll not object,
My passengers in danger he would pluckily protect.
The _windows_ are so very large, they make it cheerful too;
So you may view the country, which to some may be quite new.
Come, take your _seats_, this _Family Coach_ it can no longer wait,
Or else at night,' the _coachman_ said, 'we shall be very late.'
The _whip_ he cracked, the _wheels_ went round, so very, very fast,
The people at each other some anxious glances cast.
The _coachman_ said his _horses_ were the steadiest in town;
'I'm sure I don't agree with him,' cried frightened _Mrs. Brown_.
'Take care, my dear, or I am sure you will jolt off your _seat_:
'Indeed, I'm sure I shall be glad when we your sister meet.'
The _dog_ by this was far behind, but now there was a hill,
Up which the _coachman's horses_ walked, and at the top stood still.
''Twas down this hill,' the _coachman_ said, 'that Benson's got
smashed up,
When his _dog_--Bruno's mother--was but a little pup.'
And so they travelled on again through village and through town,
But all around the country now looked white instead of brown;
For snow was falling thickly, and the _rugs_ about their feet
Did not feel half as warm and snug as when they took their _seat_;
The _step_ outside was covered o'er with snow some inches thick,
The hedges, they were covered, too, you scarce could see a stick.
'This _Family Coach_ was said to be the warmest in the town;
My dear, I don't agree again,' said angry _Mrs. Brown_.
'Let's draw these _curtains_, for my _seat_ is in a horrid draught;'
At which the other passengers looked up, and then they laughed.
'There's very little light comes through these _windows_ now,' they said;
'And if these _curtains_ are drawn round, we might all be in bed.'
'I never go to sleep until I've had a supper good,
And among my fellow-passengers I don't see one who would.
I'm much afraid we shan't get one, at any rate to-night;
The _wheels_ scarce go, this _Family Coach_ is in a pretty plight!
Let's put the _dog_ inside with us, he is so cold, poor chap;
And he may sleep upon this _rug_--if you object, my lap.'
The _coachman's whip_ was broken quite, he urged the _horses_ so,
But all this was of no avail, the _horses_ could not go.
'The snow has drifted high,' the _coachman_ opened the _door_, and said,
'I do believe the _horses_ are very nearly dead.
I never knew this happen to my _Family Coach_ before,
And if I'd known I would have brought two good, strong _horses_ more.
The _horse_ that is the least done up is jolly little "Clown,"
And by your leave, if you'll stay here, I'll ride off to the town;
In two good hours I will come back with four good _horses_ more,
And long before the morning comes you'll find your own friends' door,'
They shouted out as in one voice, 'And, _coachman_, if you please,
Do bring us something back to eat, if only bread and cheese!'
'All right!' the _coachman_ said; 'and here's my _lamp_, for it is dark,
Although the little light it gives is not more than a spark.
If you, good sirs, would take my place, and mind these _horses_ three,
The ladies on the _cushions_ quite warm and snug might be.
This _Family Coach_contains a _box_, and in it you will see
A poker and some other things, and they might useful be.'
With this the _coachman_ said 'Good-bye,' and mounted on the 'Clown.'
He left the _Family Coach_ to reach Braintree--a market town.
A hunt was made, the _box_ was found just underneath the _seat_,
The ladies lay on _cushions_ with _rugs_ wrapt round their feet.
'I'll take this good strong poker,' said brave old _Mr. Brown_,
'And if a robber comes to me I just will knock him down!
Look sharp! here's some one coming! Oh, dear! what shall I do?
I would jump into the _Family Coach_ if the _door_ would but undo.
Oh, if I could but get in safe!' cried out poor _Mr. Brown_;
'I'm sure I always will again stay in my little town.
Here, take this poker, do, you chap, and I will stand behind,
And if the fellow gives you one, be brave, and never mind.
If I were just as young as you I should enjoy it quite.
Oh, dear! oh, dear! I do declare the fellow is in sight!'
'All right! all right!' a voice cried out; 'I am your own _coachman_,
And I, to get you safe to town, have hit upon a plan.
This drift is only fifty yards, and then the road is clear,
This _horse_ can take the ladies through to me it does appear;
But such a man as _Mr. Brown_ I'm sure he will not mind,
But walk right bravely through the snow unless he's left behind.'
'Not so, indeed,' he did reply; 'if on a _horse_ you get,
I shall as well, or else I know my two feet I shall wet.'
And so he did; although they laughed and called him _Johnny Brown_,
He safe was carried through the snow on the _horse_ called
'little Clown.'
The walk was done in safety, but when they passed the wood
Old _Mr. Brown_ he clasped his wife as tight as e'er he could.
And when they reached the sister's door he said to Mrs. Fife,
'By _Family Coach_ I ne'er again will travel with my wife.'
NOT AFRAID.
As at the time of the signing of the 'Declaration of Independence' the
issue of the revolutionary struggle was still doubtful, all those who
signed it risked both their lives and property. One of the signers,
named Charles Carroll, was very wealthy, and after he had affixed his
name, one of the others said: 'There go many millions.'
'Oh, no,' rejoined another, 'for there are many men of the same name,
and they will not know whom to take.'
'Not so,' said Charles Carroll, and added to his signature the words,
'of Carrolton.' This is the only name to which the residence is
attached.
VERY CANDID CRITICISM!
A would-be poet and flatterer wrote two sonnets in honour of one of his
patrons, and submitted their merits to his judgment, desiring him to
retain the best. After having read one of them the patron said, 'The
other is the best.'
'How!' exclaimed the poet in surprise; 'you have not read it; how can
you tell?'
'Because, indeed,' answered the other, 'it cannot be worse than the one
I have read.'
THE PEDLAR.
Down the quiet village street,
The pedlar takes his way,
His old top hat, and long black coat,
Have weathered many a day.
Before an open door he stays,
With cheery word and smile,
Where mother, with her babe in arms,
Is standing for a while.
A little lass is by her side,
Her eyes with longing bright,
For see, the pedlar has displayed
A lamb, all soft and white!
Ah, well he knows, the wise old man,
The way his wares to ply,
For Mother, moved by childish plea,
Is tempted soon to buy.
He next admires the bonny babe,
His pretty curls of gold,
And after bargaining awhile,
Another toy is sold!
His sunny smile and pleasant words
Beguile both old and young,
Whatever else the pedlar lacks,
He has a winning tongue.
[Illustration: "He has a winning tongue."]
[Illustration: "They were passing a field of ripe corn."]
TEACHING HIM A LESSON.
A conceited young nobleman was riding over part of his estate in the
company of a farmer, an industrious and honest old man, whose hair was
grey, and his shoulders bent with age and hard work. The young man
thought he would have a little cheap fun at his companion's expense. So
he said, 'Why don't you keep yourself straight, and hold your head up as
I do?' Just then they were passing a field of ripe corn, and the farmer
quietly answered, 'Look at the ears of grain over there, my lord. The
heavy, valuable, full heads hang down, while the light, worthless, and
empty ones stand bolt upright.' The young man did not attempt another
joke at the old fellow's expense. He had the worst of the laugh.
A GENTLE DONKEY.
(_Concluded from page 402._)
IV.
'Please, sir, could you speak to Simmons?'
'Ask him to come in here. Wonder what Simmons wants at this hour?' said
Major Raeburn to his wife, when the parlour-maid had closed the door.
'Well, Simmons,' as the groom quietly entered the room, 'what is the
trouble?'
'It's the oats, sir. Some one is stealing them.'
'Are you sure?'
'Certain, sir. It has been going on for a day or two.'
'Extraordinary,' murmured the Major. 'Well, we must watch. Have other
things disappeared?'
'No, sir, not so far as I have seen. I can't make head or tail of it.
The two lads are as honest as the day; indeed, it was one of them who
first noticed it. He refills the bin in the stable, and it is from there
the oats are being stolen. I generally go to have a bit of lunch about
ten or half-past, and I think the oats are taken then.'
'Well, look here! it is just ten, so you go to your lunch as usual; that
will put the thief off his guard; but send one of the boys to hide in
the stable and I will go and join him.'
'Any one there?' he whispered, a little later, as he crept into the
stable.
'Yes, sir, Robin. I am in the loose-box,' continued the voice of the
unseen Robin.
They had waited for over an hour, when Robin sat up and listened
intently.
'Hear something?' inquired his master.
'The paddock gate, sir.'
Now, as no one used the paddock gate except Simmons or one of the
boys--when Tim was turned out--Major Raeburn rose softly to his feet,
and cautiously moved towards the small window.
'Quick, Robin!' called the Major, laughing softly, 'look at this!'
There at the paddock gate stood Tim; his head was down and he was trying
to open the gate. They could see his soft nose pushed through between
the bars of the gate, and hear the metallic click that the latch made as
it fell back into its groove.
At last Tim's efforts were successful, and pushing the gate forward, he
walked into the yard.
On he came towards the stable, past the window where the two watchers
stood motionless, and then his head appeared through the doorway.
'Hush!' whispered Major Raeburn, afraid that Robin would break the
silence.
Straight towards the bin where the oats were kept did Tim go, and here
he paused and looked around.
Fumble, fumble, fumble, went his nose against the iron bolt of the bin;
but Tim was an expert burglar, and not easily discouraged. After many
failures, his struggles were crowned by success, and Tim pressed up the
lid with his strong, brown head until, with a dull thud, it feel back
against the wall; then whisking his tail over his back, with a movement
that expressed perfect satisfaction, Tim's head disappeared in the
depths of the oats-bin.
Then, but not till then, did Major Raeburn and Robin give way to their
mirth.
'Upon my word,' said the Major, 'that donkey is just a little too clever
for any ordinary family.'
'Come out of that, you little villain!' he shouted to Tim, who was
evidently making the most of this golden opportunity; 'and allow me to
tell you that this is the last feed of oats you will be able to steal.'
* * * * *
'Are you going to drive, Father?' asked Harry, in a tone of dismay, when
he saw his father take the reins.
'Yes; got any objection?'
'No--o. Only, you see, Mother does drive so beautifully.'
'Oh, yes, I know that; but Mother is pretending to be a visitor to-day,
and we are taking her for a drive.'
'Do you think nobody will get thrown out?'
'I hope not.'
'Oh, but, Father, that isn't very exciting. Just think what fun it would
be if we _all_ got thrown out, and Nannie had to put sticking plaster on
our noses.'
'Oh, yes, it would be lovely,' said the Major, dryly, and Mother, who
was pretending to be a visitor, laughed merrily.
'Turn down towards the Hall, Jack,' she said at the cross-roads. 'It is
such a pretty road.'
'So far as I can see,' exclaimed Major Raeburn, 'this little animal is
splendid between the shafts. He may have been a little too fresh
yesterday; but you must own that he has gone beautifully to-day. Haven't
you, Timmie? Hullo! what's that black thing looking over the hedge?'
'Where?' asked Harry, jumping off his seat. 'Please show me, Father. Oh,
yes, I see now! It's Sambo.'
'And who is Sambo?' queried his father.
'Why, Sambo is the Hall donkey. Once'--in a tone of great importance--'I
gave Sambo a carrot, and'--in an awe-struck voice--'he ate it!'
'Extraordinary animal!' murmured the Major, in a voice of the greatest
surprise. 'Now, then, Tim, my boy, don't get alarmed; that black head
belongs to your brother, Sambo.'
If Tim was surprised to see Sambo, Sambo was evidently still more
astonished to see him, and the black head disappeared, only to reappear
over the hedge in a line with the cart.
Up went Tim's ears in an inquiring way, and he shied violently to the
other side of the road.
'Do speak to him, Jack,' said Mrs. Raeburn. 'If he shies like that
again, he will have us all in the ditch!'
'Go on now, Tim,' and the Major gave the reins a sharp jerk; but Tim
remained stationary, gazing at Sambo. To make matters worse, he was now
standing right across the road, as this position enabled him to look at
his new friend more thoroughly.
The inspection having proved satisfactory, Sambo's head suddenly went up
in the air, and he started to bray with all the force of his powerful
lungs.
Tim stepped back in feigned alarm, till the wheels of the cart were on
the edge of the ditch; then he also raised his head, and joined in the
noise.
The sound was so deafening that Mrs. Raeburn put her hands over her
ears, while many expressions chased each other across Harry's face. He
had never heard a donkey bray before, and at first was frightened.
'Father,' he whispered--there was a note of alarm in his voice--'what is
that queer noise?'
'Why, that is only Tim and Sambo talking to each other,' his father
answered, laughing heartily. 'Sambo is saying, "I say, where do you come
from?" and I suppose Tim is telling him that he has just come from a
greengrocer's shop; but I wish that they would be quick and finish their
conversation.'
This, apparently, was the last thing that the donkeys had any intention
of doing; even the whip was used without any result. Tim's conversation
with Sambo was so interesting that he even forgot to kick when the whip
came in contact with his thick brown hide. Occasionally they stopped to
take breath, only to start again with renewed vigour.
'Stop that noise, Tim,' shouted the now angry Major. 'You will have us
all deaf!'
Harry stared at his father in astonishment 'Why, Father, I like it, now.
This is much nicer than going a walk with Mary.'
'Hi!' shouted the driver of an approaching waggon, 'I'm sorry to trouble
you, sir, but I must get past.'
'If you will tell me how you are going to manage it,' called back the
Major, 'I shall be only too pleased to allow you.'
The man drew his horses up by the side of the road, and then scrambled
down to see whether he could be of any assistance.
'I never saw such a stubborn little brute,' he muttered, after many
fruitless attempts to turn the donkey round. 'Perhaps if the lady would
take the donkey's head, we might just lift the cart; and the little
gentleman could throw stones at the black donkey.'
This brilliant idea was in process of being carried out; but it is
doubtful whether it would have succeeded, had it not been for the timely
appearance of the Squire's pony-cart.
The Squire himself was driving, with a tall schoolboy beside him, and
his cheery, 'You seem to be having a bad time, Major,' acted like a
tonic upon the depressed spirits of Major Raeburn and his wife. 'Now
then, Frank, you know about donkeys and their ways, so jump out, and
help them to turn the cart.'
Three pairs of muscular arms lifted up the light cart, and turned it
round, so that Tim could no longer see Sambo.
'Push now,' shouted the Squire, and he roared with laughter when he saw
the expression on Major Raeburn's face. 'Oh, yes, I assure you, this is
one of the ways to drive an obstinate donkey!'
By dint of much hard work, in which Harry imagined that he had largely
assisted, Tim was at last got past the waggon; while Mrs. Raeburn, by
means of stone-throwing, kept Sambo's head back from the hedge.
When the manoeuvre had been successfully carried out, Major Raeburn
suggested that as Frank seemed to understand donkeys, he might drive Tim
home.
'You see, my boy, I feel as if I had done enough driving for to-day!'
'Oh, thank you,' murmured the boy, flushing with pleasure, for he loved
driving; 'and now, Mrs. Raeburn, where is your box of stones?'
Mrs. Raeburn stared at him in surprise; 'My _what_?'
'Your box of stones,' he repeated. 'You can't drive a donkey like any
other animal. Not got any? Oh, no wonder you had trouble! Father, have
you got Sambo's stones there? Thanks, that is the box,' as the Squire
handed him a large cocoa tin half filled with pebbles. 'Now, Harry, you
must hold the box and stand at the top of the cart close to Tim. Yes!
that's it. Now away we go. Come along, old boy!'--this to Tim; but Tim
refused to move. 'Now then, Harry, lean over, and rattle the stones as
hard as ever you can.'
Trembling with excitement, Harry did as he was told; the result was
instantaneous. Away went Tim as hard as he could gallop.
'Well!' sighed Mrs. Raeburn, in utter astonishment 'that is a simple
remedy; but what can we do to stop him when he shies?'
'At what sort of things does he shy?'
Tim answered this question for himself, by shying violently at a dark
shadow that fell across the road.
'Ah! he is nervous, Sambo did that at first. You see he was a town
donkey also, and when carts and shadows suddenly came upon him in a
quiet lane he was afraid of them. Now he is used to them!'
'And when he bolts, Frank?'
'Don't give him so much to eat, Mrs. Raeburn. Stop that, Tim.' Tim had
taken advantage of the conversation to try and get a bite of grass from
the side of the road. 'Stones again, Harry,' and Harry, only too glad to
feel that he was assisting in the driving, rattled the stones gaily,
laughing and chattering with delight.
Away went Tim again, and Mrs. Raeburn's spirits rose. 'Why, he goes
beautifully with you, Frank.'
'There is no trick about it, Mrs. Raeburn; only he has evidently been
accustomed to stones, and won't stand a whip. We heard how he smashed up
Mrs. Wood's gate! If you had had stones he would have been all right.'
They reached home safely, Harry greatly pleased with the new method of
donkey-driving. Tim remained in his new home, and although there are
days when Mary wishes that he were not so clever, and Simmons mutters
that he is more trouble than he is worth, yet they all get to love him.
THE END.
[Illustration: "Tim pressed up the lid with his head."]